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He went over to check the man’s pulse and just as his fingers pressed on Peter’s neck, the man grabbed his wrist, fear in his eyes. Elated that he was awake, Caelan said, “Dinnea be afraid, Imma doctor. Yer friend Robert Duglas put me in charge of ye. Ye’ve been poisoned, Peter, but I ken ye’ve gotten past the worst of it. I need ye to drink some medicine, can ye handle it?
”
“Yes,” Peter’s voice was weak but Caelan had expected that.
Reaching for the boiled medicine, now in a bottle, he braced Peter to sit up and carefully tilted it to the man’s lips. Peter valiantly drank a few large mouthfuls but spluttered on the last one and Caelan took the bottle away and let him sit up for a few more moments before laying him back down.
“Where am I?” Peter asked.
“In Arnside, Lord Daffield,” Caelan replied. “I’m Caelan McLagen.”
“You’re Scottish,” Peter said.
Caelan’s lips twitched, “That is the case, aye, but I hold no ill will toward ye.”
“Thank you, Caelan,” Peter’s tone was deeply grateful and a bit sorrowful too. “I’m sorry you’re in this position, caring for one of the men who defeated you. You must have the soul of a saint, anyone else would have killed me instead.”
“I believe every soul is worth saving,” Caelan said. “Evil or good, help must be given to those who need it. Imma not the judge or executioner. Would ye like me to call you Me Lord, yer forename or last?”
Peter’s breath came in shudders, “Whichever you choose. McLagen, I must tell you something but I need you to swear to me first to keep it secret if I live.”
“You will live,” Caelan said staunchly.
“But if I die, you must still swear,” Peter said, his voice low and troubled in the darkness. “Please, promise me, swear to me.”
A bit perturbed, but persuaded by the man’s plea and his deeply troubled words, Caelan decided it would not hurt to ease this man’s emotional agony. “I swear on me name, Caelan McLagen, Laird of Loch Mahrais and me honor as yer doctor that I will take to me grave what ye, Peter Watson, will tell me, as God is me witness.”
“Good,” Peter sighed, “Listen close, Caelan. What I will tell you will sound heinous, but I swear to you, it is all true…”
Chapter 1
The Earldom of Daffield
Adelaine clamped her lips tight to muffle the pained yelp that nearly escaped her, as—once again—she stabbed herself with the thing. Glaring at the offending needle, she briefly considered going to the window and throwing the cloth out of it. The embroidery was sloppy anyway and would not make much of a welcome-home gift to her brother when he came back.
Instead of throwing it away, she dropped the sewing and went to the window to look out to the grounds beyond. The tall dark keep was in direct sight and beyond it, she could see the stables, washing houses, coal huts, and the servants’ small gardens. There was a dark cloud on the horizon, and she saw glimmers of lightning inside it. She tilted her head to the side, trying to see if the cloud was moving toward her home. The ends of her hair brushed past her shoulder and down her arm. It was oddly peaceful.
After the King requested armed soldiers to send to Scotland two weeks ago, she always had her eyes on the horizon, looking for her brother Peter, who was a soldier in her father’s forces. Not to say her father wasn’t good company. Harold Watson, the Earl of Daffield in Northumberland had doted on her since the day she was born, and he always took time to speak with her when she needed him.
At six, when she wanted a pony, the very next day it had appeared in the stable. It had the most gorgeous golden coat she had ever seen. At twelve, when she had wanted a trip to the coast, she had gotten a trip to Bamburgh and a three-day stay at an inn with her now-late mother, a maid and her sixteen-year-old brother.
She had always been loved and attended to but Adelaine had one worry.
I’m one-and-twenty now…when is Father going to let me marry?
The sky was getting darker and the clouds thicker. Idly, she wondered if a storm was blowing in from the north, where Scotland was. A week ago, her father, who had accompanied his contingent to Scotland, had come back to report to the King. Then, two days ago, her father had hurried back to Scotland.
She wondered why Peter had not come back with him the first time, but she reasoned that there was a good reason why he had stayed back. Always the peacekeeper, Peter was very good at calming tension; mayhap they had used him to encourage some tranquility between the English and the Scotsmen.
Going back to the handkerchief she was embroidering for his welcome home gift she took the cloth and needle up again. She twisted it over and bit her lip at the lopsided flower and began to carefully stitch it again.
Oh, how I wished I paid more attention when mother tried to teach me so many years ago. Now that she’s passed, I wish I could go back…
The sound of rushing feet had her frowning and getting up to see what was causing the commotion. She placed the unfinished cloth on the chair and took the corridor to get to the foyer’s balcony. It was the perfect height to see the entryway. The breeze from the growing storm was picking up and she smelled rain in the air but stepped onto the balcony to look over the grounds.
Her father’s guards were trotting down the entryway, a coated squire carrying the dark-green pennant with the red lion and golden eagle of their family crest. She saw her father sitting on his large black stallion with the same matching caparison of the colors of the pennant. Leather-clad guards flanked her father. She frowned. Between the two men was another, clad in only a Scottish plaid. He was manacled between them. He even had ropes around his neck like a wild donkey or rabid dog.
Who is he?
