Wolf's Castle Page 5

  He turned toward her. “Will she live?”

  The maid lowered her gaze as she wrung out a cloth. She avoided his question as she dabbed ointment into the cut on her patient’s forehead and the scratches marring her fair skin. She looked at Galen and tipped her head for him to turn around as she began to ease the wet chemise from her.

  “’Tis done, lad. We best tell her servants.”

  Miss Stuart drew his attention once again.

  A hint of color stained her cheeks. Her beauty struck him as longing clenched his gut. He traced her image in his mind. The slight arch of her brow, the curve of her high cheekbones, the graceful line of her bowed lips. Aye, he kenned her, despite how he’d told himself otherwise.

  “I need to get more rags.” Alice steadied herself by clutching his arm as she lifted out of a bent position. “Will you watch her while I go?”

  He nodded as emotions swirled in his mind. Protect her, they said.

  The maid stilled at the threshold. “You’re a drowned rat, you are.”

  He shrugged away her comment, too concerned with Miss Stuart. “Bring me a change of clothing.”

  “M’laird, you’ll need your rest.” Alice pulled herself rigid, a pose he associated with youthful scoldings.

  “Bring my clothing.” Pointing through the door, he growled, “Go.”

  “Aye.”

  He nodded and continued to stroke Miss Stuart’s forehead as he’d seen Alice do. Without prompting, he whispered a lullaby that had eased him from childhood nightmares. She sighed, tension lifting from her as if her soul had departed her body.

  Undone, Galen pressed his ear to her chest. He almost chuckled at his foolishness, for her heart still beat. ‘Twas a comforting sound. It beat in rhythm with his own, dragging him deeper into peace, into thankfulness.

  He’d saved Vivian.

  Chapter 8

  “Damn and blast it.” Donal Burke wiped cold water from his face. He had thought a ride would clear his mind. Being cooped up in an inn for the last week was beginning to suffocate him. Time, he reminded himself, time would be his saving grace.

  In a few months, he’d brave the frigid ocean and squeeze his fingers around Vivian Stuart’s neck. Then he’d have the books.

  He urged his horse forward.

  “Blasted mule,” Donal insulted the animal. His mood was as foul as the weather. Black clouds filled his mind as he thought of how his betrothed had escaped.

  Donal spotted candlelight spilling from the inn’s windows. Stromeferry’s hospitality ensured a kettle of lamb stew simmered over the fire. As much as he loathed the provinciality of the area, the comfort offered by the small village eased his desire to cross over to Mac Tìre before the weather permitted.

  The proprietor nodded as he entered. “Evening, sir. I’ll have me lad see to your beastie.”

  Aye, he’d chosen well. The small inn sat but a moment from the port. “Stew, please.” He must remain pleasant. He sat in a snug in order to remain out of the speculative interest of the barkeep and away from the blustering wind whenever the door opened.

  A hearty serving of stew and a tumbler of thick ale were placed before him. Eating quickly, he stole to his chamber to work on his experiments.

  Grinning, he sat at the large table crowding the room and opened his notes. The book held the scribbles he’d made unbeknownst to Robert Stuart. But he lacked precise measurements and elements from the scientist’s books and other rare alchemy tomes.

  Not to mention his own funds to purchase them. ‘Twas why he’d accepted the job. Ever since his father’s gambling habits had withered his inheritance, Donal lived off his wit.

  Stuart was on to something when he died, Donal kenned. He felt it in his gut. The old goat had grown secretive and suspicious. Fortunately, his knowledge of alchemy had survived him.

  He chuckled as he shaved lead off a ball he’d made from melting down anything that contained the base metal. Time, just a matter of time. The transmutation was beyond his capabilities, but Stuart’s notes would surely be meticulous. He just needed to find them and have Vivian decipher them. Then he’d have the wealth and fame he deserved. He’d show his worthless father.

  The memory of his father evoked a frown, stopping him from finishing the task at hand. Oh, how Colin Burke had belittled him, castrated him before others. His mother had found fortune when she died giving birth to his youngest brother.

