Bethia Read online

  Everything he’d endured with his wife had turned him away from the thought of taking another woman into his bed. The pain had changed him in too many ways. But there was no denying Bethia stirred something in him.

  Mayhap he simply missed being around other people. Missed touching them. He would be pleased just to hold Bethia close, take in her sweet scent, and run his hands down her soft skin. Mayhap that would be enough.

  He finished his ale and took out his bow and arrow, whistling for his other two deerhounds, Murdo and Wika, to follow him. They’d hunt some small game for dinner. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when the sound of horses’ hooves caught him. He had his bow ready to shoot before he realized it was Torrian and his uncle Logan followed by ten guards. The laird never rode outside the castle alone.

  Logan spoke first, as soon as he was close enough. “Donnan, may we have a word?”

  Nodding in response, he returned his bow back to its holder, a case he’d built outside his cottage. Logan and Torrian dismounted, and they gave instructions for the guards to patrol the area.

  Torrian asked, “How’s Wynda?”

  “She’s still sleeping. I’ll take good care of her. My thanks for bringing Bethia to tend to her. She’s quite skilled with animals.” He pointed to the boulders and the three of them walked over and sat down. “How can I repay you?”

  “We have questions,” Torrian said. “I didn’t wish to ask them in front of my sister or my stepmother.”

  Logan said, “Tell me about the intruder.”

  “As I said, he was a stranger to me. Large man with brown hair. No plaid, just breeches and a tunic. He seemed somewhat familiar, but it has been a while since I trained in the lists.”

  “Do you recall someone named Bearchun?” Torrian pressed.

  He thought for a moment, stroking his beard. “Nay.”

  “Do you remember Shaw?” the laird asked. “He had a cousin who joined the guards for a short time. Mayhap a year and a half ago.”

  Logan said, “Think hard, Donnan. You may not have been in the lists, but you’ve come to the castle for an ale, to visit with the blacksmith. The cousins were inseparable.”

  “I recall Shaw.” He thought again, stroking his beard. “Aye,” he finally said, the memory surfacing. “I do recall seeing someone with Shaw on one visit. I remember because he was so foul. He insulted everyone he came across, talked badly of many.”

  “That would be Bearchun. Miserable son of a bitch,” Logan said. “Do you think it could have been him you saw today?”

  His face lit up. “Mayhap, but the one I saw today had a wound on his face. Cut around his eye. It was still scabbed over, looked quite nasty.”

  Torrian peered at Logan. “You think Bearchun could have sustained an injury on Buchan land?”

  Logan snorted. “With his mouth? That bastard could have sustained an injury anywhere, but aye, ‘twas probably done at Buchan land. He must have fought and run.”

  Donnan shrugged his shoulders. “‘Tis all I can tell you. Except that the dogs were snarling before I noticed him. ‘Tis unusual for them to turn so quickly. They must have sensed his foul nature.”

  “If you see him again, let us know right away?”

  “Of course. Torrian, may I ask a question? ‘Tis personal.”

  “Go ahead. You may ask in front of my uncle.”

  He fidgeted, wondering if it was the right time to ask such a thing, but he found himself speaking nonetheless. “Is your sister married or promised to anyone?”

  Torrian quirked his brow but gave a simple answer. “Nay. Are you interested, Donnan?”

  “I’ll be honest with you. I said I’d never marry again, but your sister...” He trailed off, not sure of how much he wished to admit. The lass had moved him, certainly, but was it because of her compassion and her ability to heal animals or was it something more? Perhaps it would be best for him to keep his thoughts to himself until they became clearer. “I was just curious.”

  “If you are interested, we could use your help with Bearchun.”

  He scowled. “What does Bearchun have to do with Bethia?”

  Logan said, “Bearchun seeks vengeance on our clan. We’ve been patrolling for him, but not seriously. Now that he’s been spotted on our land, we’ll step up our patrols and search groups. He has taken two of my daughters captive before, Donnan, and one of Quade’s. I’ll not allow that bastard to get near my daughters or my nieces again. Bethia could be next. She’s sweet and docile, not a fighter like Molly or Maggie. I’m asking you to help us protect her.”

