Once a Warrior (15 page)

“Did I hurt you?” he demanded, astonished by the possibility.

“No,” she murmured, shaking her head. “It was nothing.”

His gaze was bleary with the effects of drink and the sleeping herb. Still, he was lucid enough to find her discomfort peculiar. Frowning, he reached out and jerked her gown off her shoulder, revealing the white linen of her bandage. He stared at it a moment, mystified.

And then his eyes narrowed.

“What the hell is this?” he growled thickly.

Her mind racing, she searched for some plausible explanation.

Before one came to her, he sighed, as if the matter no longer interested him.

Then his eyes closed, and he collapsed heavily onto the floor in a deep, drugged sleep.

C
HAPTER
7

Someone was calling him. The voice had a languid, muffled quality to it, as if the person were shouting into the wind. Malcolm did not know what the fellow was going on about, but he wished he would shut the hell up. His mind was wrapped in layers of soft wool, sheltering him from pain, and from anything else he might feel if he allowed himself to waken. He sighed and buried his head deeper into his pillow. If he just ignored this irritating noise, surely it would go away.

The next thing he knew, his blankets were gone, exposing his naked body to the chill morning air.

“What the
Christ
—”

“Time to get up, Malcolm,” announced Gavin cheerfully. “Jesus, you look like hell. How much did you drink last night?”

Malcolm blinked and tried to focus. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. His tongue felt strangely thick and slow, forcing him to concentrate as he formed the words. “Whatever you brought me.”

“I brought you three pitchers,” said Gavin, glancing at the empty vessels on the table. “The same as always.”

Malcolm rubbed his eyes and tried to sit up. His body was weak, making every movement an effort. “That wine must have been unusually strong. I don’t remember falling into bed.”

“Well, you were exceptionally neat about it,” observed Gavin. “I’ve never known you to fold your clothes, drunk or sober.”

Malcolm frowned at the tidily arranged garments piled on the chest at the foot of his bed. It was not his habit to fold his clothes. Usually he left them strewn over the floor, because by the time he was drunk enough for sleep, that was all he was capable of.

“Agnes must have folded them.” But that didn’t seem right. Agnes never did more than bring him towels and soap, and he couldn’t remember having had a bath last night.

“Most thoughtful of her,” teased Gavin, tossing him his shirt and plaid. “Perhaps she fancies you and is trying to impress you with her womanly touches.”

“Agnes is afraid of me,” snapped Malcolm. He had long accepted the fact that no woman could find his battered, crippled body attractive. Which didn’t bother him, as he had never desired a woman since the moment Marrian looked at him with pity and revulsion.

Until last night.

He stopped adjusting his plaid. “Did anyone come to see me last night?”

“Not that I know of,” replied Gavin, seating himself. “But after I brought you your dinner, I returned to the hall to enjoy the company of some lovely MacKendrick ladies. Why?”

A memory was shrouded in the mists of his mind. There was a woman, and heat, and the pulse of flames. He drew his brows together, struggling to see more. Her hair was strange, because it was short, which he had found troubling.
Why?
he wondered. Gradually the mist began to dissipate, making the image of her clearer. She was sculpted in shadows before a fire, wrapped in a gown of white linen. He had been drawn to her, but there was something about the gown that had bothered him. Something disturbing—

“What’s the matter with you, Malcolm?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I think I was with a woman last night, but I can’t remember who she was, or where she was, or if the whole thing was just a dream.”

“Maybe you haven’t managed to scare all the MacKendrick girls as thoroughly as you like to think. What did she look like?”

Malcolm tried to remember as he belted his plaid. “She was small,” he began, recalling her slim form before the hearth. “And her hair was the most glorious color. Not brown, and not red, but more like…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Like mud and rust,” he said finally.

“An unusual choice of words,” commented Gavin. “These MacKendricks may make a poet of you yet.”

Malcolm scowled. “Her hair isn’t important,” he said impatiently. “What is important is the fact that I knew every detail of her. Her cheeks, her chin, her nose—it was as if I had studied them at length—but I had never seen her before.”

“Then she was a dream or an apparition,” concluded Gavin, “because during the two weeks you have been here, you’ve seen all the MacKendrick women at one time or another.”

“I suppose so.” He sat on the bed and pulled on his boots. “But she seemed so real. I can remember how soft she felt in my arms, and when I leaned close, she smelled sweet, like heather and—something else.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember.

“Roses?” suggested Gavin. “Silverweed? Violets?”

“Soap.”

Gavin nodded approvingly. “I like an apparition who bathes.”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” Malcolm grumbled.

“Did she say anything to you?” prodded Gavin, ignoring his irritation.

He thought for a moment. She had spoken, he was certain of it. He stared into space, picturing her standing before a fire, her gown a filmy veil against the flames. Her hair reached just past her shoulders. And somehow that was his fault. He moved his gaze down, re-creating her. Blood. There was blood on her dress.

Do not torment yourself over my death.

That was what she had said. Because he was responsible. She was dead because of him. But it wasn’t Marrian, or any of the other MacFane women who had died that hideous night he had failed his clan. It was another. His gaze shifted, suddenly drawn to the sculpture on the desk.

Ariella.

“It can’t be,” he murmured, stunned. But the memory began to grow clearer. He could see her leaning out the tower window while he stood in the courtyard. And then he went to her. To apologize. He found her in the tower room, and she had been more beautiful than any woman he had ever known. Just as MacKendrick had promised. Desire had surged through him, raw and powerful.

Desire for a ghost.

“She isn’t dead.”

Gavin looked at him in confusion. “Who?”

“MacKendrick’s daughter.” He went to the door and threw it open.

Gavin hurried along the corridor beside him. “How do you know?”