  Donal stirred the water and slowly added sulfur. Squinting, he watched as the mixture swirled through the glass vessel. Earlier, he’d watched the sky, trying to find any lunar alignments peeking through the blasted clouds. The cosmos would aid him. He closed his eyes and chanted to the spiritual entities, making due with the comfort of the ancient words less than any influence of the moon. Stuart had laughed at the practiced chants Donal’d said when he’d assisted the scientist. Stuart’s ridicule only encouraged Donal to prove him wrong.

  He sprinkled the lead shavings into the beaker, then added the heat of a short candle. Nothing. Frustrated, he slammed the container against the wall. Glass shattered and the impotent liquid flowed down the painted surface.

  “You’ve failed,” he heard his father sneer.

  Growling, Donal overturned the table. Beakers and crucibles spilled onto the floor. His chest heaved as he wiped his hands on his trews.

  Straightening, he calmly adjusted his collar and combed his fingers through his hair.

  He poured a whiskey. The liquor seared his throat with indignation and protest.

  “I’ll show you, Da.”

  Chapter 9

  Galen laid a fresh, damp cloth across Vivian’s brow. The day crawled at a snail’s pace while he waited for her eyes to flutter open. As dusk settled outside the castle, he ignored each tick of the mantel clock, the growing fatigue of his shoulders.

  He’d sell his soul for a whimper to escape her curved lips. But the only whimpering he heard was from her maid. Nessa subjected them all to a constant drone of tears. Each time Alice allowed her to bring broth or fresh linens, Nessa cried hysterically.

  “Och, lass.” The weepy maid practically shoved Galen from Vivian’s side. “No’ to worry lass, Nessa’s here, she is.”

  Her gaze traveled over the deadly pale skin of her charge, and tears wracked her plump frame once again. “I’ll tell Alice to see to the lass.”

  “Nay.” The gruffness of Galen’s hoarse voice seemed to startle her, or was it what he’d said? Uncertainty and fear creased her brow as she nodded and bustled from the room as if the devil has chased her from her charge.

  He tucked the heavy coverlet around Vivian’s shoulders. He watched slow, shallow breaths raise her chest in an agonizing rhythm. Spent, he pulled a damask chair toward the bed but couldn’t sit down.

  In a violent sweep, he ripped the thick curtains from around her bed. The fit of temper allowed the anger he’d tamped down to flare and be relieved for just a moment. He wanted a view unhampered by rotting material. He’d expected a cloud of dust, yet they were free of dirt as they thudded to the floor.

  Settling into the chair, Galen rubbed his eyes. The grit of exhaustion had made them raw. His ears rang with the gusting wind that had toppled Vivian’s boat, still pounding against the windows with a fierce strength as if demanding to be let in.

  Ignoring the temperamental weather, he gazed about the room. She’d certainly made it her own. No cobwebs. No ashes overflowed the hearth. No dust motes tumbling about the corners.

  The cleanliness of the chamber brought him to a time when his mother was alive. No matter how fiercely she despised his father, her pride refused to allow a slovenly home. She drove the servants and won their grudging respect.

  After her death, one by one, the servants left until a skeleton staff ran the estate. Repairs went undone and rarely used rooms were sealed. When Alexander Maclean met his maker, ten servants found their way to the mainland. At the time, Galen barely noticed. Until this disastrous day, the decaying state of the castle hadn’t
bothered him. It obviously bothered Vivian, igniting her to take charge of the servants and transform the room with backbreaking efforts.

  As he rubbed his chin, the scratch of stubble reached his ears. Vivian moaned and began to thrash about. The coverlet became tangled around her as if wrapping her in a shroud.

  Galen kneeled on the floor by the bed. “Easy, mo gràidh.” He brushed the hair from her face, her skin moist with the sweat of her actions and raging fever. He cupped her cheek, soft and delicate beneath the roughness of his broad hand.

  “That’s my dove,” he whispered. “There, there.” His voice seemed to calm her as her moaning tapered into a meek whimper. Galen ran the back of his hand over her jaw, down her neck. Her rapid pulse beat like a bird’s fluttering wings.

