Authors: Carmella Jones
Cairistine’s start kept a hold on her for only a moment, before she realized that her attacker had meant her no harm, but had, instead, been reaching out to her for help. As soon as she saw him collapse, she sprung into action.
“Who er ye?” she said; instinct quickly replacing fear and moving her to his side. “Where er ye hurt?”
There was no response from the fallen man, though the answer to one of her questions rapidly became obvious. There as an ugly gash through his coat and shirt and plenty of wet, sticky blood layered over some that was older and dry. Who could guess how long he had wandered the woods searching for someone to help him? She looked at his pale face to see if there was any response, but saw none. She reached a quivering hand toward the place on his neck where Inghean had taught her to feel for a heartbeat, hoping that it wasn’t already too late for him.
Finding a slow beating in the vein on his neck and feeling breath from his nostrils, she knew that he was still alive, though wouldn’t be for long if she didn’t do something for him. By the look of the blood on his coat, she was pretty sure that he had lost a great deal of blood and would grow very weak rapidly if she didn’t find a way to stop the flow. The cold certainly helped, but he would need a great deal more if he was to survive.
Cairistine wasn’t sure where the strength came from. It was, no doubt, something that was born within in her in the face of danger or in order to save a life. Though the man was heavy and the stony ground offered an enormous challenge, she began dragging his limp body in the direction of the cave. It was no easy task and she had to stop and rest more than a dozen times whenever her breathing became ragged and she simply couldn’t struggle any further. However, due to sheer determination, she was finally able to haul his long, firm body out of the mist and into the cave.
Glad that she had taken the time to stock her cave on previous occasions, Cairistine set to work building a fire. The fire was more for light than it was for heat, though she knew that the sweat that she’d built up while struggling to get him into the cave would quickly give way to numbing cold. With warmth and light to work by, she began to examine her patient.
Pulling his coat and shirt aside so that she could get a better look at the wound, she soon discovered an angry gash that was a handbreadth in length and exposing the bones of several ribs. As she continued to peel away the layers of clothing in order to see if there were any other wounds, she realized that though he was lean, there was a great deal of power in his muscular form. His chest, shoulders and arms were packed with firm flesh, much like that of a well conditioned horse. She couldn’t help admiring his form even as she searched for wounds.
Though there were some other scratches, bruises and numerous older scars, the gash on his ribs seemed to be the greatest concern of the moment and she grabbed the small bucket and scrambled out of the cave to the spring not far away.
Cairistine had discovered both the cave and the spring some months before and had decided to set up a place where she could find shelter, warmth and even, perhaps, hide from danger. With fresh water in the bucket and a piece of rag torn from the man’s tattered shirt, she began to bathe the wound and then do the best she could to pack clean cloth from her own clothing in and around the wound to stem the bleeding.
Her attention brought about the first fluttering signs of his eyelids, which opened to reveal a pair of crystal blue eyes that made her catch her gasp.
Cairistine’s patient started to rise, but she placed a soft hand on his chest. “Yer no goin’ anywhere wit’ tha’ gash in yer side,” she whispered.
“Can’ stay,” he gasped.
“Yer safe if ye stay put,” she replied.
“They’ll fin’ me an’ finish the job.”
“They’ll no be findin’ ye here an’ no’ in this mist.”
“Ye don’ know them. They’re ruthless.”
“Tha’ would be Campbells yer talkin’ aboot, then?”
“Ay, the ver’ same vermin,” he spat.
“Then I can assume ye no er a Campbell.”
“No hardly.” A weak smile cracked his lips, but it didn’t last long.
“MacGregor?”
“Taint safe te be sayin’.”
She needed no other answer and she decided not to press further. “I’m no lover o’ the Campbells m’self if that is yer worry. My name is Cairistine. I brough’ ye her’ an’ di’ the best I could fer ye, but ye need more than I can give an’ ye no er goin’ nowhere fer a spell or ye’ll open that gash. In trut’, tis in need of a needle and thread.”
“I thank ye, but I can manage,” he replied. He tried to sit up, but the sharp pain made him fall back. “Ye’ve made it worse.”
“No, I’ve made it better. Ye were out o’ yer head an actin’ on instinc’ before; jest like an animal fightin’ fer survival. Now, ye jest lay still an’ stop fightin’ me.”
“What more can ye do, but let me die?” he asked.
“Ye won’ be dyin’ if ye’ll sit still,” she replied rising to her feet. “The mist is set in thick aboot an’ this cave no is easy te fin’. Don’ ye move. I’m goin’ to lay me hands on needle and thread an’ see if I can fin’ a salve an’ a bit o broth te get ye through this.”
