The Devil’s Laird by Brenda Jernigan
Chapter 3
Roderick stood, feet braced apart, on the other side of the fire talking with one of his men. Siena noticed that they had been to the stream to wash off their war paint, so they didn’t look as scary as earlier.
There was something about his name that sounded familiar, but again, she couldn’t place it. She knew she’d never seen him before because no one would forget meeting a man so large and powerful … and handsome. Aye, he was very handsome.
“Agatha, do you know the name of his holding?”
“Nay, I’ve not heard him say,” she replied as she unpacked food, which she’d stored in one of the baskets. “You must be hungry, milady.” She handed Siena a piece of chicken and a chunk of cheese.
The smell of chicken reminded Siena that she hadn’t eaten since the day before. She tried not to tear into the chicken, but nibbled, remembering she was a lady, however, her swollen lip hurt when she opened her mouth, so she had to eat slow. Her arm still needed mending, but it would have to wait until she had something to eat.
“We have food if you’re hungry,” Siena called to the men who were now gathering around the campfire that Gareth had built. They seemed hesitant until Roderick accepted a chicken leg. The men followed his lead and fetched pieces of chicken and cheese. In turn, they handed the ladies a flask of whisky to wash down their meal. Siena noticed how the men’s mood seemed lighter as they ate and talked among themselves. At least, no one was frowning at the moment, and without those frowns, they didn’t look so fierce, and they were not glaring at her with hatred.
Roderick sat down near her, but he remained quiet as he ate. Siena thought he was one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, even if he did have a ferocious look about him. He had long, dark, brown hair that was overly long and framed his face perfectly. There wasn’t much about him that wasn’t perfect. He seemed a true warrior and so much larger than her brother’s men. His deeply tanned skin and broad shoulders proved that he attended to his training well. She felt very small sitting beside him, yet she was unafraid and that puzzled her. Siena wondered what he was thinking. She couldn’t tell because there wasn’t any emotion in his eyes, just a cold, hard stare. He glanced over and caught her looking at him, causing her to blush that she’d been caught in the act.
When Roderick had finished his chicken, he said, “We need to look at yer arm, lass. I had little time to examine it before we left Berwick.” Siena nodded and carefully held her arm out, wincing from the pain. Roderick pulled the dirk from his boot and carefully cut the bandage with the sharp blade, so he could easily unwrap the cloth. He turned her arm as he examined it, causing her to flinch again. Evidently the man didn’t know his own strength. “Och, this cut is deep, lass. Needs stitching.”
“Agatha, did you bring my medicine kit?” Siena croaked.
“Aye.” Agatha fumbled in the brown cloth sack until she found a small wooden box, which she handed it to Siena. “But you cannot stitch yourself, milady.”
“Nay, I cannot, but you can.”
Agatha started shaking her head. “I’m afraid that I would surely swoon after the first stitch, but I can thread the needle.” However, after searching through the box she said, “We have no thread.”
Siena looked up at Roderick. “Can you sew?”
“Probably not as well as you,” he admitted then turned to one of his men. “Fergus, do ye huv yer thread and needle?”
Fergus had red hair; a bushy red beard and merry, blue eyes, though he still appeared a fierce warrior … only more inviting than the rest. She questioned that he would be doing the sewing with such big hands. Yet, she knew something had to be done.
“Aye, sire.”
“Fetch it.”
“But—” Agatha stopped abruptly when Roderick stared at her.
“If we dinna tend the wound, it will become infected and fester,” Roderick said, cutting Agatha off. “You said ye couldna stitch the wound, but someone has to.” He handed Siena a whisky flask. “Drink some of this, lass. It will help with the pain.”
“Nay. You’ll need that, as well.” She nodded toward the flask. “We must pour it over the wound. The dried blood will have to be cleaned off before you can sew up my arm.”
“Ye’ve done this in the past?”
“I’m not usually the patient.” Siena smiled. “I’m the one doing the sewing.” She found she liked Roderick’s Scottish burr. Sometimes it was thicker than other times, but it was different from her proper English. “I’ll try not to scream,” she paused then blurted out, “Second thought, you had better give me some whisky.”
Both men chuckled.
Roderick positioned himself so that he was leaning against a tree. He spread his legs, then motioned for her to come to him. “Sit and lean against me. I’ll support yer arm while Fergus does the sewing. Ye need not be scairt. He is the best I have with a needle and has stitched me more times than I care to remember.”
Once Siena had settled herself against him, Roderick found an overwhelming need to protect her. Something he’d not felt in a long, long time. He believed there was something special about Siena. She seemed so small, and her bruises told him she hadn’t had a pleasant life.
He also noticed the one eye he could see clearly was a silvery blue, much like a cold winter’s lake. He wondered what she would look like once the swelling and bruises went away. She felt comfortable in his arms, he admitted, and her head fit just under his chin.
He watched Fergus thread the needle with horsehair. To Siena’s credit, she didn’t flinch, showing she had gumption. He liked that.
“This will sting a wee bit, lass,” Fergus warned.
“I know,” Siena whispered with an attempt at a smile. However, her face hurt from the bruises, so she wasn’t certain she’d managed one. “I have been through much this day. I believe I can take a little more pain.”
“I could knock ye out, lass,” Fergus said with a laugh.
“I think not, Fergus. Remember I killed the last man who hit me.”