  An exposed arm beckoned to him. Slowly, he traced the alluring curve of her shoulder. So damn silky, so feminine. His hand looked brutish against her slightness. He felt her relax with his caress, and her head turned toward him as if acknowledging his presence.

  “Lad,” Alice interrupted his thoughts, “you have to go ashore.” She spoke quietly as she gazed at Vivian’s still unconscious body.

  He slumped in the chair. Rubbing his neck, he digested Alice’s words. Could he withstand the scrutiny of the mainlanders? No doubt they’d heard of the gruesome happenings at Wolf’s Castle.

  Resting a gnarled hand on his shoulder, Alice gave a quick squeeze. “You’ve no talent for doctoring. And nothing I’ve done has helped.”

  Alice started ripping pieces of cloth into thin strips. “Go ashore.”

  “You ken what the weather did to her boat. ‘Twill do the same to me, even if the my boat is bigger.”

  “Lad, you’re strong, much stronger than the lass,” she swept her arm toward Vivian. “You have to try.”

  Nodding curtly, Galen rose from the chair. “Bollocks,” he swore, throwing the chair out of the way. All the research his father had conducted and none of it proved useful. In his quest for power and riches, Laird Maclean had bypassed the rudimentary subjects of health and human science.

  Working primarily with minerals and base metals, Galen had limited experience with the healing properties of the plentiful herbs growing across the isle. His mother had dabbled, as did Alice, but nothing they collectively kenned would rescue Vivian from her ailing slumber.

  “Won’t anger make it worse, lad?” Alice warned from behind him. “’Tis the strength and heart you’ve buried deep within you that’ll awaken the lady.”

  He stilled at the threshold. Gripping the jam, he held himself back from embracing the maid. She’d always held faith in him, no matter how unwarranted. Her words swirled about in his mind, urging him to prove them correct. To her—to him. He left the chamber, chin raised, determined to find a doctor.

  He’d prove himself to those in the castle. Even to those who’d left the castle for the shore beyond and, in his father’s case, hell.

  It was needed. All thanks to Alexander Maclean and the legacy he’d left behind. A legacy of hatred and malice. One filled with nothing but disdain. One Galen tried to forget but continued to relive daily.

  In a drunken haze his father had raged at him, called him every foul, degrading name he kenned. Galen had tried to run, take cover from the barrage against his character. But his gangly young physique was no match for his father’s strength.

  Relentlessly, his father had told him he was worthless.

  As the final insult, his father had railed from the threshold of the library, flinging Galen’s mother’s acts of infidelity in his face.

  “The whore, she even coupled with the shepherd.” An ugly sneer contorted his father’s once handsome face. “Did she tell you, lad? She was carrying his bastard.”

  Galen remembered his hands shaking as he groped for the corner, trying to find a place of peace within the fury of his father’s rage. Why wouldn’t he stop? Didn’t he know he shouldn’t say such lies? Even to this day, Galen felt the choke of tears at the harsh memory.

  But Alexander Maclean had more hate to spew. “When I wouldn’t let her go, wouldn’t let her share her life with a lowly shepherd, she walked off the cliff.” He chucked Galen’s chin with his fist. “Does that surprise you, lad?” A wicked laugh raked his nerves and he tried to push past his father. “She killed herself instead of living with me. And you, of course. We can’t forget her loathing of you.”

  Roaring, Galen knocked into his father, catching him by surprise. He ran out of the room and into the main hall.

  “I found her body, you ken,” Alexander yelled after him, “a crumpled heap of nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Had Vivian attempted to leave Lomarcan because he’d chased her away? As his father chased his mother away? ‘Twas foolhardy to think she’d even given him a second thought. The hardened shell Galen had pulled around himself made him impervious to all others—or so he thought. When Galen witnessed the capsizing of Vivian’s boat, he feared she would rather die than be at Lomarcan.

  With him.

  He’d prove them wrong if he went to the mainland to secure a doctor. And of course prove to himself he wasn’t the same bastard his father was.

  “M’laird,” Alice called as he raced down the stairs, “come quickly.”

  He almost kept walking. Was she gone? He feared viewing her lifeless body would seal his own coffin.

  “She’s asking for you.”

  Relief swept through him, like the splash of sun after a harsh storm.