“Bu’ ye no can be wanderin’ aboot an’ then comin’ back here,” he protested tryin’ to rise again. He pushed himself further that time, but the pain from the movement overtook him and he faded quickly away.
Weak from his loss of blood and the struggle to push himself up, he fainted, providing the perfect opportunity for her to slip out of the cave. He wasn’t going anywhere and his arguments were moot against his weakness and pain. She hurried back to the shack of Inghean for the needed items.
III.
The crystal blue eyes, though still showing signs of weakness, greeted her when she returned from her errand with the same basket that had held the marten earlier full of all that she needed to tend to her patient. He’s pulled himself upright, but leaned heavily against the stone wall of the cave.
“Ye no er one fer stayin’ put, er ye?” She attempted to scold him, but realized that she admired the fact that he simply wouldn’t quit fighting.
“Fer me,” he sighed. “Stayin’ put means meetin’ me maker.”
“An’ trapsin’ aboot will only bring it on sooner,” she retorted, taking out the needle and thread. “Wha’ chance would ye have again a Campbell in the shape yer in?”
“Taint a Campbell tha’ can match the likes o’ me.” He tried to push out his chest with pride, but didn’t have the strength to pull it off.
“Ye can’ even boas’ without hurtin’ yerself,” she mocked, pushing the end of the thread through the eye of the needle. “Sit back so I can tend te ye. This needle will tes’ the likes of the man ye er. I’m afraid I’ve nothin’ te dull the pain.”
“Ye haven’t a bit o’ whiskey, have ye?”
“I suppose tha’ I could go searchin’ aboot fer a Campbell to provide ye with a draught,” she chuckled softly.
“Ay,” he replied. Though she could tell that the pain was close to unbearable, he worked his way back down the wall until he was lying flat on the stone floor.
“Er ye ready, then?” she said, grimacing as she held the threaded needle close to the uncovered wound.
“Raghnall,” he whispered as he steeled himself against the coming pain.
“Raghnall? Is tha’ yer name?”
“Tis.”
“Well then, Raghnall,” she said. “Hold still while I try to push this needle through yer thick hide.”
Though it was her first time sewing human flesh, Cairistine tentatively pressed the needle through Raghnall’s flesh grimacing along with him as he gasped. Though she’d done her best to put on that tough outer shell that came with having survived as a daughter of the highlands for so many years, she felt every single prick of the needle as it broke through his flesh. She’d wished that she’d been able to take him to Inghean and let her do the job, but moving him had been out of the question and she’d been forced to accept the fact that she was going to have to take on his care without the assistance of the old woman.
“Tis time tha’ ye learn fer yerself anyway,” had been the only encouragement that she’d received from Inghean as she packed the basket and recited a list of instructions for the medicines that she’d placed inside. “Tis no differen’ than sewin’ on a patch, but ye don’ need te make it stick fore’er. Jest ge’ the skin pulled t’gether an’ held in place. Don’ go getting’ weak when ye star’, tha’ man needs yer help.”
Inghean’s words stuck in her head long after she completed the task and Raghnall was resting comfortably beside the fire. Though she too was exhausted, no sleep would come to her as she watched the relaxed form of the rugged man to whom she was tending.
With his crystal blue eyes closed, she was able to examine him further. He had hair that fell well past his shoulders and was the same tone as that of a chestnut horse. Those locks framed a sculpted face with a brow that stood out prominently from his skull and was matched by cheek bones and a jaw-line that were vying for equal attention. Though he kept himself shaven, it had been several days since a razor had touched the stubble on his cheeks and chin. It made him look untamed and daring.
If he was, indeed, one of the outlawed sons of Clan Gregor, then, no doubt, he had spent his entire life looking over his shoulder, running from one place to another, hiding from those who wished to collect a bounty on him and fighting whenever he was cornered. He wasn’t a great deal unlike the vanishing wolves of the highlands. They too had a bounty on their heads; hated because their nature drove them to take easy prey from the flocks and herds.
She knew only a portion of the story behind the MacGregor Clan. She knew that they had once been tenants of the Campbells whose sheer numbers had overtaken the entire Glenorchy. Because they would not go quietly into the mist and allow England or any other man to rule them, their name had been dispossessed by parliament and they were unable to own land. However, when they rose up and rebelled against their oppressors, they had been outlawed. Though many referred to them as the Children of the Mist, in recent years, the even older appellation had been reattached to them, likely because of how they were being hunted; Sons of the Wolf.
“Ye certainly er a son of the wolf,” she whispered as she gazed upon him.
