A Heartless Laird Read online

  There was shuffling and footsteps as her friend Ceilidh walked in. “I came to help. Saw yer arrival from my window.” Her friend’s gaze went to the injured man and she blanched upon seeing all the blood. “Is he alive?”

  “Aye, but not for long if we don’t help him.” Elspeth handed Ceilidh a stack of clean cloths. “Come, hurry, help me.”

  She removed the temporary bandages and inspected the angry gash. From the foul odor, his insides had been pierced. Elspeth motioned for her brothers, who walked in with two buckets of steaming water, to come closer. Then she instructed them to pour some into smaller vessels to cool.

  In the meantime, she and Ceilidh set aside threads, needles and small knives made for her by her father who was a blacksmith.

  Gil narrowed his eyes at her. “A Ross this time?” He spit on the ground. “Should have left him to die.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but instead limped away.

  Her brother’s left leg, stiff and unbending, made his gait encumbered. Just two months earlier he’d almost lost the leg due to a wound he’d received after being recruited to fight with the Ross.

  Gil’s injury was what had drawn Elspeth to go to the battlefield and fetch those injured. Like the young injured warrior, without intervention, Gil would have certainly perished.

  “Do ye know his name?” Ceilidh interrupted her thoughts. “He’s quite badly off.”

  “Ian is what I heard. In all probability, he will not live. We will do our best to help him.”

  With precise movements, Elspeth dipped a cup into the boiled water and tested it to ensure it had cooled. Then she began washing out the wound. Once that was accomplished, she reached into the gaping hole, hoping to find the precise location of where his insides were cut. Finally, she was successful and pulled out the affected portion. “Needle and thread.”

  Ceilidh looked about to faint. “I do not know how ye can do that.” Nonetheless, morbid curiosity kept the lass present. She helped Elspeth by wiping away blood and washing the affected areas as instructed while Elspeth stitched.

  “Now to sew the wound closed,” Elspeth announced. “Once that is done, we will bind his midsection tightly.”

  A loud animalistic howl made them jump. The warrior had come to. There was a crazed look about him as he attempted to sit up while the women tried to keep him from it.

  “Stop at once, ye will hurt yerself,” Ceilidh spoke into his ear. “Ye are safe. Stop.”

  The man was much too infirmed to hear reason and he continued to struggle. Elspeth flinched when a portion of the newly stitched wound tore open.

  Ceilidh raced to the doorway. “Gil! Conor!” Thankfully, her brothers arrived before more damage was done. They held down the now weakening man.

  “Hold his nose,” Elspeth ordered and Ceilidh did so that she could pour the tincture down the man’s throat. Thankfully, he swallowed the entire contents of the cup.

  It was a matter of minutes before, once again, he was unconscious.

  “I have to remove his left arm. Please bind him to the table.” As much as she wanted to not do it, the hand was already purpled from lack of blood.

  Her brothers ran a thick strip of fabric across the injured man’s chest and upper thighs and bound him to the table.

  Once Ian was tied down, ensuring he’d not move if he regained consciousness, Elspeth began cleaning the wounded arm. Bone and muscle had been hacked through, leaving only a bit of tissue that kept the limb attached. She quickly cut through the flesh and dropped the severed portion, just above the elbow into a bucket.

  “Oh,” Ceilidh swallowed. “I do believe it’s best I sit.” She swayed, but managed to fall delicately into a chair. “What a horrible sight.”

  Her poor friend regularly helped even if she didn’t always have the stomach for it. Elspeth smiled at her. “I can do the rest alone. Best ye sit and not faint and injure yerself.”

  “True, ye would leave me laying there.” Ceilidh eyed the bloody floor with a look of pure disgust.

  Elspeth returned her attention to Ian’s left arm. Once she released the tourniquet, bleeding would begin. She had to singe the wound. There was no other way to ensure the man didn’t bleed to death.

  She raced to her father’s shop, grabbed an iron from the fire and hurried back to the injured man. Her father barely paid her any mind. He was used to her healing practices and purposely put the blunt iron into the fire in case she needed it.