  A fury built inside Donnan that he struggled to hide. Though he wasn’t yet certain what his feelings toward Bethia meant, the lass had saved his dog, and the sweetness in her had given him something he’d lost long ago. Hope.

  He’d die protecting her.

  “Aye, I’ll help.”

  ***

  When Bethia finished her tub bath, she plaited her long locks in front of the hearth, lost in thought. To her surprise, her mind had wandered to the man who lived in the woods.

  Donnan was different, very different. Some of those differences were obvious—he lived alone with his animals, his hair and beard were unclipped, and his mind worked differently than most—but there was something else about him, something that made him stand apart from the other lads in her clan. It was dancing at the edge of her mind…

  Her hands fell to her lap as soon as she finished plaiting her hair. Suddenly the thought made itself clear to her.

  The thing that felt so different about Donnan was that he noticed her. He was a caring, gentle man, and he noticed her.

  Unfortunately, when she stood in the middle of the Ramsay great hall among her beautiful sisters and cousins, Bethia often blended in with her surroundings. She could walk the entire hall during a celebration, and no one would look at her twice. Her hair was a plain brown, the same as her eyes, and she was wider in the hip than most, something she hated.

  She didn’t have the arresting beauty of Maggie and Lily, the glossy hair and curves of Sorcha, or the skills and bravery of Molly. She was just plain Bethia. Lads never looked at her—until today.

  Donnan was hardly a lad, but a man of at least twenty and six or twenty and seven summers. He had noticed her, stared at her, and actually gazed into her eyes with an expression of…appreciation that had never been directed toward her before.

  She’d seen the way her sire looked at her mother, the way Uncle Logan admired Aunt Gwyneth, and even the scorching glances Cailean directed at Sorcha.

  But no one had ever looked at her like that.

  She’d almost felt special.

  It was such an unusual experience that she decided to go speak with her mother about it. She left her chamber and padded down the stairs to her mother’s healing chamber, knowing that was where she’d likely be this late in the day. When she opened the door, the woman she looked up to more than any other stood to greet her. She’d been scrubbing her table down again.

  “Did you have someone with a large wound, Mama? Lots of blood?”

  Her mother smiled at her, setting down the cloth she’d been using to scrub. “Nay, you know I like to clean at the end of the day. Just because. I see you were able to remove all signs of the trial you withstood today. How was your bath?”

  “Wonderful. You know I could simmer in it until the last of the warm water goes cold. My hair needed washing, and there was more blood on my clothing than I’d realized. I had to wash up before I climbed in.”

  As she spoke, she found herself staring at her mother. Brenna Grant Ramsay, sister to the renowned Alex Grant, was one of the great healers in the Highlands. Bethia had always idolized her, but now she found herself assessing her mother in a different way: as a woman.

  Her mother shared her coloring—brown hair, brown eyes—yet no one would ever call her plain.

  Could Bethia be considered pretty, too?

  “What’s bothering you, daughter?”

  She shrugged
her shoulders.

  “Tell Mama,” Brenna pressed. “I can see something bouncing back and forth in that intelligent mind of yours.” She washed her cloth out in the soapy bucket of water at her feet before running it across the table one more time.

  She chewed on the inside of her cheek before she said, “Do you think I’ll ever marry? Will anyone ever want me?”

  Her mother dropped the cloth and rushed over to her, cupping her face. “Of course someone will want you. How could you say such a thing?”

  She did her best to control the tears that begged to flood her cheeks. “You know I’m not like the others. Sorcha, Maggie, Kyla, Gracie…they are all so beautiful, and I’m plain. I’m twenty, way beyond marrying age, and my weight…”

  “Molly and Ashlyn were much older than you when they married. I know ‘tis oft customary for a lass to marry at ten and six, but not in my family. And you know how I feel about that other word you used.”

  “Weight?”

