A Sword Upon the Rose

“An answer that is no answer,” he said.

She glanced at Dughall, her cheeks aflame. “Can you bring me warm water and soap?”

“Aye, my lady.” He slipped from the tent.

“The truth,” Iain said.

Alana felt mesmerized by his unwavering stare. “We do not know why we were summoned,” she lied, feeling desperate. “But we believe my grandmother’s potions are needed.”

His blue gaze moved over her face now, feature by feature.

Did he believe her, when she was so deliberately lying? When she hated doing so, when she was a poor liar by nature? And Duncan of Frendraught was his enemy—would such a lie even protect her? “You should not speak. You should rest.”

“Ye do not play these games well. Ye have no ready answers.” He had become thoughtful.

She checked to see if his wound had stopped bleeding, and was relieved that it had. “Saving a life is no game.”

He said, “Ye cannot or will not tell me who ye are. A spy would be prepared.”

“I am no spy, my lord,” Alana said tersely. He thought her a spy? She was horrified. “I am no one of any import.”

He smiled coldly at her. “Ye have import, lady, or ye would not hide from me. And—” he paused for emphasis “—I am intrigued.”

She was dismayed. She did not want his interest, not at all!

“A young woman, alone in the woods with her grandmother, not far from Nairn. A young woman who does not flee from a battle, but goes into it—and warns a stranger of treachery. How long do ye think it will take for me to learn yer name?”

If he wished to find out who she was, he would certainly be able to do so, quickly enough. She and her grandmother were well-known in these parts. But she would be long gone by then, or so she hoped.

“And you, my lord? You fly Bruce’s flag. You command these men. You come from the Highlands. My guess, from your speech, is you come from the islands in the west.”

“Unlike ye, lady, I have no secrets to keep. I am Iain of Islay.”

“Iain is a common enough name.” But Alana’s heart lurched. She had heard gossip of one Iain of Islay—a warrior known as Iain the Fierce. The cousin of both Alasdair MacDonald, lord of the Isles, and his brother, Angus Og. He was renowned to be ruthless, bloodthirsty and undefeatable.

“Are ye frightened?”

Alana dragged her gaze to his as Dughall returned. “I hate war. I hate death. Of course I am frightened. Many men died today.”

His gaze was on her face.

“Are you the cousin of Angus and Alasdair MacDonald?” she had to ask.

“So ye have heard of me,” he said, but softly.

He was the savage Highlander known as Iain the Fierce, a warrior who never let his enemies live.

And she was in his camp, in the midst of a war for Scotland—as the enemy.

No, she was not just in his camp—she was in his tent.

She got to her feet, taking a step back and away from the pallet. “I have heard of you,” she said.

He made a sound, perhaps of satisfaction. And then Eleanor hurried into the tent, shivering, Fergus with her, breaking the tension, the moment.

“Grandmother!” Alana hurried to her, relieved. “Are you cold? I am sorry I have been so long!” she cried, hugging her.

“I paused before the fire, Alana, so I have warmed up.” Eleanor hugged her back while Alana flinched. Now Iain knew her name. Tomorrow, if he made enough inquiries, he would learn the truth—that she was Elisabeth le Latimer’s bastard daughter, from Brodie Castle, and that her father was Sir Alexander. He might even learn that she was a witch.

She must leave his camp before he made any inquiries about her.

Iain was watching them closely. “Yer granddaughter has been kindly tending me, Grandmother,” he said.

“Of course she has, for no one is as kind,” Eleanor said. “May I help you, as well, my lord?”

“It is Iain, Grandmother.” He glanced casually at Alana. “Iain MacDonald.”

Eleanor went to him and knelt, responding as Alana had feared she would. “I am Lady Eleanor. Well, the wound is deep. You will need stitches. Alana, bring me the bowl of water.”

Alana met Iain’s amused gaze. He had just ferreted out her grandmother’s name, as well, easily enough. When he asked about them, he would quickly learn that they were from Brodie Castle. It would not be difficult now.

They had to leave his camp as soon as possible.

Alana did as her grandmother instructed, then remained silent as Eleanor cleaned the wound. She did not look at Iain, but was aware that he was watching her. When Eleanor was done, she said, “Alana’s hand is steadier than mine, and she makes a fine stitch. She will sew you up, my lord.”

“It is Iain,” he said. “I am no lord, just a fourth son.”

Alana handed him the flask, absorbing that bit of information. Younger sons were either churchmen or soldiers of fortune. He had clearly chosen the latter. “I will need at least two men to hold you down.”

He took a long drink from the flask. “Ye will need no one. Bring me the blade,” he said.

He would struggle when she stuck a needle in his flesh, all men did. “My lord,” she objected.

“Bring me the blade, Alana,” he ordered.

She inhaled. It was so odd, unnerving, to have him call her by her name. Alana handed it to him.

She took up the needle, which was threaded. He would only make her efforts more difficult. It would be hard to remain steady if he struggled. How silly, to be so proud.

And Iain put the hilt of the dagger in his mouth. She carefully pricked the needle into his skin. He tensed, making a harsh sound, but he did not move.

Alana knew better than to look at him. Very swiftly, with determination, she put ten stitches into the wound, closing it completely. He did not move, or flinch, again. She knotted the thread, and Eleanor snipped it. Finally, she looked at him.

His eyes were closed, long, thick lashes fanning his skin. His face was white and covered with perspiration. For a moment, she thought he had fainted. And she hoped that was the case.

Eleanor began to apply a salve to the wound. His eyes flew open, gazing at her, not her grandmother. “Thank ye, Alana.”

“Do not speak now,” she told him. “Most men would be unconscious with such a wound. You should sleep.”