  “I hate this part.” Elspeth lifted one of the bandages and tied it around her face to cover her nose and mouth. Her gaze moved to Ian’s face. “Poor man.”

  She’d make sure he’d drink the tincture regularly to help with the pain. However, it would not be enough and Ian would suffer greatly for a few days.

  Despite how hard Elspeth had tried to spare the wounded man, he let out an inhuman howl when she singed the wound closed. Ceilidh did her best to calm him by stroking his shoulder, but he thrashed and cursed at them. Blinded by the pain, he strained against the bonds to the point that Elspeth wondered if he’d break free.

  A true warrior, he was used to pain so Ian remained awake, even when they poured more tincture down his throat. He sputtered and screamed for them to release him.

  “Ye would not make it far,” Elspeth informed him calmly. “Please settle or ye’ll make the wounds worse.”

  His bloodshot eyes slid from her to Ceilidh. “Who are ye? I will kill y…”

  “Enough of that nonsense,” Ceilidh said, pushing his head down onto the table. “We need to put ye in a proper bed, but we will not if ye’re acting like a crazed fool.”

  He frowned, and squeezed his eyes shut, face scrunching up from the pain. “Where am I?”

  “Kildonan,” Elspeth informed him, wringing out a wet cloth. “Yer laird is aware ye are here.”

  “He passed out,” Ceilidh replied, taking the cloth and wiping it over the man’s sweaty face. “Mercifully.”

  “I’ll go get my brothers to move him to the cot.” Elspeth hurried from the room. “Ian has a long recovery ahead. Hopefully, his mood will improve.”

  *

  Ceilidh studied the warrior’s face, keeping an eye to ensure he didn’t wake and catch her off guard. He seemed to be fully passed out, but she knew the tricks some of the warriors played. She’d helped Elspeth enough to know. Her stomach churned at the grotesque smell in the room. As soon as they moved him to the cot, she’d dash out for fresh air.

  After rinsing the cloth with cold water, she returned to the task of cleaning him. His neck, upper chest and then down to his stomach. It was best to wash the injured man before moving to the cot to ensure he would be comfortable.

  His body was formidable. Muscular and honed for battle, there wasn’t a spare bit of fat. She lifted his right arm and washed it, her gaze steadily on his face.

  The warrior was handsome; she’d not deny it. However, at the same time, he was intimidating and by the way he’d cursed them just moments ago, she wouldn’t trust him for a single moment if left alone with him unrestrained.

  Ceilidh cleared her throat and returned to the basin. She poured out the water and refilled it with freshly-boiled water from the hearth.

  Now to wash his bottom half. She wasn’t shocked by nudity. After months of war, she had seen more than any unmarried woman should.

  Most men cared little about modesty, especially when injured and in pain. Although she did her best to keep her gaze averted, more times than not, it was quite embarrassing if the injured man was awake. Some made crude remarks, which earned them a very specific threat. Interesting how threatening to do harm where she washed often quieted them immediately.

  With a long breath, she turned to Ian and pulled the blanket down. She dipped a fresh cloth in the warm water and looked.

  “Goodness,” she whispered, her hand shaking just a bit as she continued the task of cleaning him.

  There was a healed scar that ran down the side of his upper right thigh.

  She made quick work of
her task, doing her best not to stare at the rod nestled in thick dark hair. It was worth noting his manhood was spared any injury.

  She covered his midsection and finished the task of washing his legs and feet. When the task was completed, once again the water was poured out and fresh water poured into the bowl.

  Elspeth, her closest friend and confidant, learned everything about healing from a traveling monk. The man had insisted on the unorthodox practice of washing every little thing, from wounds, to tools and the injured person’s body. Although bothersome, Ceilidh had to agree it made sense.

  “Once we move him, I’ll clean up the room, Ceilidh,” Elspeth said, entering with her brother and father following.

