Highlander’s Winter Rose by Fiona Faris
Chapter One
“Iam leavin’ now, grandmother. I promise to come see ye down at the monastery later.” Her auburn curls bounced as Rosallyn Grant shook her head before packing her hair up with a ribbon to keep the strands off her shoulders and face. The hair acted as though it had a life of its own, and after several hair-related incidences during her frolics in the woods, she learned that it was better to restrain it. She picked up the basket she had put on the ground and glanced back into the house where her grandmother was shuffling out of her bedroom with sleepy eyes. She smiled fondly as the old woman rubbed her face tiredly.
“Ye are leavin’ already me darlin’? It isnae even sunrise yet,” her grandmother said, peeking outside through the windows. It had been a whole month since her grandmother had slept at the house, so she knew that she would have wanted to spend more time together before she left again. Her grandmother helped with the sick at the monastery, so she only came to stay at the house once every month now that Rosallyn was an adult.
“Ye ken that I prefer to be early, grandmother. I like the quiet in the woods when it has nae woken up yet.” She pointed out, turning to leave. “I made ye pottage for the day, so ye dinnae have to cook when ye get to the monastery. See ye soon!”
With those words she set off, making her way into the woods with a bounce in her step. She breathed in the slightly moist morning air. Winter was coming soon; she could tell from the coolness that made her hug her cloak to herself and the sparse whiteness on the ground from early snow.
Rosallyn was a winter child, born with the beauty of the season etched into her features: eyes the color of the evergreen trees, skin as white as snow, and her lips as red as holly berries. It was said that her mother took one look at her and whispered her name, Rosallyn, saying she was like a single red rose in winter.
She saw a deer dart off towards the stream as she approached and angled her head to one side to dodge a low-hanging branch.
Ah, I cannae wait for the first day of winter. I miss faither.
She ignored the slight pang of her heart at the thought and continued on the forest path that her feet had beaten into the ground over the years. She loved the winter because it was the only time that her family would be complete. Her mother had died when she was very young, and although to the villagers the only family Rosallyn had left was her grandmother, this was untrue. She was the illegitimate daughter of Robert Grant, the General of their clan who was still very much alive.
The product of a love affair, Rosallyn could not live with her father as a noble and needed to live with her grandmother in their isolated little village instead. Her father loved her dearly, despite her status as an illegitimate child, and visited her often. However, it was during winter that he truly was her father, living in their cottage with them and preparing to celebrate her birthday on the first day of winter. Usually, he would have arrived by now, when the chill was just beginning to permeate the air, but he was just running a little late, she told herself.
Her father spent as much time with her as he could, teaching her ethics, politics, and regaling her with stories of the castle and the battles he led. She hung on to his every word. He was like a shining beacon in her eyes. He had visited them briefly a couple of weeks ago when he came to bring them some of his things in preparation for his stay and supplies that would keep them living comfortably.
He did not stay long, only having time to hug her and talk briefly while the servants offloaded the things that he had brought with him, taking them into the house. He told her of a brewing war and mentioned that he had decided to bring his things over early because the battle might take his time, so he would be a bit late for her birthday.
Ye are only nervous because father told ye he was preparin’ for war. He told ye he would return, did he nae?
Her father had indeed promised to return, assuring her that although he might be late, he would be there at the beginning of winter and he would have more stories for her after defeating the enemy. He had also promised, with a grin, to return with Boyd Tod, the only person from her father’s life as a noble who cared that she existed. The nobles knew of her as her father did not hide her existence, but they did not know her. She blushed at the memory of her father’s teasing looks as he told her what a handsome man Boyd had grown up to be.
Boyd was the handsome soldier boy who had come to the village with her father when she was fourteen. His being fifteen at the time, the two had been instantly infatuated with each other, blushing through every conversation and doing their best not to do anything embarrassing in the presence of the other.
She remembered standing at the kitchen window with a pie cooling on the sill, watching her father train him, his blond hair sticking to his sweaty forehead and his wiry frame rolling across the garden to dodge her father’s attacks. To her, he was the best-looking boy she had ever met, but then again, she had not met many other boys.
He came to visit with her father for the two years that he was under her father’s tutelage, but by the time she turned sixteen, she did not see him again. He had become a soldier and was now making his way up the ranks, no longer under her father’s tutelage. It had been seven years since she last saw him, and he had faded out of her memory, her time with him becoming something that only came to her in flashes, whenever she considered romance. In fact, she could hardly remember his face.
Ever since her father had mentioned bringing him, however, she had thought about him a lot more. His blue eyes and blond hair were the clearest memories she had of him, along with his wiry, shirtless frame. He was not a boy anymore. What would he look like now that he was a man? Would she still find him interesting or attractive? What about her? She had changed quite a bit over the years, her hips filling out into round curves to complete her hourglass shape.
