A Sword Upon the Rose

He studied her, very closely. “Angel,” he finally said.

Alana felt her heart flutter oddly. This time, she had not heard mockery in his tone. She lifted the flask to his lips—he drank. Then his eyes closed and his breathing deepened. He had fallen asleep instantly.

Suddenly exhausted, she rocked back on her heels.

What had just happened?

He was the warrior from her last vision, yet he was a stranger, and now, there they were, together, in his tent, with her in attendance upon him! Why had she foreseen this battle—why had she foreseen him? And why was it so important to tend to his welfare? To prevent his death? He was a ruthless Highlander, renowned for his savagery in battle.

She could not tear her gaze away from him now. In sleep, his hard face relaxed, he was dark and handsome, but the MacDonald men were known for their dark hair, their blue eyes, their arresting features. And like any Highland warrior, he was powerfully built, his arms chiseled from years spent wielding sword and ax, his legs sculpted from the mountains he ran up and the horses he rode.

What kind of man was he? To suffer such a wound, as he had just done? To remain awake while she sewed him together? To lead his men so far from home in dangerous battle? To be known as Iain the Fierce?

Did he really leave no enemy alive? Hadn’t she just seen him rescue a woman and her children from the burning manor—putting his own life at risk to do so?

She instinctively knew that she did not want him as her enemy, even if that was what they were. And while she had thus far been able to avoid telling him the truth about her family—her father—he would soon find out about her Comyn blood.

Would they be allowed to leave, once he had awoken?

Could they leave before he woke up?

Eleanor had finished applying the healing ointment, and was laying linen over the wound. She sank down onto her stool, facing Alana, her gaze searching. “I don’t want to awaken him to bandage it. We can do so tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Alana gasped. “Maybe we should leave now, before he awakens—before he finds out who my father is.”

Eleanor took her hand. “We can hardly leave now, Alana. It is a short walk to Nairn, but it is dusk already and it will be too dark to travel soon.”

She was right, they could not leave now. Alana looked at Iain. He was so soundly asleep now, his face softer, as if he were a little boy. But she was frightened. He was so suspicious of her.

“Alana—what has happened?” Eleanor whispered.

Alana turned to her, clutching her thin hands. “It was as I suspected, Gran! The battle for Boath Manor was the battle of my vision—and he is the stranger I saw being betrayed by his own man.”

The two women stared at one another.

“I cannot comprehend this,” Alana finally said, low.

Eleanor shook her head. “Nor can I. One day, we will know why you had such a vision...why you saw this man.... But it is useless to dwell on it now. There will be no answers tonight.”

Alana realized that her grandmother was tired. She put her arm around her. “I am so sorry I let you come with me! You could be safely at Brodie Castle now, asleep in your own bed!”

“You did not have a choice, granddaughter.” Eleanor smiled. “But what worries you so?”

Her grandmother knew her too well. “He is the enemy. He rides with Bruce. He was fighting Duncan’s men,” Alana whispered, worriedly. “What if he does not let us go? He is already suspicious of me.” She did not add that she would never tell him about her visions.

“If he learns you are the Earl of Buchan’s niece, we will have to tell him everything, Alana, and pray he realizes that we have no value as hostages.”

Alana hesitated. Buchan and Bruce were the worst of enemies—each wanted the other dead. Bruce would surely be pleased to have her in his control as a hostage, even if no ransom were forthcoming. She did not feel confident that Iain would blithely allow them to go on their way if he ever learned the truth. He seemed ambitious and terribly ruthless. They might explain that her uncle and her father had no care for her, that they would not ransom her, but he might not believe them. And even if he did, her instincts told her he was a complicated man—that his actions could not be predicted. He might think her a card to be kept up his sleeve.

She glanced at him again. He lay asleep, unmoving. He was so handsome, in such a powerful and masculine way.

Eleanor stood and put her arm around her. “Child, let’s find a place to rest. It has been a long and trying day. My old bones are aching. And you should cease worrying. That will not solve anything, not tonight.”

Alana nodded. She walked back to Iain and stared down at him for a moment, suddenly aware of being exhausted. How she wished she knew why he had been in her vision, and why she was now with him.

She bent and adjusted the furs, covering him up to his chin. As she did, she thought he stirred; she thought his dark lashes flickered. But he did not open his eyes.

“Child?” Eleanor called.

Alana turned and followed Eleanor from his tent.

* * *

THE SOUNDS OF the men taking down the camp awoke Alana.

She jerked upright. For one waking moment, she did not recognize the tent she shared with her grandmother, did not recall why she was there and not in her own bed.

And then all the events of the previous day came rushing back to her. The burning manor, the bloody battle, Iain of Islay...

Alana stared at the hides of the tent, stunned anew, and then looked down at Eleanor. Her grandmother remained soundly asleep.

She had hoped to be up and gone well before dawn. Now she remembered every detail of the previous day—mostly, she remembered just how suspicious of her Iain had been. She could not imagine what the new day would bring. But they had to get to Nairn, or suffer Duncan’s wrath. And mostly, they had to escape this camp before Iain decided not to let them leave—before he learned she was a Comyn.

She prayed that he remained soundly asleep, which would not be unusual, considering he was afflicted with such a stab wound.

Alana slipped out from the furs she and Eleanor shared. A pitcher of water was on a small table in the tent, and Alana used some to wash her face and brush her teeth with one finger. She quickly loosened and braided her long dark hair. Then she paused to gently awaken her grandmother. “I am going outside.”

As Eleanor got up, Alana lifted the tent’s flap and stepped out. The sun was just rising, and it was a freezing cold December morning. She pulled her fur more tightly about her. They had overslept, for the sun was rising from the dark mists.

Her trepidation increased as she glanced at the camp, hoping their captor remained abed. A dozen men were standing about the cook fire, bread and ale in hand, while the rest of the Highlanders were packing up their tents and gear and saddling their horses.

Alana saw the lady of Boath Manor. Pale and blonde, she sat with her children on the fire’s other side, the children busily eating bread and cheese. And Iain was with them.

She was in disbelief. He was up and about, as if he had not suffered a deep knife wound the previous day. And then she prayed that he would not ask about her identity another time, that he would thank her for all she had done and let her go on her way.

He had seen her. He was seated with the lady and her children, but now, he slowly rose to his full height, staring across the fire at her.

She no longer saw the woman and her children, or the other men. She hugged herself, unmoving.

His gaze unwavering upon her, he drained his mug, tossed a crust away and strode to her. “Good morn, Alana.” He smiled carefully at her.

“Good morning,” she managed to answer. His smile did not reach his searching eyes.

“Did ye pass a pleasing night?” he asked.

So he wished to make polite conversation? What tactic was this? “Fortunately, it was not too cold.”

He glanced at the brightening skies. “It will be colder today.”