  The men helped to roll the injured man to his side so that Ceilidh and Elspeth could finish washing him. Then they moved him to the cot and tied his ankles and right arm to rails that had been built and connected to the bed. After too many incidents with wounded men fighting and attempting to run away only to injure themselves further, they’d come up with a way to keep them in bed.

  “Only one today, seems odd given we heard the fighting was brutal,” her father commented.

  “Everyone else was dead. The only other survivor was taken by the Ross’ healer.” Elspeth used a hand brush to scrub the now empty table with lye while boiling more water to rinse it off.

  Ceilidh swept the floor and scooped bloody bandages into a bucket. The women worked quickly and efficiently.

  Her younger brother, Conor, would be spending the night there and Elspeth wanted to be sure he would not be subjected to stench.

  “Is he awake?” Elspeth’s grandmother entered with a bowl of steaming broth. “I thought he’d be hungry.”

  All three turned to the cot where the warrior winced in pain, watching them through narrowed eyes.

  “Not sure ye want to go near him with hot soup, Grandmother,” Elspeth said. “He’s very angry.”

  Ian moaned and, once again, squeezed his eyes shut.

  Ceilidh neared the cot and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Would ye like more tincture?”

  “Bu…bucket,” Ian said.

  “Ye’ll have to release his arm,” her grandmother said, noting that he’d turned a ghastly shade of green.

  No sooner did they untie his arm did he turn and expel into the proffered bucket.

  Ian continued until he was dry heaving. “I…I do not want more of that vile liquid.”

  Before she could be warned against it, Ceilidh wiped Ian’s mouth and held a cup of lukewarm water to him. “It is only water.”

  He took water into his mouth and spit into the bucket and then drank another entire cupful. To Elspeth’s surprise, he didn’t try to untie his legs but fell back into the bed and groaned.

  Elspeth neared and his reddened gaze met hers. “Ye’re wasting yer time. I am dying.”

  Chapter Three

  Unsteadily, Malcolm paced in the great room, unable to settle after a day of battle and speaking to the leaders of his army of warriors. The men needed rest and many had injuries to heal from.

  “Come back to the kitchen,” his sister, Verity, called out as she stormed in. “I need to stitch the wound closed.”

  Where was everyone? The room was empty except for a servant boy, who swept the floor without much interest on the far side of the room. The boy’s eyes darted between him and the door, no doubt considering escaping if Malcolm were to lose his temper.

  “Where is Tristan?” he said, waving his arm across the room. “Kieran?”

  “Upstairs. They bathed, were tended to and bandaged and are probably in their chambers getting much needed rest.” Verity took his arm and guided him back to the kitchen. “Ye’re drunk.”

  He would have argued, but when he stumbled sideways, he decided against it.

  Once in the kitchen, he was shoved into a chair. Several women gathered around as Verity and Moira, the cook, began tending to his wounds. Malcolm wanted to argue that it was a waste of time, but since there was no choice but to wait for a few days, he may as well ensure to be in the best of health for the next battle.

  Moira looked over her shoulder. “Give him some tincture.”

  “I don’t need it,” Malcolm growled. But he was caught by surprise when someone grabbed his head from behind and tilted it up.

  “Open yer mouth,” Verity ordered as she poured a mixture of whisky and herbs down his throat.

  He sputtered, but swallowed most of it. Just moments later, he could barely keep his eyes open.

  “Call a couple of men to come and to take him to his bedchamber.” Moira’s words seem to come from a far distance and Malcolm shook his head. “I can’t sleep. Too mu…much to…do.”

  *

  The aroma of roasted meats made Malcolm stir. It was dark outside and he wondered how many hours he’d slept. Admittedly, he was too comfortable to move and although he was hungry, he was more exhausted.

  Every bone ached as he turned to his side and looked to the doorway. On a table next to a chair was a tray of food. From the steam wafting from it, it hadn’t been there long. Whoever had sent food didn’t wish him to leave his chamber.

  He didn’t have to guess. His mother, ever the tyrant whenever he or his brothers were injured, had probably locked him in.