The sound of her voice caused his eyelids to flutter again. She regretted having spoken, not wanting to awaken him, but the moment that she saw his crystal blue eyes, she felt a tingle surge through her.
His eyes showed signs that he was already feeling better and they silently scanned her face. She suddenly realized that she could no longer stand the intensity of his silent gaze upon her and the myriad of sensations that were overwhelming her, so she turned away from him.
“We’ve got te get some broth into ye,” she said, dropping pieced of dried meat and other herbs and vegetables that were in the mix that Inghean had sent with her into the small pot and placed it by the fire. “Yer stitched up, but yer fer from bein’ ready to run from a mess o’ well armed Campbells.”
When he didn’t respond to her, she turned to look back at him. He hadn’t stopped watching her with that steady gaze. A smile broke across his lips when she looked back at him.
“What?”
“I no can watch me nurse as she works?”
“Wha’ is there te watch?”
He shrugged, but made no response, neither did he stop watching her. She turned away, trying to ignore him, but she could feel his eyes on her. Fighting back the fluttering in her stomach, she continued to work at preparing the broth, suddenly discovering that her fingers didn’t seem to work as gracefully as they had before.
What is wrong wit’ ye, Cairistine? He’s jest a man in need o’ yer help.
The self talk did little to calm her nerves. He had already started to get to her.
With the broth ready, she turned toward him. “Ye’ll need to pull yerself up again the wall, so ye can eat.”
Raghnall grimaced against the pain, but was able to raise himself up to a seated position with a little help from her steadying hand. That short moment of contact between them brought warmth to her face and she tried to fight down the rising blush.
He grinned at her, which didn’t make it any better.
Damn it, he knows tha’ he’s getting’ te me.
She tried to remain focused on the broth, but quickly discovered that she didn’t have nearly the strength to resist that she had before. “If ye can handle that yerself,” she said pulling away from him and leaving the spoon and broth with him. “We’ll be needin’ more water.” Without waiting for a response, she retreated from the cave with the bucket.
IV.
With her regular attention to his needs; making certain that his wound was clean, cooking for him and applying the salves and medicines that Inghean sent with her, he began to grow stronger. He still moved with some stiffness, but refused to allow that to keep him from trying out his strength and pushing himself to the limit.
“You’re likely to tear those stitches out and open that wound all over again,” she warned him. In truth, whenever she wasn’t trying to hide her blush from him, she admired his spirit and his strength, yet she also found herself beginning to worry more and more over his well-being.
“You er some worried aboot me, then?” he smiled, leaning against the wall and watching her by the fire.
Well practiced in the art of being coy, she would respond as though she didn’t care. “I just don’ wan’ te be doin’ me work all o’er again.”
“Ye act as though ye were no’ enjoyin’ tendin’ te me,” he laughed.
“I’ve other things te be tendin’ te,” she replied.
“You’ve other lads in other caves or a husban’ that don’ like ye gallivantin’ aboot?”
“Neither,” she replied. She enjoyed their banter, but she feared what was soon coming. He would have his strength again and she would have to turn him loose back into the wild. Though she’d done it plenty of times with the animals that she and Inghean had nursed, it was much harder to think of letting him go.
When she was with him and tending to him, she felt as though she had come alive and that she had purpose, but there was something more to it all. She felt comfortable around him. Though he was a rogue and dangerous, there was a kindness and gentleness to him that drew her, heart and soul toward him. Certainly, the tingling sensation still remained, especially whenever she touched him, felt him close to her or when he gazed at her with his crystal blue eyes, but she was growing accustomed to it and no longer fought it off.
They were silent for several moments. Though her back was turned to him, she could feel his eyes upon her. Why did he watch her so closely? What did he see? Were the same thoughts and feelings that swelled in her, stirring through him?
He’ll heal up, be gone and ye’ll ne’er see him again,
she reminded herself whenever she allowed those questions to overcome her.
“Cairistine?” he whispered softly.
The tone with which he spoke had changed. There was something husky in the way he said her name, as though he was struggling with some feelings of his own. She turned toward him. “Er ye okay?”
“I am.”
“Then what?”
“I have no thanked ye proper fer all tha’ you’ve done fer me. I migh’ o’ died ou’ in the mis’ if no fer ye.”
“You’ve thanked me many times,” she replied softly.
“But no like I ought.”
He had become a great deal bolder since he’d been feeling better, but it wasn’t until that moment that his boldness had moved toward action. He reached out with a strong arm to draw her up to him. Before she could respond, however, he had pulled her mouth to his and kissed her firmly.