“Feisty, wee lass,” Fergus chuckled. He poured more whisky over her cut, and Roderick felt her back tense, but she didn’t jerk away or cry out in pain. She held her head high and bravely submitted to Fergus’s ministrations. Roderick was proud of her courage. There was more to the lass than he’d thought. He sensed in her a real fighter.
He held her arm still as Fergus took the first stitch. She drew in a breath and looked away, squeezing Roderick’s free hand for support. He was surprised that she turned to him for comfort as if there were already trust between them.
“Oh, my lord,” Agatha gasped before she fainted and toppled over sideways on the blankets.
“S--she has a faint-heart, I’m afraid,” Siena managed to say through clenched teeth.
Roderick smiled. “You, lass, are the brave one.” He didn’t mention she had a tight grip on his arm, so he knew she experienced a great deal of pain. He decided to take her mind off the mending of her arm. “Is Agatha related to ye?”
“Nay. My father is alive, but I’ve not seen him for the last two years.” She shrugged. “I guess you can say that I don’t really have a family who cares for me. Agatha was my nurse,” Siena paused, winced, then continued, “Agatha raised me. Even if she isn’t related to me by blood, I think of her as my family. She is a good woman.”
“I’ve finished, lass,” Fergus said with a broad grin. “Ye held up like a true warrior. Ye can open yer eyes now.”
Slowly, Siena turned her head and Roderick smelled the fragrance of flowers wafting from her black hair. She felt right in his arms. He hated to admit it, because it had been a long time since he’d held a woman like this, and something stirred within him. He was momentarily speechless in his surprise.
Then Roderick thought of his dead wife, and the anger he tried so hard to control surged through him like a coiled snake that had been provoked. Fighting his rage, he thought back to that fateful day when he had returned to his holding to find his wife had been raped and murdered and his son missing. Something within him had broken. Gone was any happiness he’d once felt. It was replaced with bitterness and guilt that he’d not been there to protect them.
Roderick shook his head to rid it of the dark images. He’d been bitter for so long that he didn’t know how to change. Now he held a woman in his arms, a woman who had killed his mortal enemy. For that, he was grateful, but he felt so strange—something he would sort out later. For now, Siena looked clearly exhausted and pitiful with one swollen eye and a dark circle under the other eye. He shoved to his feet and gently lifted Siena and carried her back to her blanket.
“I will sleep on this side, so we can share my plaid, and my warmth,” he said, pointing. “Duncan will sleep next to Agatha. You needna worry about anyone harming ye tonight.”
Siena tugged the red plaid over her and tucked it under her chin. Her strength was fading. “It is a great comfort not to worry about our safety. I’m not sure that this is proper, but truth be told, I don’t really care tonight,” she murmured, her words slurred. “You have been most kind to us, my lord.”
Roderick nodded. He probably should have said something more, but he feared what he might say. Though she showed the scars of her beating and misuse by his enemy, he still remembered she was related to the bastard who had killed his wife and compassion was not what he felt at the moment. Instead, he tossed a couple of sturdy logs on the fire so that it would burn all night. Glancing around the campfire he saw his men positioned for sleep, their swords beside them. Fergus would stand watch while they slept.
It was cold tonight. They would be lucky to return home before the first snowfall, Roderick thought as he took his place beside Siena. At least the women were both asleep. Lady Siena needed rest in order to heal. He believed she was too pale, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it tonight.
He folded a blanket and placed it under his head. His body was weary, and he thought sleep would be easy, but it didn’t come. Instead, his thoughts transported him back to that terrible day more than a year ago.
* * *
He could still taste the stench of burning wood and see the women’s bodies in his mind’s eye. He had to step over them, searching . . . searching until he found Gillian, her face so swollen he’d barely knew her.
He had blamed himself for not leaving enough men to properly protect his holding that day. Frantically, he had searched for his son. When he couldn’t find him, he had found a banner from Fidach, and knew who was responsible. Roderick’s men had lost loved ones, as well, and the mood was grim as they began to bury their dead. As dusk fell, Roderick had vowed they would rebuild the holding as it was before. This time they would paint the walls black so all who saw would remember this terrible day.
His boy, four-year-old Michael had never been found. Roderick had hoped to question Fidach as to what happened to his son before killing the man, but now that opportunity was lost. Somehow, he couldn’t bury the past completely. He couldn’t see a small child surviving alone, but he still held hope that one day he would find his son alive.
* * *
Roderick shuthis eyes and pushed the past where it belonged. Then he said a small prayer that his son might be somewhere safe. He glanced at the small woman lying beside him. He had yet to touch her, wondering if there wasn’t any part of her that didn’t hurt. Her cheek and neck were turning blue, making her a pitiful sight indeed from her beating. She was a Sassenach and his people wouldn’t like that fact. What was he to do with her? He didn’t know the answer, but he was certain she could make herself useful, and have a better life than she had before.
He gathered that Siena was a healer. Elen, the healer at home, was growing old and in need of help so it could be the perfect place for Lady Siena.
Roderick realized he’d lived for revenge for so long, too long. He sighed. Now it was done, and the man responsible for the attack was dead, he should feel relieved. The relief he expected wasn’t forthcoming. He still felt empty inside, and he wondered how it would be to feel something other than anger again.
He rolled over and welcomed the warmth of the small body beside him. For the first time, in what seemed like forever, he was comfortable enough to sleep. Siena rolled toward him and he wondered if she sought the comfort that another warm body could give her tonight. He draped his arm across her and pulled her next to his side.
Somehow in the midst of all the confusion this felt right, and he felt protective. No one would ever hurt the lass again.