  She shouldn’t have bothered, Malcolm thought, sliding from the bed. He had no desire to do much more than eat and sleep. In the morning, he’d start anew. Battle plans had to be made and scouts sent out to spy and find out how the McLeods fared.

  While he ate, the green-eyed woman back at the battlefield came to mind. Elspeth. He narrowed his eyes toward the window. Whoever she was, it was a foolish pursuit she was on. Traveling to battlefields to find the injured would one day lead to finding herself at the end of a sword. The wounded were often brutal in their last attempts to survive.

  The green eyes floated in his mind. She was a fair lass, one of the prettiest he’d seen in a long time. Not that he’d noticed much lately. He had more important things to concentrate on than a woman. Women were a distraction he didn’t allow.

  The direction of his thoughts reminded him to set a new rule against any kind of relationships. Once the war was won and his father avenged, he’d allow more freedom. But for now, no one would be distracted by the frivolity of a relationship with a woman.

  Whores were available for what men needed. There was no reason for the heart to be involved.

  Once he finished his meal, he relieved himself, rinsed his hands and face with water from a basin and fell back into the bed.

  Within moments, slumber claimed him and he didn’t hear the servant enter to take his plate away and empty the chamber pot.

  *

  “What is this I hear about no relationships allowed?” his mother screeched much too loudly the next morning. After being plundered with whisky and whatever herbs Verity had mixed in, Malcolm’s head felt heavy.

  “I won’t be talked into changing my mind, Mother,” he said, motioning for a servant to refill his cup with water. “It’s best for our warriors to concentrate on the task at hand, which is…”

  His mother leaned forward so she could look him in the eyes. “Listen to me, Malcolm. Ye cannot control people in that manner.”

  They sat upon the high board waiting to break their fast. Moira was late with the meal this morning and Malcolm was quickly losing his patience. Was the world suddenly slowed for some inexplicable reason?

  His mother continued unabated. “Yer sister must marry. Arrangements were made prior to ye becoming laird,” his mother insisted.

  “We cannot very well have a wedding when now ye’re against relations.”

  He wanted to pound his fist on the table, but given the sensitivity of his head, not to mention the watering of his mother’s eyes, Malcolm decided against it. “Mother, Verity can marry soon. But not right now. I am sure the bridegroom can wait a few months.”

  Lady Ross was an imposing woman, used to having her way and unyielding. It was q
uite obvious Malcolm’s strong-willed nature came from her.

  “There will be a wedding in a fortnight as planned. I care little for what ye say.” His mother jumped to her feet. “Do not dare to try to stop it either.”

  Once again, she pinpointed him with a steady glare. “Yer Da arranged for it and I will not have ye ruin plans made by him.” She stepped down and headed toward the kitchens. “Why is our meal not prepared?”

  “More ale,” Tristan’s deep voice boomed as Malcolm’s brother held up his cup to a servant. The second-born son was neither like he nor Kieran, the youngest, in the least. Seeming to take each day as if it was new, he rarely held resentment and was quick to forgive. At least he had been until their father’s death.

  Nonetheless, although fierce in battle, Tristan never showed any sign of a bad temper nor did he act as if anything was different upon returning home afterwards. It was puzzling to Malcolm who had an easier time relating to Kieran who was currently brooding into his cup. The youngest hated returning from battle, preferring to stay out and await the next.

  If there was a complete opposite to Tristan it was Kieran, who was as frightening as he was fair of face.

  Kieran’s face seemed to take most by surprise upon seeing him. Even men who were not interested in the same gender would often gawk whenever Kieran entered a room.

  Although his beauty may have attracted people, his dark personality repelled them. Kieran was rage personified. He hated everything and everyone, barely tolerating his own family on most days.

  It had been Kieran who’d been there on the day their father was killed. On the youngest of the Ross’ son’s shoulders was the boulder-sized burden of guilt. Although no one faulted him, Kieran carried the responsibility of his father’s death. In the months that followed, he’d become distant and angry to the point of rage.