Branded By a Warrior Page 3

  As the brothers joined the waiting army, Broderick signaled for the men to proceed home with all due haste. The massive army moved like lightning at their laird’s command. They had the last leg of their journey to complete, with the weather growing increasingly worse, he wanted to get his warriors and Elisabeth home as quickly as possible in these conditions. Within hours they’d be safe behind the castle walls, before warm fires and back in their beds. He prayed his healer was up to the task of bringing this woman back from the brink of death; it would be a miracle if the bonny lass survived. He had seen men twice her size die from far less. Riding hard for his castle, he found himself continually checking to make sure she was breathing. The wee lass was so still, there had been several times he thought she might have died in his arms.

  His dogs Conn and Isla kept pace with his horse as usual, always at his side the wolfhounds flanked him as they rode through the night. The entire kilted battalion moved through the snow-covered forest with speed as heavy snow closed in upon them.

  As the storm caught them Broderick could feel the wetness upon his chest, looking down in his arms he gently pulled her away from his chest and saw she was still bleeding profusely. She had bled through her clothing and now, all over his. His chest was now covered in her bright red blood. Gently pulling back her tartan and tunic to reveal her shoulder, he saw a sword wound from the top of her shoulder down to her chest, deep and red. A vicious wound that would fall even a warrior his size.

  “Shite!” No wonder the woman was so pale! She had almost bled out. Spurring his horse, Broderick galloped past the battalion to the front.

  Alerted by his actions, his men quicken their pace as he raced towards the castle.

  He whispered a blood oath to his late friend Duncan; he swore if there were a way to save her, he’d gladly sell his soul to the Devil to keep her alive. He owed Duncan so much, not to mention the young lady in his arms who had saved him from dueling with his closest friend.

  Years had rolled by after that fateful night, the young men aged but their friendship never was repaired. They had respect for each other and kept their distances over the years. He would right his error by saving Elisabeth’s life. Broderick knew how much Duncan loved his little sister; Elisabeth had meant everything to Duncan and her parents. Somehow, he just knew Duncan had a hand in Elisabeth’s survival. It made him think of his own brother who rode beside him, he would give anything to keep Kendrix safe, even force him to escape like he suspected Duncan forced her to do.

  In his arms he held the last remaining survivor of the ancient Drummond clan, one of the most fabled women of their time, the Warrior Queen of Scotland, Elisabeth Drummond. Even on death’s doorstep she was mesmerizing, he wondered what she was like? Her tenacity and spirit had captivated him years ago, what was she like now?

  From this day forward he would protect her with his life, that, he vowed. The alliance between the Drummond and MacMillan clan went back to his father’s time. His father and Elisabeth’s father had made a pact years ago to defend their borders together. There had been peace amongst the two clans for all of Broderick’s life. He was honor bound to seek justice for the fallen clan, as the only living laird of both clans it would be up to him to protect her and Drummond lands.

  Many grueling hours later, his castle came into view. Tucked high in the Highland mountain range, his castle beckoned as they drew near. Looking up at his castle, he whispered to the fading woman in his arms, “Hold on a little longer Elisabeth, a warm fire awaits you; I will do whatever I can for you, just stay with me lass.”

  Torches surrounded the perimeter of the castle walls illuminating the stone castle in the blowing snow; a more welcoming sight could not be seen. Perched high in the mountains, Castle MacMillan was a veritable fortress. The remote location in the rugged Highland mountains made it so isolated none dared attack.

  Ahead of him Broderick watched the heavy wooden drawbridge begin to lower as his thundering mass of MacMillan warriors returned to their home. Galloping across the drawbridge first, he rode past his people, the huts, blacksmiths and stables. Broderick rode directly up to the keep so he could get her inside as quickly as possible.

  He had tried many times to get the lass to wake up; he talked to her, pleaded with her to no avail. The small woman in his arms did not move, speak or wake the entire ride.

  Sliding off his saddle he took the stairs two at a time, not even giving a backwards glace to his hundreds of warriors. They knew their duties, and he needed to get her by a fire and call the healer.