Startled by him, she pushed against him with both hands. Knowing that it wasn’t proper for him to be forcing himself upon her in that way, she felt the need to fight against him, but there were other thoughts and desires working within her as well. They were responding to a deeper need; a need that she had denied for much too long.
“I can’t, we can’t,” she gasped as she was finally able to break away from his kiss.
“What’s te stop a lad an’ a lass from doin’ what comes natural?” he whispered.
“You’ll be healin’ up and on the run again,” she replied. The truth gushed out of her before she could stop it. “My heart can’t bear to let ye go.”
“Yer heart?” Her confession pushed him back from her with more force than that of her hands.
“I…” She started to let go of the feelings that were crowding through her; tried to put them into words. The words wouldn’t come out as she looked up into his eyes. They were many, but she couldn’t get them to come together into anything intelligible. Instead of saying anything more, however, she retreated, scooping up the bucket and rushing for the entrance of the cave. “I’ve got to get some more water.”
With her mind in a whirl, she hurried out of the cave, paying little attention to her surroundings as she did so. Cairistine had been very conscious about her coming and going and had kept a sharp eye out for whoever might happen through the woods. She had never seen sign nor encountered anyone, but she had remained vigilant just the same; up until that moment. It was at that moment that someone did happen to see her hurrying out of the cave and along the base of the cliff toward the shallow vale and trickling spring. That someone fell in behind her, feeling fortunate to have come across such a shapely form with fiery red hair where no one around would hear her screams. He’d been hunting Raghnall MacGregor and need a little diversion; she’d be just right for that.
The thunderous rhythm in her heart had overtaken all of Cairistine’s thoughts. The noise of conflicting voices in her head and drown out any other sound around her. Her escape to the spring had been the only response that fit in that moment. Though she certainly felt the stirring deep inside of her and relished his kiss, those feelings created too much confusion inside of her. She had run free for much too long to allow the first man to force a kiss upon her to be her undoing. He was certainly a rogue and an outlaw and she shouldn’t expect him to have any other than a forceful manner about him.
I won’ stan’ fer bein’ forced into it,
she told herself. The moment the thought entered her mind, it was his daring that argued against her. In truth, she longed to let him kiss her again. It was the kiss of a man; wild, daring and full life and the natural course of things.
She forced herself to think of something other than his kiss. She revisited all of the arguments that had kept her running free through the woods and the highlands. She wasn’t looking for a man. She didn’t want to be tied down to a humble shack with children pulling at her skirts. Nor did she want to break her back doing the same monotonous tasks every day. Besides, he’d just use her and be gone.
“Er’nt ye a tasty treat,” the voice chuckled behind her.
Startled by him, a scream left her throat before she whirled about and threw the bucket at him.
“It won’ de ye no good te scream,” he laughed. “Won’ nobody hear ye.”
Realizing that her scream would bring Raghnall to her and into certain danger, she turned to run.
“It won’ de ye no good te run either.” In a half-dozen quick strides, he was on her, grasping a handful of her bright, red hair and pulling her back into his arms; crushing her in his grasp. He moved his dirty mouth against her neck and cheek, trying to bring her mouth to his.
Though she fought him, twisting, turning, scratching and kicking, he had gotten too tight of a grasp on her and her struggles had little affect against him. “Ay, lassie, ye migh’ as well settle down an’ enjoy it. Yer no goin’ anywhere.”
“I’ll scratch ou’ yer eyes,” she hissed.
“I’m no gonna le’ ye do tha’,” he chuckled. “I jest wan’ a lit’ fun wit’ ye. Hey, wha’ was tha’?”
Cairistine heard a loud thump. It was though something hard had struck a hollow stump. In that same instant, she felt his grip loosen and she pushed herself free, whirling away to flee once more. From the corner of her eye, as she turned, she saw the tall, muscular form of Raghnall stepping into the clearing with a stone about the size of a man’s fist in his hand. He hurled another at her attacker, striking him in the chest.
“Ye, is it!” he bellowed. “I though’ ye were dea’.”
“I’m ver’ much alive,” Raghnall answered, taking several steps forward.
From a safe distance, Cairistine turned to watch the two men begin to circle each other like a pair of highland bulls about to go at it. Though she was glad to be free of the dirty man’s grasp, she feared for Raghnall. He wasn’t well enough to be fighting.
“Ye been patched up, then?”
Raghnall didn’t answer, he reached up, grasped a low branch on a dead pine and pulled down sharply. His muscular chest and shoulders rippled as he pulled away a club and started breaking away the smaller branches. Cairistine could see his ribs, but there was no doubting his weakness. He looked like a lean wolf or wild cat, clearly focused on how to attack his prey. A tingle ran through her at the sight of him and she forgot her worry over him.
