The Devil in Plaid(42)

Chapter Twenty Five


Fiona left the pantry, heading back into the kitchen. “Mary, I noticed the stores of willow bark and sage are running low. Otherwise, the herb cupboard is well in hand.” Fiona smiled at the cook. “Not that I am surprised. Ye keep a well-stocked pantry, to be sure.”

Mary blushed at her praise. Dusting off her hands, she passed Fiona a wooden spoon. “Taste the pottage I’ve made for the warriors’ dinner.”

Fiona crossed to the pitfire over which hung a large, steaming pot. She deeply inhaled the coiling scents of rich meats and thyme before dipping her spoon into the stew. “Delicious,” she affirmed to the cook.

Mary nodded. “Good. Those men have been training night and day. I only pray their skills are not needed.”

Fiona made the sign of the cross and whispered a similar prayer before she reached over and patted Mary’s hand. “God is on our side. Remember that in yer heart.”

Tears flooded the cook’s eyes. “If only I can count on his forgiveness.”

Fiona shook her head. “But whatever for?”

Mary swiped at the wetness that had escaped the confines of her lids. “When I learned our laird had chosen ye as his bride, I had wicked thoughts. I didn’t want ye here. I prayed ye wouldn’t come.”

“Hush now, Mary. Don’t fret,” Fiona soothed, pulling the cook into her arms. “Trust me when I say my prayers were the very same.”

Mary smiled, laughing through her tears. “I suppose we’ve surprised each other.”

“We certainly have,” Fiona said warmly.

Mary cleared her throat and stepped back, patting her face dry with the bottom of her apron. “Now, then, where were we? Oh, I’ve planned a special feast for the evening meal in honor of our laird’s return.”

Fiona’s heart leapt with excitement. “He did say we might expect him today. I only pray he’s not been delayed.”

“My lady!”

Fiona and Mary both turned.

Matthew stood in the doorway, his breaths coming in great heaves. “There was an attack on a group of cottars settled an hour’s ride west of here. Warriors already race to their aid. I’m leaving now to join them.”

Fiona nodded, wiping her hands off on her apron. “I’m coming with ye.”

“Nay,” he blurted. “What I meant to say, my lady, is…well…Nay! ‘Tis too dangerous.”

Fiona walked past him. “I will not yield. Do not waste yer breath.”

She rushed to the herb cupboard and seized a basket off the shelf, which she filled with dried Hart’s Tongue, meadowsweet, goldenrod, butter, and strips of clean linen. “Ye’ll need a healer, which I am.”

Matthew shook his head but did not try to stop her. “I do not ken what Jamie will say, but let us hurry!”



Fiona bent low in the saddle, urging her mare to keep up with Matthew’s powerful black stallion. Together, they thundered up a steep hill. When they reached the top, Fiona’s heart sank. Tears stung her eyes. Billowing black smoke writhed above huts being devoured by roaring flames. Mid-summer crops were crumbling to ash. Warriors moved among the rubble and charred earth, searching for survivors.

Choking back sobs, she charged down the hill. When she neared the destruction, she slid off her horse and darted toward the nearest warrior. He looked up at her approach. Bushy brown hair framed his ashen skin. His face was pinched with anguish.

“Please tell me they’re not all dead,” she cried.

He held out empty soot-streaked hands. “We’ve found no one.” He pointed to a nearby hut, consumed by fire. “’Tis my home.” His lips trembled. “I do not ken if my wife and daughter escaped.” Then his eyes shot wide. His nostrils flared. Without another word, he turned and seized Fiona’s mare, swinging up in the saddle. Then he sped off toward the woods.

Her mind raced, and her heart drummed in her chest as she scoured the grounds, searching for any sign of life…or death.

“Matthew,” she screamed, racing toward a fallen woman whose legs protruded from behind a tree. When she reached the body, Fiona dropped to her knees. “Please, God,” she rasped and swept aside the woman’s tangled flaxen hair to press her cheek to her chest.

“She breathes,” she announced to Matthew when he arrived with her basket of supplies in hand. Fiona snatched up a linen strip and blotted the dark red trickle seeping from a gash on the woman’s temple. Then she noticed a ragged tear in the upper arm of her tunic. Folding the thin wool back, Fiona gasped when she saw blood oozing from a deep slice in her arm.

Matthew bent down several feet away and yanked an arrow from the ground. “It just missed its mark.” Then he motioned to a rock near the tree. “I’d wager she fell when the arrow grazed her and hit her head.”

“Then, she’s been rendered unconscious,” Fiona said absently as she took hold of the woman’s hand. Thick lashes fluttered against the woman’s pale cheeks. Fiona guessed they were near the same age. “What is her name?”

“Holly,” he said. “She is Balloch’s sister.”

In answer to her questioning look, Matthew told her, “Balloch is the warrior ye spoke to when we first arrived.”