  “Aye. Weight has naught to do with your value. Have I not taught you that?”

  Her mother had tried to convince her that her figure was fine, but after seeing the way lads looked at the shapelier lasses… “Aye, I remember, Mama.”

  “You’ll find someone.”

  “But how will I know?”

  Her mother sat in a chair and patted the empty chair beside it. “I can’t answer that. But you’ll be drawn to one person over any other. The more you get to know him, the more you will be drawn to him, but it may not start out that way. At the beginning, you may be more confused than aught else. But Bethia? ‘Tis almost magical when it happens.”

  “Papa said he loved you from the start.”

  “Papa was delirious with fever when we met. Why all the questions? Would you like us to invite suitors to a party for you? I’ll talk to your papa if you do.”

  “Do you think anyone would come?” No matter how she tried, she couldn’t stop fidgeting with her hands in her lap, playing with threads that weren’t really there.

  “Of course. Bethia, you are more beautiful than you think—your heart beams out from the inside. Anyone who takes the time to get to know you will fall in love with all you represent: compassion, strength, and intelligence. Some men do fear women with a talented mind, but the man who’s right for you will not.”

  “I hope you’re right. I would like to have a family of my own, have my own bairns like Torrian and Heather, and Lily and Kyle. Lachlan and the twins are so cute.”

  Her mother leaned over to give her a hug. “I’ll talk to Papa. See what he thinks. Mayhap he has someone in mind.”

  “You’ll not choose for me, Mama, will you?”

  The appalled expression that crossed her mother’s face soothed her nerves. “Nay. Never. ‘Tis your choice. I made my brothers promise that all the Grant woman could choose their own husbands. I would accept nothing less for my own daughters and any Ramsay lass.”

  She gave her mother a small nod.

  At the same time, she hoped she hadn’t just made the worst decision of her life. It horrified her to think they’d hold an event in her honor, and no one would show up.

  Chapter Three

  The next morn, Bethia was in the stables, attaching her satchel to her horse’s saddle for her follow-up visit to Donnan, when her sire arrived. Her father was the mighty Quade Ramsay, laird of Clan Ramsay until the weakness and pain in his knees had forced him to pass the lairdship on to her brother. Torrian and Lily were his children from his first marriage to Lilias, who had died shortly after giving birth to Lily.

  Bethia had many wonderful memories of her sire’s days as laird, but she also loved the stories about how her parents had met. Her brother and sister had been so sickly as bairns they’d nearly died from their affliction. Her sire had taken care of them as best he could, and summoned healers from all around the land to help them. Nothing had worked, but then Uncle Logan, her sire’s brother, had kidnapped her mother to help the children.

  After learning about the children’s condition, Brenna had stayed on Ramsay land willingly, and to everyone’s surprise, she and Quade had fallen in love. She’d also discovered the cause of the bairns’ illness, although it had taken her a while. And that was how they’d become a family.

  The stories reminded her that her mother and father both had soft hearts. So did Uncle Logan, even though he masked it with gruffness. Bethia knew better.

  “Are you going to visit Donnan?” her sire asked.

  With his brown hair and the Ramsay green eyes, he was still as handsome as he’d been in his youth. If both of her parents were beautiful, then why wasn’t she…? Maybe she was at least somewhat pretty. She couldn’t argue the attractiveness of her parents.

  “Aye. I wish to make sure the pup hasn’t removed her stitches.”

  “Pup? According to your mother, she’s much bigger than a pup.”

  “In size she’s not a pup, but she still acts like one. Torrian has other business to attend to, though he’s ordered the guards to travel with me. Apparently, he’s sending more patrols out to look for Bearchun. Would you care to tell me more about that, Papa?”

  “Nay, we’re just being cautious. We have not discovered aught, so there’s naught to discuss. I’d rather talk about you.”

  “You are not using your cane much. Has Aunt Jennie’s concoction truly helped?” She patted her horse, giving the mare a touch of love, something she often did before a ride.