  He had not chased another into the ruin of death.

  Vivian peered around the room, not certain of where she lay, but painfully aware of a steady ache twisting through her body. She remembered water. Icy, murky water. She gasped for breath. Pressure on her chest suffocated her. Until a selkie appeared and chattered its unidentifiable language to her. Then she felt an odd reassurance all would be well.

  Laird Maclean bolted into her chamber, bringing with him the image of her attempted flight. Inwardly, she cringed. His wrath would be upon her.

  He stared down at her, hands fisted at his waist, feet set shoulder width apart. He looked like a man possessed, with reddened eyes and a darkened jaw. His wild hair, wrinkled, untucked shirt, and disheveled kilt all indicated a madness about the man.

  “What. . .happened?” she asked, her voice a croak.

  His brow creased and then his eyes widened. “You have no memory?”

  She tried to search for the words, yet they failed to form. Why was she so confused? Pain riveted up her spine as she tried to shift beneath the heavy bed covering. “Nay.”

  Tears began to flow as she righted herself. Her throat, parched as codfish, swelled. Laird Maclean noticed her discomfort and lifted a glass of water to her cracked lips.

  “Easy,” he commanded with a scowl.

  Her tension increased as his intense study seemed to probe her mind. Why wouldn’t he tell her what had transpired? Setting the cup aside, he sat beside her bed his gaze narrowed.

  “More,” she said.

  “Nay.”

  She wished he’d stop looking at her as if he regretted saving her after her father’s boat had crashed.

  “You tried to leave.”

  Aye, that much Vivian kenned. But after the water devoured her, she’d lost memory of events. She nodded slightly and he continued.

  “Your boat capsized. You nearly drowned.” He stalked to the fireplace, grabbed a poker, and stabbed at the fire. “I was in my library and saw you.”

  Vivian choked back a sob. In her haste to leave the island, she’d almost died. Now she owed her life to her captor. “M’laird, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” he spat. “Forgive me, miss, how paltry your apology sounds.”

  She cringed at his harsh tone, the bite of his words. The rigid line of his shoulders grated on her overwrought nerves. Her tongue filled her mouth like a wad of cotton as she struggled to speak. Och, she hated being weak. “Please, more water.”

  He glared at her for a mom
ent, then refilled the cup and brought it to her.

  Though it hurt to look at him, she watched him with widened eyes. “M’laird, were you hurt?”

  Vivian thought she witnessed a wisp of empathy in his eyes, but once again, he snapped back to the wolf prowling before the hearth. “We nearly died.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. She closed them and waited. Again, she tried to apologize, but Laird Maclean remained implacable.

  “Do not run away again, Vivian. The sea is dangerous. Even for those who ken her.”

  With that, he turned sharply on his heel and stalked from the chamber.

  “Pay him no mind, lass.” Alice balanced a tray as she tried to close the door.

  Nessa pushed her from behind, nearly knocking the pot of tea to the floor. She rushed to Vivian’s bedside. “Miss, ‘tis a miracle, ‘tis.” Her maid hugged her with bone crushing strength, laughter and tears mingling with her babbling.

  Alice pried Nessa’s hands from Vivian’s shoulders and gently eased her into a chair. “Take a rest. Aren’t you overwrought?”

  The maid patted Alice’s hand as she nodded and rocked back and forth with her tears. “’Tis glad I am, ‘tis all.”

  “You’re a dear, no doubt. But we’ve the lass to think of.” Alice tapped her chin pensively. “Do you ken if Bernard could be bringing more peat for the fire? And dinner needs tending. Would you mind helping me out?”

  “Aye. I’ll get right to it.” Nessa rose and headed toward the door. “You’ll take care of my Vivian?” she asked.

  Alice nodded as compassion filled her face. “As if she were me very own.”

  Reassured, Nessa left Vivian to Alice’s care.

  “You have a way with her,” Vivian said with a raspy chuckle. Not that Nessa needed handling, but she had never been faced with Vivian being injured before and ‘twas obviously too much for her.

  Mayhap her father was right to keep her close and not allow her to leave the estate, she thought ruefully.