Highland Warrior. Hannah Howell

the old laird kens anyone has said it, he goes into a rage which can last for hours. Nay, ’tis best if ye just see us all as MacFingals.”

      Fiona began to think she had landed in a keep full of lunatics, the old laird being the worst. Lunatics, broken men, and castoffs. The banished and the bedeviled. Her curiosity was roused, however. Before she left Scarglas, she was determined to find out exactly who Fingal MacFingal was and why he had turned his back on his kinsmen. A small inner voice sneered that her interest was stirred more because of a tall, dark warrior named Ewan than by some angry old man, but she ignored it.

      Chapter 5

      The sound of the door being unbarred brought Fiona to her feet. She had been both annoyed and relieved when she had been secured inside the room with Simon. A soft pallet had been made for her by the fire and even her demand for a bath had been fulfilled, a painted wooden screen set up in the corner of the room to give her privacy. Fresh clothing had been brought to her and Fiona thought she looked rather nice in the soft woolen gown, the deep blue complementing her eyes. Mab had left to be with her son, Simon had passed a peaceful night, and she had slept well, too. There was no reason for her to feel irritated, for her treatment as a hostage had, thus far, been exemplary. She knew, to her disgust, that the lack of any word or sight of her captor was the cause of her annoyance. That implied that she had missed him and she cursed her own weakness.

      Gregor entered the room, followed by Mab, and he smiled at Fiona. “Ye clean up weel, lass.”

      Fiona inwardly cursed the blush she felt sting her cheeks. “Thank ye.”

      “How fares the lad?” he asked as he moved to the side of the bed to look at Simon.

      “No hint of fever,” said Mab who, after setting a tray holding a bowl of broth and some water on the small table by the bed, felt Simon’s forehead and cheeks.

      “He passed a quiet night.” Fiona stood at the foot of the bed and smiled at Simon, who blushed when Mab yanked down the covers to look at his bandaged wounds. “The wounds looked clean when I changed the bandages this morning and put a wee bit of salve on them. Do they look clean to ye, Mab?”

      Gently easing aside the bandages enough to peek at the wounds, Mab nodded. “Verra clean. Ye must tell what your salve is, for ’tis clear that it works wonders.” She tugged the blankets back up and, with Gregor’s assistance, eased Simon into a partially seated position against the pillows. “I have broth, water, and some cider for ye, laddie. And dinnae make that face. Ye ken ye must nay eat too heartily for a wee while.” She looked at Fiona. “A day or two, aye?”

      “Aye. Broth today, I think, and if there is still no sign of fever or infection, something a wee bit heartier on the morrow. They werenae verra deep wounds.”

      “Mere scratches,” said Simon. “I will be out of this bed soon.”

      “Nay until Mab and I say ye can or we will be lashing ye to that bed. The wound upon your belly could be set to bleeding verra easily. Ye will be in bed until it closes and then ye will be verra, verra careful for a while after that. It wasnae deep enough to gut ye, but ’tis more than a scratch. I will see it closed tight ere I let ye prance about.”

      “I ne’er prance,” grumbled Simon, and sighed when everyone just grinned at him.

      “I brought a potion to give him to ease the pain,” Mab said, glancing nervously at Fiona.

      Fiona almost laughed at the looks of alarm that swiftly passed over Simon and Gregor’s faces. “Weel, he slept easily all night without a potion, Mab. True, that could have been because he was too exhausted to be troubled by any pain. Best we leave it to Simon to decide.” She had to grin at the identical looks of relief the brothers quickly hid from Mab.

      “Do ye need something for the pain, lad?” Mab asked Simon.

      “Nay, Mab,” Simon replied. “I willnae say it doesnae hurt, but ’tis nay bad enough to drink a potion. Those things make my head ache and my stomach churn when I wake up again.”

      “Come then, Fiona-of-the-ten-knives,” Gregor said, grinning as he took her by the arm and led her toward the door. “Time to break your fast.”

      “Why did he call her that verra odd name?” Mab asked Simon.

      Fiona sighed as she and Gregor stepped into the hall and he shut the door on Simon’s reply. She supposed it had been too much to hope for that all the details of her capture would not be told. There had been twelve heartily amused men there, after all. The people of Scarglas were going to think she was very odd, she mused, then almost laughed. Recalling all Mab had told her, odd was almost a rite of passage at Scarglas.

      “Simon will heal, will he not?” asked Gregor as they entered the great hall. “He looked weel enough. Better than I had expected.”

      “I believe he will be just fine,” replied Fiona. “Another day or two without a sign of fever or infection and then all one needs to worry about is keeping him still enough to let his wounds close tight.” She hid her surprise when Gregor led her to the laird’s table.

      “Would ye really lash him to the bed?”

      “In a heartbeat,” she replied, ignoring his soft laughter. “If ’twas just the wound upon his arm, he wouldnae have to be too confined, but the wound upon his belly requires that he be verra still if it is to close weel. Every time he moves his body, he tugs at those stitches. In truth, ’twill be a week or more ere I will e’en allow him to don the loosest of clothing. So, if he tries to get up, he will have to do so naked.”

      Gregor laughed again as he urged her into a seat next to Ewan. “I believe he will stay abed.”

      Fiona simply nodded, too unsettled by being near Ewan to think of a coherent reply. A part of her found the way she reacted to Ewan fascinating, even encouraging, for she had begun to think she would never feel such interest in any man. She never had before Menzies had begun tormenting her, and she had feared that Menzies’s actions had killed all chance that she ever would. What irritated and alarmed her was that her body, perhaps even her heart, would choose to be drawn to a man who had every intention of selling her back to her family.

      “How is Simon?” asked Ewan after glaring at Gregor, who sat down on his right.

      As Fiona replied, he studied her. Dressed as a lad, she had been beautiful, too beautiful for his peace of mind. Dressed as a woman, she took his breath away. She was temptation on two pretty feet. Just the sound of her slightly husky voice had him taut with need. A glance at his father revealed that the man found Fiona attractive, and Ewan scowled. The man could not possibly be thinking of trying his charms on a lass over thirty years younger than him, could he? Ewan not only found that distasteful, but realized a small part of him was afraid that his father might succeed. That tasted of jealousy and Ewan inwardly grimaced. He was in a lot more danger than he had realized.

      “Why are ye still tending the lad?” demanded Sir Fingal.

      “I was there when he was wounded,” replied Fiona. “I believe in finishing whate’er I have begun.”

      “Mab can do it.”

      “Ah, but if we both tend the lad, we can both have time to rest, aye?”

      “Where did ye get those scars?”

      “Da,” Ewan protested, but his father ignored him.

      Fiona calmly finished the piece of honey-coated bread she had been eating and met Sir Fingal’s gaze directly. “A mon felt my face needed some improvement.”

      “What do ye mean by that, ye daft wench?”

      “I wouldnae call her a wench if I was ye, Da,” murmured Gregor.

      Ewan grabbed Fiona’s hand when she reached for the knife used to cut the cheese. The feel of her small hand in his sent the heat of desire straight to his loins, but Ewan struggled to ignore the feeling. He was interested in her answer to his father’s question.

      “Explain,”