  “Aye.” He bent his knee back and forth as if testing it. “The ointment has made it easier for me to move, so I’ve been walking more. Still, I try not to strain it with too much use.”

  “If you’re feeling better, would you like to ride with me?”

  Her sire’s smile lit up his face. “Actually, I would. I can think of little better than taking a morning ride with my beautiful daughter.” He helped Bethia onto her horse before he mounted his own. She watched her sire mount, a good indicator of how he fared. He still had pain, but it was obvious he hadn’t exaggerated his improvement for her benefit.

  Once they left the stables, she couldn’t help but ask her sire a very private question. “Papa, do you truly think I’m beautiful, or do you simply say so because I’m your daughter?”

  His shocked expression told her perhaps she should not have asked.

  “You are a true beauty in my eyes. You must be because you look exactly like your mother, and she is quite beautiful. Would you not agree?”

  She couldn’t argue his point, so she smiled and nodded.

  “Why do you agree with me so readily?” he prodded.

  “Because Mama is beautiful.”

  “Why?”

  She thought carefully before she answered. “Because she has a beautiful smile and her eyes sparkle when she laughs. Her hair is always a wee bit messy and she still looks lovely because ‘tis thick and glossy.”

  He quirked his brow at her. “Answer me honestly. Before you declared your mother beautiful, did you once consider her size? She is quite tall for a lass.”

  She shook her head and chuckled, realizing his intent. “My thanks, Papa,” she murmured.

  When they headed out through the gates, the guards Torrian had assigned to accompany her fell in behind them, and Quade motioned for three to lead the way.

  “Race me, Papa?” Her sire nodded, his eyes sparkling with pleasure, so she flicked the reins of her horse and sent her into a gallop with a giggle, glancing at her sire over her shoulder.

  He always let her win.

  How she adored him.

  Once they reached Donnan’s land, they slowed their horses. The brawny man was carrying Wynda over to the stream to drink, cradling the heavy dog as gently as a mother would a newborn babe. Bethia shook her head, wishing she could hear the words he used on his pet. His focus on Wynda was so complete that he didn’t turn around to look at them until after he’d set the dog down.

  “Greetings, my laird,” he said. Though Quade had passed the lairdship onto his son,
he would always be the Ramsay laird in many clan members’ eyes. “How does your knee fare?”

  Quade brought his horse near the cottage. He would likely stay on it rather than walk on his bad knee. Bethia slid off her horse without waiting for his assistance.

  “My apologies, I should have helped you dismount, Bethia,” Donnan said in a soft tone. He’d hefted the dog back into his arms and was walking toward them.

  “I’m used to it, Donnan. How is the dear one this morn? May I have a look at her?”

  “Aye, please.” He sat on one of the boulders surrounding the larger, central boulder, stroking the dog’s neck as Bethia approached them. Wynda seemed to remember Bethia, for her tail wagged briefly when she patted the dog’s head.

  “Has she been drinking or eating?”

  His head shot up. “Nay, she would not eat.”

  His worried expression brought a smile to Bethia’s face. He was a warm, compassionate man for sure.

  “She may not feel hungry just yet—‘tis normal after such a wound. I saw her at the stream just now. Did she drink aught?”

  “Aye, she drank quite a bit.”

  “Good. Did she sleep well?”

  “Aye.” He lifted his gaze to Bethia’s.

  A subtle heat spread through her as his gaze lingered on her. In the light of day, she could almost imagine what he would look like underneath all that hair, clean shaven and trimmed. In her mind, he almost became handsome. And while she would have expected a man living alone in the wild wouldn’t bathe regularly, he smelled wonderful. Being this close to the man unsettled her, but in a good way. He gave her that same feeling again—the feeling of being special.

  She was glad she had her back to her sire so he wouldn’t notice the flush that had crossed her features.

  Forcing herself to focus on her task, Bethia gave her head a little shake and said, “I’ll check her stitches under the bandage.”

  Fortunately, her sire began a conversation with Donnan, asking him about the structure of his cottage and all the work he’d put into his living space.