“Because I saw her last night,” Malcolm snapped, furious that some trick was being played on him. “She’s been hiding in this tower. And I intend to find out why.”

His limp prevented him from moving as quickly as he would have liked. Still, he advanced with considerable speed up the narrow tower stairs, impatient to confront this woman and demand why she had played this game. He wrenched down the latch and hurled the door open. She lay on the bed, huddled beneath a mound of blankets. Malcolm stalked over and violently jerked the coverings off her.

“What in damnation—”

Angus frowned as his gnarled hand groped for the missing blankets. Finding only cool air, he opened his eyes and regarded Malcolm with sleepy irritation.

“What’s amiss, lad?” he demanded. “Are we under attack?” He sat up suddenly, his expression brightening. “Shall I fetch my sword?”

“What are you doing here, Angus?” demanded Malcolm, torn between confusion and exasperation.

“Why, I’m sleeping, lad.” He scratched his white head and glanced uncertainly at Gavin, as if wondering what was wrong with MacFane. “What are you doing here?”

“I mean, what are you doing in this room?” clarified Malcolm tautly.

Angus looked at him in bewilderment. “I
was
sleeping, and now I’m talking to you.”

Malcolm closed his eyes and prayed for patience. “Why aren’t you in your own room?”

“This is my room, lad. Has been for nearly twenty years now.”

“No, it isn’t,” countered Malcolm. “This is Ariella’s room.”

“Ariella’s room was in the other tower, lad,” Angus corrected. “The one that burned when she set fire to it.”

“Yes, but this is her room now. I saw her here last night.”

Angus stroked his white beard, contemplating this. “That’s odd. I came up here right after dinner, and I don’t remember seeing either of you. Of course,” he continued, looking at Gavin, “Ariella is dead, so I wouldn’t expect to see her.”

“I came to this room last night,” growled Malcolm, “and she was sitting right there—”

He paused, searching the room for the elegantly carved chair she had been seated in when he had opened the door. It wasn’t there. Instead he saw a chair that was heavy and roughly cut. Confused, he scanned the room. Gone were the intricately woven tapestries that had covered the walls, the delicate table that had held her wine, the small, polished bed with the scarlet plaid. All the furnishings in the chamber now were worn and distinctively masculine, the aged, shabby furniture of a man who has had it for years and sees no reason to change it.

“You say you saw her sitting in my chair?” asked Angus, clearly intrigued. “Did you see MacKendrick as well?”

“No,” said Malcolm, shaking his head. He was almost certain he had been in this room. But if he had been, why was everything different this morning? And what was Angus doing sleeping here?

A dull pounding began to split his head, reminding him of how much wine he had consumed.

“Forgive me, Angus,” he murmured, rubbing his temple. “Obviously I overindulged last night. I did not mean to disturb you.”

“Not at all, laddie,” said Angus good-naturedly. “I don’t get many visitors up here. Come and see me anytime.” He lay back and pulled his blankets up to his chin.

His head throbbing, Malcolm slowly made his way back down the narrow tower stairs. What the hell was happening to him? Was he drinking so much he could no longer distinguish dreams from reality? The thought disgusted him, but it was the only answer.

Either that, or he had seen a ghost last night.

He descended to the great hall, where Duncan, Andrew, Niall, and Rob were seated at a table eating their morning meal. Rob sat hunched over his plate, ignoring everyone. He did not look up as they approached, but Malcolm could see that the boy was just as filthy as always. If it was possible, his dirty, matted hair looked even worse than it had the day before.

“For God’s sake, Duncan, why didn’t you see that he took a bath?” Malcolm demanded irritably.

Rob barely lifted his head to scowl. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business if I bathe or not, MacFane,” he informed him testily.

“He didn’t want to take one,” intervened Duncan. “But Elizabeth and Agnes made sure his wound was well cleansed before they stitched it.”

“Wonderful,” drawled Malcolm. “I am relieved to know there is at least one patch of him that is not crusted in grime and vermin. My God, Rob, how can you let yourself look like that?”

“If you don’t like it, then stay away from me!” Rob snapped, banging down his cup.

Duncan and Andrew looked at him in surprise.

“Lads are like that,” remarked Gavin, attempting to ease the tension. “Then they discover lasses, and you can’t get them to stop fretting over their appearance.”

“Let’s hope he discovers them soon,” grumbled Malcolm, “so we can all breathe fresher air.”

“Fine!” spat Rob, shoving his chair out from the table. “I won’t be training with you today, MacFane,” he announced fiercely as he stalked toward the door. “So breathe all the fresh air you like.” He slammed the door behind him.

“I don’t know why you bother the lad so much about his appearance,” remarked Gavin. “The day you two met, you didn’t look much different.”

“He’s not feeling well today,” added Duncan. “His arm is aching from that arrow.”

He and Andrew gave Malcolm disapproving looks, revealing that Rob had told them the truth about the attack on MacFane. Obviously the boy trusted them enough to believe they had nothing to do with it. Malcolm glanced at Niall to measure his expression. It was more contemptuous than annoyed, as if he were pleased with the fact that Rob was angry with him. Irritated at being the object of everyone’s censure, he turned and headed toward the door.

“Morning drill begins in one minute,” he said tautly. “Don’t be late.”

Malcolm’s patience was dangerously thin that day. He did not know if it was due to the pounding in his head, the attempt on his life, or his fight with Rob. Whatever the reason, the MacKendricks struck him as hopelessly inept at each exercise they attempted, and it took every shred of his self-control not to erupt and order them all to go back to their juggling and poetry. By midafternoon, when Graham and Ramsay got into an argument over who got to use the bigger of two swords they had been given, Malcolm had reached his limit. He abruptly ordered Gavin to take over and headed to his room, seeking solitude.