Her grandmother told her that she was beautiful, but who knew what kind of women he had seen in the town? They were nobles after all. She nervously pulled her cloak even tighter around herself. She was twenty-three now, and romance was something that she needed to think about seriously. Her father seemed to think the same as he was already making jokes about Boyd, and why else would he be bringing him?
Stop overthinkin’ everythin’, Rosallyn. Father is goin’ to return soon, and Boyd will come along with him. Whatever happens then, will happen; there is nay need to give yerself a headache thinkin’ of it.
Her thoughts calmed her some, and she pushed off her thoughts, focusing more on her environment. She usually enjoyed her morning walks, but being distracted by troubled thoughts had already taken away from her routine of admiring the forest on her way to find grandmother’s favorite berries for pie.
She refocused her thoughts to her surroundings: the light of the rising sun, which was just beginning to touch the tops of the tall trees around her, making their leaves a lighter green at the top than those at the bottom where she walked. The dew on a spider’s web caught her eye, and she bent to watch as the sunlight hit the delicate strings, turning them into sparkling jewels in an instant. A light dusting of snow settled on some of the branches, the first snow for the season in the more mountainous regions.
A smile spread across her face at the beautiful sight, and she was just about to straighten up and continue on her path when something caught her eye behind the spiderweb. She straightened up with a frown, squinting at the spot a few feet away from where she stood.
“What is that?” she murmured to herself. “Is that… blood?!”
Immediately concerned, she rushed forward to the spot, touching her hand to the snowy ground and finding that it was indeed blood. It was in splotches, and as she looked forward, she found that the blood left a trail, like someone had been dripping blood as they made their way through the forest. She thanked the heavens that the bears were already hibernating for the winter. Her heart pounding in her chest, she followed the trail. It was not the wisest decision to follow a trail of blood in the woods, especially since she was straying from her path, but the thought that someone could be hurt at the end of the trail propelled her forward.
Luckily for her, it did not take long to find the source of the blood. The first thing she saw was the horse, obviously distressed as it stood beside the still form on the ground at the base of a tree. It was a man! She gasped slightly. Noticing her from her slight gasp, the horse started, neighing and raising its forelegs threateningly. It did not trust her.
She approached in a crouch, dropping her basket and putting her hands up; one eye on the injured, and clearly unconscious, man, and the other on the rearing horse.
“It is alright, calm down now, I am nae goin’ to hurt ye. I just want to help,” she said softly as she approached them. The horse calmed down some as she did not show any hostility and turned to its master instead, nudging the body on the ground and turning to look at her as though asking for help.
She hurried over to the man on the ground, wincing when she saw how much blood had dried on his clothes. From the tartan of his kilt, he was a man of her clan, and he was going to need a lot of treatment. Three arrows were stuck in his back behind his shoulders, and he seemed to have injuries on one arm from a sword. She bit her lip, worried. He did not look very good. He was lying on his face as though he had fallen, and his light brown hair covered most of his face.
He could die if she did not do something. His body was still warm, but it was too warm. If he did not die from his injuries, he just might die from the cold. She brushed his hair out of his face, nearly gasping again when his chiseled jawline came into view. Even with the dirt and grime, he was easily the most handsome man she had ever seen. His lips were plump, although pale from the cold, and his lashes brushed the skin beneath his eyes, softening his otherwise rugged features. She felt butterflies begin to dance in her belly and chided herself.
Rosallyn the man is dyin’! Now is nay time to appreciate his looks!
She needed to save him, but how? She shook him lightly, wondering if she could wake him. The thought was quickly discarded as he did not wake in the slightest. She could not even turn him over. The arrows in his back, which were plugging his injuries, would shift and break, making his injuries worse.
She made a split-second decision then., taking her basket and tying it to the horse. She was going to take him home, no matter how difficult it was. She grabbed his arms, lifting him just enough for his face to hover inches from the ground, and then she began the slow and treacherous journey of dragging him back home with his horse trailing behind her.
It felt like forever, but she finally managed to bring him home. His horse neighed in concern when she left him on the ground outside the house. Would her grandmother approve of her actions? She had brought a strange man home. She opened the door slightly and peeked into the house. The food that she had made was gone from the table, so that meant that her grandma had left the house.
She would save the man first, and then she would tell her grandmother when she went to the monastery later. She worked quickly, taking a knife from the kitchen and a thick cloth from her bedroom. She took the cauldron to the tool shed and set a fire there, filling the cauldron with water and setting it to boil with a knife in the fire.