“Ye can trim branches from the entire wood, bu’ it no is goin’ te help ye again a sword,” the dirty man announced, drawing out his heavy claymore and raising it up in front of him.
“Raghnall, no!” The shout left her before she had a chance to control it.
“She’s wit’ ye then, eh?” the dirty man laughed. “I’ll finish ye off an’ then have me way wit’ her. Two treats in one day. Killin’ a MacGregor and havin’ that fiery haired…”
His sentence went unfinished as Raghnall attacked.
V.
Slumped to one knee over the body of the dirty man, Cairistine was sure that Raghnall had reinjured himself and she rushed to him. “Er ye okay?”
“I’ll live,” he panted. He grimaced as he tried to catch his breath and stretch himself against the pain and stiffness in his side, using the hilt of the claymore to force his lean body from the ground.
What she had just witnessed has been nothing short of incredible. Armed with nothing more than a club, Raghnall had forced an attack upon the sword bearing man, dodging wild blows from the sword and delivering precise blows with his thick club. There were moments when Cairistine was certain that Raghnall would be run through or sliced deeply with the wildly flashing claymore, but in each instance, he would somehow contort his body away from the sharp edge and slip in from another angle to deliver a blow. He was savage in his attacks and brilliant in his defense. Though it seemed to last forever from her vantage point, it was over with quickly and the claymore, in the hands of Raghnall, delivered a fatal blow.
It was in the moment of his rising that Cairistine noticed several streaks of blood making trickling from the wound in his side. “You’ve torn away the stitches,” she said, rushing to him to examine his side.
“We’ve got te get him hidden,” he whispered, still working to regain his breath. “An’ then I’ve got te be away.”
“But yer hurt an’ ye need care,” she protested.
“Don’ ye see, Cairistine,” he said, wrinkling his brow. A painful expression came upon his face. “As long as yer near me, ye’ll be fightin’ off the likes o’ him. I have te be goin’.”
“I’m no afraid o’ the likes o’ him,” she replied hotly. “Ain’t a Campbell that has e’er seen the like o’ me.”
“I don’ doubt it, but runnin’ is better tha’ fightin’ fer me,” he replied. “I’ll survive longer.”
He was right, of course, but she didn’t want to give in quite so easily. “At least le’ me have another look a’ yer woun’ an’ tend te ye before ye go; since yer boun’ te.”
With the body pushed into a low place and covered over with stones and brush, Cairistine filled the small bucket in the spring and the two of them made their way back to the cave, watching closely as they neared its entrance. Satisfied that no one else was around, they entered the cave. Raghnall leaned the sword and sheath that he’d recovered from the dirty man and lowered himself beside the dying fire.
Without another word between them, Cairistine built up the fire, got out another clean rag and moved in close to him to inspect his wound. If the spark between them hadn’t been powerful enough before, it certainly had ignited into a full flame by the time she touched him with the damp cloth. Suddenly, all of the arguments she’d been having inside had gone silent. There was only one, primeval voice inside of her as she caressed his flesh. It was a voice without words to it and it was born of something beyond reason. As she wiped away the blood, she leaned in to kiss the wound.
Raghnall drew in a sharp breath and the muscles of his chest and stomach contracted at the feel of her kiss on his flesh. His reaction only stirred the rising flame inside of her and she began to place even more soft kisses around the wound, listening to how his breathing changed and his flesh responded to each of them. Before long, her kisses were traveling to other parts of his stomach and chest and she was no longer concerned with the condition of his wound as his fingers began to comb through the strands of her hair.
Continuing to move further and further up his chest with her tender kisses, she felt the nervous hammering of her heart inside her chest and dryness in her throat. She worked at moistening her lips before each kiss, finding that it was becoming harder and harder to breathe as well. When her mouth drew near to his, she hesitated and looked up into his eyes.
Before, while he was fighting for his life, they were the eyes of a savage creature, but in the flickering light of the fire, they were soft and warm, yet there was still the haunting flicker of his wildness in them too. He did not force himself on her like he had earlier, only invited her to do as she pleased. It pleased her to press her mouth against his soft lips. What had been a fluttering tingle before was growing into an ache bourn of longing and desire.
Their kiss began with sweet tenderness, but quickly grew into something much more savage as Cairistine began to let go of the pent up conflict that had been inside her for much too long. She felt his fingers in her hair and then moving to caress her back as their kiss intensified. The ache inside of her had grown out of control and as she melted against him, she felt the hardness between his thighs pressing into her. Every inch of her body wanted to feel him pressing against raw skin.