Kara's Gift. Suzanne Barclay
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barely feeling the hemp cut into his flesh. “Mad. Let me go or I’ll—”
“Are you sure about this, lass?” Fergie asked again.
“Have my visions ever been wrong?”
Visions. Holy Mother, have mercy. Duncan’s heart was pounding so loudly he could scarcely hear. “Filthy pagans.”
“He doesn’t seem to like us much,” Fergie mused. “Hard to imagine him helping us.”
“He will.”
“I won’t.” Duncan seethed with rage and frustration.
“Leave it to me, Fergie.” Rising on tiptoe, she kissed his scarred cheek. “Was the hunting successful?”
“Aye. We took two roebuck. Dod and the others are skinning them in the courtyard. t should see they don’t make a hash of it, but if you need me to stay...”
“Nay. I’ll fetch his supper, then we’ll discuss things.” She gave her uncle a dazzling smile. “Men are always more reasonable on a full stomach.”
“Well...” Fergie scowled thoughtfully at Duncan, then shrugged. “You’ve never failed us yet.” He chucked her under the chin, then sauntered out.
Kara turned that brilliant smile on Duncan. “There’s fresh rabbit stew and boiled onions for supper. I’ll fetch you some.”
“I won’t stay...even if you ply me with roasted peacocks and almond paste.”
“I do not know what those things are, but you will stay.”
“You cannot make me stay,” Duncan snarled.
“I’ll wager I can,” said the little witch with a toss of her fiery curls. She walked from the room proud as a queen, her skirts swishing in time to the sway of her hips.
Despite his rage, the sight made an impression on the least discerning organ in Duncan’s body. Cursing it, and females in general, he went to work on the ropes. Imprisonment had been Cousin Niall’s favorite form of punishment, and Duncan had learned to rework knots at an early age.
He was determined he’d not be here when the witch returned.
Had she made a mistake? Was he not really the one?
Kara tapped a finger against her mouth.
He had not looked as large in her vision, nor as angry. In her vision, he’d smiled and laughed and looked on her with approval, not revulsion. But the clothes of silver metal and the long dirk were right. And the face...there was no way she could have mistaken it. Duncan had the rough-hewn features of a warrior and the eyes of a lonely child. Those troubled eyes called out to the healer in her. The rest of him, his big, muscular body, his ruggedly handsome face, awakened strong feelings of a different sort. Womanly feelings.
She’d never been drawn to a man before. Oh, she’d laughed and bantered with the men of the clan, and fluttered her lashes in fair imitation of her friend Brighde. But she’d never cared what any man thought of her.
Till now. She minded terribly that Duncan hated her.
Why did he? She’d risked her life to save his, nursed him through two days and nights, yet he sneered at her. Called her pagan and witch as though she were cursed.
Was he truly the one?
Kara stared at the leaping fire in the kitchen hearth. But no vision came.
“Here you are, then. There’s more if he can eat it,” added Black Rolly. He held out a tray set with a bowl of savory stew, brown bread and a cup of ale. The tray looked tiny in his big, warrior’s hands. He’d smashed his leg the same night Fergie had nearly lost his eye. She’d stitched them both up, not daring to hope they’d live. But they were strong and adaptable. With his fighting days over, Rolly had taking up something he liked. Cooking.
“It smells wonderful, but don’t be surprised if he can’t finish it all. He’s still recovering.” In his present state of rage, he might refuse to eat at all. She had to do something to change that. How were they to win against the MacGorys if their appointed savior refused to play his part?
She took the tray, then hesitated. In his youth, Rolly had left Edin to ride in Border raids against the English. He’d even been to King William’s court in Edinburgh and knew much of the outside world. “Rolly, do you know what a Cru...Crusader is?”
“Aye.” He leaned his bad hip against the worktable. “They’re knights who’ve sworn to free Jerusalem from the grip of the Infidels.”
“Are they bad people, these Infidels?”
“Worse than the MacGorys. They dinna believe in God.”
“Oh.”
“And they cut out the hearts of those who do.”
Kara gasped. “They must be fierce, indeed. He was wounded fighting them.”
“Duncan?”
Kara nodded. “He’s a strange man, full of pride and anger. For all he’s weak as a new colt, he hates having us do for him. I fear I had to tie him up to keep him from injuring himself, which only made things worse. He thinks we are pagans.”
“Some Crusaders have deep religious convictions.” Rolly told her briefly about the training a knight went through, and the vow he made before God when he was knighted. “They pledge to protect the weak and vanquish the oppressors.”
“That is good, we are being oppressed by the MacGorys. And we did save his life.” Kara repeated that as she trudged up the narrow stairs. If the one thing didn’t convince him to help, mayhap the other would.
She reached the second floor and found all was dark and shadowy. The torch at the near end of the corridor had burned out again. Poor Dod, Edin’s steward, was growing forgetful. When she’d finished with Duncan, she’d set one of Dod’s grandsons to replenishing the torches. Covertly, so Dod’s pride wasn’t hurt.
She nudged the door open with her hip, took a deep breath and pasted on a smile. “Well, here we are....”
She stopped and gaped at the empty bed.
The savior of Edin Valley had slipped his bounds and fed.
Chapter Three
From his hiding place under the bed, Duncan listened with grim satisfaction to Kara Gleanedin’s gasp of dismay. The wood floor was cold on his bare chest and legs, but at least they’d left on his braies when they stripped him. He watched her stomp one foot, the ragged hem of her skirts twitching in agitation. The ripe oath that followed made him scowl. That a woman should know, much less utter such foul phrases.
“Damn and blast.” She stalked to the bed.
Had she seen him? Did she guess? He held his breath, wishing he’d had time to get to his sword, but her return had followed his escape by only moments.
Wood rattled on wood as she set a tray down on the stool where she’d sat vigil the past two nights. An unwelcome reminder of the debt he owed her. With one final curse, this time in Gaelic, she bolted from the room. He waited till her angry footfalls had faded away before he gingerly crawled out.
His shoulder throbbed, his legs were wobbly, his mind foggy, but he had no time to indulge such weaknesses. One hand on the rough, unpainted wall, he worked his way to his sword with the determination of a man pursuing the Holy Grail. Gripping the hilt made him feel better. He bent to retrieve the belt coiled neatly on the floor. The pouch was still attached to it.
Knowing he’d not rest easy till he saw the stones, Duncan took a few precious seconds to release the intricate