She then went back to the man on the ground outside the house, loading him unto a cart with much difficulty, especially with the arrows in his back. By the time she succeeded, the sun had reached its peak in the sky and her cauldron of water was boiling. She pushed the cart into the toolshed and led the horse to the stables.
The first thing she did was cut his clothes off his body and remove his ghillies. When he was naked save for his kilt, she wiped him down with some water mixed with whiskey, cleaning him from all the blood and dirt, despite the heat in her face at the sight of his lean-muscled frame and his hard, defined buttocks. The sight of him caused her jaw to drop slightly and her thighs instinctively pressed together, though she did not fully understand what the desire was that filled her. She had never seen the body of a man before.
She had a vague idea from seeing Boyd by accident when they were younger, but Boyd had not been this muscular. His body was ridged with the definition of his muscles. What kind of training was he doing to have such a strong body? Every inch of him she touched was solid like rock; the only difference was that he was warm. She cleaned him the best she could without turning him over, lifting him slightly to wipe his face, his chest and his belly, avoiding his crotch as though it was poison.
Ye are providin’ a healin’ service. Ye cannae be carried away with his looks as a man!
She worked quickly, ignoring her heated cheeks. Now that she had wiped him completely, she could clearly see his injuries. The only injuries he had were the three arrows protruding from his back, the slash in his arm, and his twisted ankle, which was swollen and purple. She got to work on making him warm first. She got water from the boiling cauldron and wet the cloth. She then placed the steaming cloth over his head.
The first injury she took care of was the slash in his arm. She cleaned it with pure whiskey again from the blood that had begun to flow, and seared it with the hot knife. Her father and grandmother had taught her how to do these things, but she still winced when the hot metal touched his flesh, sizzling and letting off the smell of burning meat. He moaned in pain beneath the hot cloth, but he did not wake. She quickly rubbed the seared flesh with her grandmother’s herbal balm and wrapped it up with clean cloth.
His back was trickier to handle where the arrows had gone in because the blood that had dried around them was keeping the injuries sealed. She doused his back in whiskey and wiped around each arrow carefully before she began the terrible task of yanking each arrow out. She quickly pressed a whiskey-soaked rag to the wound to suck up the blood that began spilling out, and then she seared the wound closed with the hot knife, She covered each burn with a generous amount of her grandma’s balm.
He continued to stir as she worked, but it was not until she was working on the wound made by the third arrow that he finally came to, the pain becoming too much to sleep through.
…
Maximus woke up to agonizing pain and the smell of burning flesh. His head was spinning, and he could not comprehend anything other than the fact that he was in pain. He felt hot, and something was burning. Was he in hell? Everything was dark. He struggled to make sense of things, yelling in pain and beginning to thrash about involuntarily, his body rejecting the current situation it was in.
“Calm down! Calm down! Ye are alright. Ye are alright, Mister. I am tryin’ to save ye, so please relax!” a female voice shouted, sounding panicked. He froze then, feeling cool fingers against his back where the pain was concentrated. A woman? Where did she come from? Did she say she was trying to save him?
“Hold on. Ye were runnin’ a fever, and I was tryin’ to help ye break it,” she said again, lifting a heavy cloth from his head that he had not even realized was there. “I soaked this in some boiled water and used it to keep ye warm.” He blinked in the sudden light, his eyes darting about. He was in an unfamiliar place. It looked like a tool shed. He could see the flames from a fire nearby, and there was a red-hot knife on a table beside him. There were no enemies in sight. He perked up at the instinctive thought.
Enemies? Why would I be worried about enemies?
“I am sorry for the pain; I was closing up yer wounds with the knife,” the female voice said again, distracting him from his thoughts. He wanted to raise his head and try looking at her, but he could not bring his head up, all the pain that he had been unable to feel before had now come upon him with a vengeance. His ankle was throbbing, and the pain in his back and his arm were searing. Every inch of him was hurting, and she was right. He did indeed have a fever, and he couldn’t stop shivering.
“Ye were out in the cold all night. I was worried that ye might nae make it. It is a miracle that I was strong enough to bring ye in.” He felt something cool press against his burning back and realized that she was soothing his injuries with a salve. She was indeed helping him as the pain from the burn subsided, but only just slightly. He felt stiff; his body refusing to move as if it knew that the slightest movement would result in pain.
“Are ye alright?” she asked, as he had not said a word to her yet. “All that is left now is yer ankle. It might get a little painful…”
“Thank… Thank ye,” he rasped out, realizing now that he spoke how dry his throat was. She was right. It was painful to treat his ankle. Her hands were small but firm as she massaged the injured ankle with icy water, pressing it back into place. He groaned in agony from the pain, gasping in relief when she was finally done and began to bandage it.