  Behind him he heard Kendrix ride up and dismount, his steady gate crunched in the snow as he walked ahead of him and pulled open the castle doors so he could carry in the injured lady.

  “How bad is she?” Kendrix asked as he pulled of his leather gloves, looking over at him.

  Taking a cleansing breath, “She’s dying Kendrix, massive wound to her shoulder, all the way to her chest. She bled all over me; she can’t have much blood left in her wee body, I’m drenched in her blood. She’s freezing; I’ll need the healer and Old Rhona with supplies to clean this wound. I need to get her in front of a fire.” He explained as he crossed the keep and walked over to the tower that held the family rooms. Climbing the stairs two at a time Kendrix held the torch to light the way.

  “Jesu, do ye think she’ll make it Brother?” Kendrix questioned as he watched Broderick stop in front of his own room.

  “I will not let her die. Now, open my door Brother.” Nodding to his door.

  “Yer room Broderick? Ye never let any woman in ye room, ye know what that’ll imply?” Kendrix questioned carefully as he opened the thick wooden door.

  “Aye, she’s under my protection from this day forth. I refuse to let her die, now please, help me or get your bloody arse out of my way!” He barked as he stepped into his room. Walking directly over to the warm fire, Kendrix following behind him quietly.

  Laying the young lass down softly on the floor before the fire, he covered her tightly with a fresh plaid that was on his chair and turned to stoke the fire. Beside him he felt his wolfhounds walk in and circle Elisabeth before nestling up beside her.

  The brothers watched the notorious loyal dogs huddle against the frozen lass without being ordered. The wolfhounds were one of Broderick’s most valuable weapons, loyal and expertly trained; they could rip a man’s throat out or give a ride to a wee bairn if ordered by their master. Usually always at his side waiting for his next order, he had never seen them choose another human over him. It was as if they were protecting her too. It appeared they had chosen the injured woman to protect, whether he told them to or not.

  Broderick looked up to see his younger brother staring at the wolfhounds and Elisabeth’s pale face.

  “Curious.” Kendrix whispered in the darkened room.

  “Aye.”

  Kendrix’s looked up from Elisabeth, “I’ll go find Old Rhona and that crazy healer woman. I’ll send fresh supplies with them as well. Keep me updated if you need anything else, I’ll check back in the morning.”

  “Thank you Kendrix.” Nodding he watched him walk out of the room. Broderick swung his gaze back to the pale Warrior Queen.

  Since he’d found her, she never lifted an eyelid, or made a sound. She was breathing but yet, dead to the world around her. He knew her wound was the direct cause, it was a horrid slash that started high on her left shoulder, where it ended he had yet to find out. It was a miracle she lived this long.

  Looking down at his feet, he saw his fierce wolfhounds surround her with their protection as she lay before his fireplace. Their shaggy coats nestled in on each side of her, wrapped in his tartan plaid; he looked at her angelic face. Standing above her he couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not, panicking, he knelt down and quickly picked up her right hand and removed his glove off her small hand, feeling for a pulse. Her hand was still ice cold, but he could feel her faint pulse.

  Sighing with relief he felt his male dog nudge his leg. Looking ove
r at his faithful companion, “I won’t hurt her Conn, rest easy old boy.” Running his hand over the dog’s head, chuckling at his dog protectiveness.

  Holding her small cold hand, he felt her palm was calloused, much like his. A knowing sign of a swordsman, turning her hand over he ran his thumb across the calluses on her right hand. He had never met a lady who had the hands of a worker; Elisabeth’s hands had beautiful ivory skin on top and the hands of a laborer on bottom. Looking at her face he saw her lips were still tinted blue and she was shivering. His hounds were snuggled tight to her side as the fire began to roar beside them. The fire helped illuminate the room, and her striking face. Reaching over, he moved a stray curl out of her face as he watched her breathe.

  Kneeling next to her, he willed her to live, holding her cold hand he renewed his vow to Duncan once again. Something inside him felt connected with her, he couldn’t explain it but he could feel it. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Since the moment he held her against his chest it was as if they were linked. Broderick thought it very odd, and strangely disconcerting. After being jaded, he had kept women at an arm’s length, feeling the connection to Elisabeth was an unwelcome surprise.