He was sweating, already tired when the day had only just begun. She draped a cloak over him, and only then did he notice that he was naked. It was like an exclamation in his head, the realization. What kind of woman was so calm with a naked man before her? Was he so dull that he did not affect her?
Nay, she is a healer, ye dobber. To a healer it doesnae matter if ye are man or woman. Ye are simply one in need of treatment
He answered his own questions the moment he asked them, but he still felt odd. She sounded quite young for a healer. She came to stand by his head then, bending so that she could feed him some water, and he was so surprised that he forgot to drink. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.
Everything about her had him entranced. Her curls looked as though they were aflame against the paleness of her skin, and he wanted nothing more than to hold his hand out to that flame. Her bright green eyes shone with kindness and stood out of her diamond-shaped face in such a way that they competed with her hair in terms of grabbing his attention. Her lips, as she smiled at him, were like ripe berries begging to be plucked, and it certainly did not help that when she leaned over like that, he could see the fullness of her cleavage in her bodice. He was stricken, his throat suddenly dry but from a different type of thirst.
“Dae ye nae want to drink?” she asked, holding the cup up again. Startled, he realized that he had been staring at her like an idiot. He drank quicky and almost gagged. What was in the cup was not water but a warm vegetable broth, something he would have noticed if he were not so distracted by her. She chuckled at his facial expression.
“Sorry, it does nae taste the best, but ye need it,” she said. He drank it gratefully despite the bitter taste. It was warm, and it not only soothed his throat, but made him feel better. He watched her as she tipped the cup to help him empty it. For some reason her eyes looked familiar. Had he met her before? He was sure that he had not, but he could not shake the feeling.
Satisfied that he had drank all of his medicine, she got up. He craned his neck to continue looking at her; her presence calmed him. It did not take long for her to return, however, as she only went to fill a bucket with hot water from the cauldron. She gave him a calming smile, sitting in front of him again.
“I am going to wipe through yer hair with this cloth now. Ye were on the ground in the forest, and I suspect ye might have an injury on yer head as well. The water is hot, so it might sting,” she said. He nodded; her voice made him relax. His mind was empty, and he could barely even feel the pain from his body anymore.
She was right. He did have a bump on his head, and he flinched when she touched it while she cleaned. Noticing his reaction, she focused on the spot, pressing down on it and making him grit his teeth. It was painful, but not as much as his ankle had been. It was probably after he fell from his horse that he got that injury.
When he fell from his horse? Right, that was correct; he had a horse.
“Me horse…?” he managed to say, his words posing as a question.
“Ah, yer horse is fine. I took him to the stables and gave him some food and water. He is very loyal. He stayed with ye and followed me home when I took ye. He is very well trained. We dae nae find such horses so easily. Ye must be someone important,” she said, smiling slightly.
Someone important… What?
He gasped as his memories of the day before returned to him in painful flashes, triggered from her words.
“Ye are too important to die here…”
The words came back to him, and he groaned in agony, grabbing his head. Since he woke up, he had not had reason to consider who he was, so it had not come to him. He had been distracted by the pain of his treatment, such that he could not even think of how he got those injuries.
Now it all came back to him. He was the second son of Robert Mackay, the Laird of the Mackay clan. He was a Commander in his father’s army and had been looking forward to when he would become a general to serve his older brother, Alexander Mackay, who was to be Laird after their father.
He was a happy young man who loved and was loved by his family, content with all that he had. Now everything had been taken from him. His anguish overtook him, and he wept, forcing himself into a sitting position, even as the young woman who had just treated him panicked.
“Wait, ye can nae move like that. Ye will hurt yerself! Mister! What is the matter? Please calm down!” she was saying. He could hear her, but she sounded far away as his emotions wreaked havoc inside him.
We should never have left the castle… We should never have left…
He sobbed like a child, not caring that he was in front of a woman, the bodies of his father and brother clear in his mind’s eye. He felt bile rise in his throat and lurched forward just in time to vomit everything in his belly.
“Oh, me God!” the young woman exclaimed as he threw up. She hurried to get the things to clean up after him, even as he dry-heaved, his body retching even though he had nothing else to throw up.
“It is an ambush! We have been betrayed!”
The General’s voice echoed in his mind. Betrayal. They had been betrayed by those they trusted. He wished he could go back in time, so he would never have trusted them. His chest ached with emptiness, and his mouth was bitter with the aftertaste of his vomit and the medicine that he had just drank.
He was full of loss, sadness and rage; someone needed to pay. He needed to make them pay. He forced himself to stand up, but he had greatly miscalculated his strength. Nausea hit him the moment he was upright, and for the second time, he collapsed to the ground, succumbing to the darkness of a faint.