  Hearing something in the hallway, both Conn and Isla lifted their heads and stared at the large wooden door. Smiling at his dogs, he ruffled the hair on their heads and stood up. Walking over to his door he pulled it wide and heard the mumblings of one of the most beloved members of his castle.

  Seeing her white hair appear out of the shadows he held open the chamber door and directed her in, “She’s injured badly Rhona, we must do whatever we can for her, anything you need from me, just ask.” He explained as he closed the door after her, following her over to Elisabeth’s side.

  Old Rhona was a trusted member of his castle servants; she had been his mother’s personal maid and eventually the boys’ nursemaid; she was one of the only women he trusted. The elder came up to his chest; she was full of spirit and wit. Plump and bossy, she kept the MacMillan boys in line after their parents were killed. A full head of sparkling white hair, Rhona saw after much of the castle daily happenings.

  Broderick watched as Rhona waddled across his room, her white hair plaited in a long rope down her back. He watched her sit down the bucket of hot water and walk directly over to Elisabeth’s side, her eyes on the fallen lass only.

  “Oh Broderick, what a bonny lass! How bad is her injury? Kendrix didn’t elaborate, he’s searching for your blasted healer, and we have no idea where that old crow has run off to now.” Rhona quickly whispered as she knelt beside Elisabeth brushing another red curl off the sleeping lass’ face.

  “She’s lost so much blood Rhona, it’ll be a miracle if she lives.” He admitted, even though he made an oath, he gazed upon her face wondering if she was strong enough to pull through this injury. The amount of blood she had lost was worrisome, even a man his size could easily die from the same injury. He absentmindedly rolled his signet ring between his fingers as he stood there and watched.

  “She’ll live Broderick, I can tell, she is special. There is a touch of destiny with this lass, treat her well,” she offered cryptically never taking her eyes off the woman lying on his floor, “Now, shall we see how bad the damage is? She could have additional injuries upon her body. We’ll have to strip her and get her out of that soaked tunic, I’ll need your help. Grab some fresh linens and cloth from your wardrobe, I’ll need a fresh tartan to cover her until the healer arrives.”

  Confused by her words he did as he was bid, he trusted and respected Rhona, anything she needed-she would have it. Nodding, he crossed his room in search of the items the wise elder requested. Unchaining his sable fur from his shoulders he threw it over the chair. The snow had melted and left him wet and cold from his journey, pushing aside his desire to change, he focused on seeing to the young woman he brought home first. Sighing loudly, he was glad to be home, his room was a warm welcome from the blizzard brewing outside. Running his hands through his long hair he shook off the wetness as he opened his wardrobe wide. Pulling out fresh linens and an extra tartan plaid, he grabbed the collection and walked back over to help Rhona.

  He knew he had a long night ahead of him, closing a wound that size would take hours let alone cleaning it and changing the lass. Closing his eyes he was thankful she wasn’t awake for this, it would be agonizing even for a grown man. Ignoring his hunger pains, he mentally prepared for a grueling night.

  Joining Rhona back by the fire he saw she had already begun to cut the young lass out of her bloodied tunic and plaid. Efficiently cutting away the soiled clothing, Rhona peeled off layers of clothing and tossed them into a pile.

  “Ye sure ye want to be here for this Broderick? The lass won’t be happy when she heals and finds that you saw her naked as a babe.” Quickly looking up she questioned her him one last time.

  Dropping the pile beside his dogs and Elisabeth, he knelt down beside Old Rhona and nodded, “Aye, I owe her my life. I’ve made an oath; she’s under my protection. I’ll deal with the lass when that time comes, if she makes it.”

  Rhona didn’t question her him any further; above all else his word was the final say. She knew the lass before her would change her laird’s world; she wasn’t lying when she mentioned the lass had a touch of destiny about her. What she failed to tell Broderick is the lass and his destinies were intertwined. Old and wise enough to keep that to herself, she gave Broderick orders while she pulled the last of the injured lass’s clothes off, revealing a gnarly wound that stretched from her upper left shoulder down across her chest underneath her opposite breast. Sucking in her breath as she inspected the wound. It was far worse than she imagined, sending up a silent prayer for the young woman before her, she knew her recovery would be long and painful.

  When Broderick saw the wound his heart sank, it would indeed be a miracle if the lass pulled through, the wound was as long as his arm, deep and severe. Sitting back on his heels he watched in a daze as Rhona worked. How had Elisabeth survived thus far? Her soft lips were purple and her skin looked slightly blue; she had nearly frozen to death and surely lost the majority of her lifeblood. The wound across her chest looked as if she was almost cleaved in two. His dogs were not happy about being forced to move while they worked on the young woman. Conn and Isla hadn’t moved far, only allowing enough room for their master and Rhona to work; they kept watch of the unconscious lady with watchful eyes. He was still amazed at the loyalty his dogs showed the stranger.

  After stripping the young woman of her clothing, Rhona cleaned the lass’s body with the steaming water before the healer arrived. Working methodically, she took great care when cleaning the injured lass. It took them a very long time to clean the wound and check the lass for any additional injuries. Finding only her shoulder injury, they made her as comfortable as they could as they covering her with warm wool blankets, and several of Broderick’s tartans.

  While waiting for the healer, Rhona had already disappeared out the door with the bloody clothing and Elisabeth’s tartan. He made Rhona swear to see the tartan cleaned and returned; it was not to be burnt. He knew the proud Drummond woman would want her plaid; it was all she had left of her family and clan. A warrior’s plaid was one of their most priceless objects, and he would see hers cleaned and returned to her.

  Cleaned and covered with his tartan plaid, he watched her sleep and wondered what color her eyes were, he couldn’t remember. Although he tried not to stare at her naked body earlier, he had little choice when he helped Rhona clean off the blood. Her body was lithe and petite; she was well shaped with ample breasts. She had beautiful muscle definition for a woman; she was obviously strong, even with her petite frame. Seeing several old scars on her body, he assumed the stories were true; she was indeed the Drummond Warrior Queen fabled amongst the Highlands. He pondered how old she was, years ago she was still so very young when she broke up the fight, now she had to be in her twenties, she had the body of a goddess.

  S
itting with his chair pulled close to Elisabeth, he ran his hand over Conn’s head as they watched the sleeping lass together. Isla was snuggled beside her and the fire. Reflecting back on what his brother had said earlier, it was unusual to have a woman in his room; exceptionally rare in fact, his brother was right. He couldn’t explain why he felt so compelled to bring her to his room. He felt a tremendous amount of responsibility for her, his protectiveness was in full force. In his heart, he knew he had to have her close; he had to watch over her at all times. The only thing that had made sense to him at the time was to install her in his room, consequences be damned.

  Watching the fire crackle he pondered over her skills as a trained warrior, were the grandiose stories really true? She had the scars of a warrior upon her ivory body, yet she was so small and womanly. It was hard for him to imagine her on the battlefield, let alone wielding a broadsword. He could easily envision her at King Richard’s court, not in the wilds of Scotland cutting down grown men alongside her father and brother. He did however agree that the tales of her beauty were not exaggerated, even near death she looked like a fallen angel. He could only imagine her in her full glory; she had to be truly stunning.

  He thought back years of when he first laid eyes on the lass; she had broken up the fight between Duncan and himself. Their fight caused by a woman. Even in the midst of starting a war, he remembered her beautiful face and the way she threaten him with her broadsword as if she was a queen. He was a young and arrogant, he was used to young maidens blushing in his presence, he was certainly not expecting a wee thing like her to brandish her lethal weapon at him. He remembered not taking her seriously, but now, thinking about the woman she turned out to be, he wondered, how close to losing his life by her hand did he come that day? She had handled her blade with excellent skill that day, yet he never saw her as a threat. Just reminiscing about that day made shame flood his senses, it never failed.