Page 4 of Kidnapped by a Rogue
“Where is my husband and the others…” Mary’s voice faded as her gaze took in the state Finn was in and then fixed on the bloody bag. Her low moan tore at his heart.
Though it was not his place, when no one else offered any comfort to the widow, Finn limped to her side and rested a hand on her shoulder.
“Thank you for bringing us something to bury,” she said, looking up at him with watery eyes.
She was the only Sinclair to shed a tear. George had been waiting a good twenty years for his father to die and did not bother hiding his satisfaction. With a flick of his hand, he motioned for one of his men to take the bag away, then he nodded for Finn to speak.
Though Finn was itching to be done with this task and leave, he took his time telling the tale of the battle, as was expected. He spoke at length of the courage and fighting skills of the Sinclairs who had fallen, though in truth they had suffered a thoroughly humiliating defeat.
“The witch prophesied that whoever’s blood was drawn first—Orkney or Sinclair—would lose the battle,” George said when Finn finished. “Did my father fail to heed her warning?”
Finn had hoped they would not ask him about that.
“We came across a young lad herding sheep soon after we landed,” he said. “Your father ordered him killed.”
The murder of that innocent lad was the worst part of the whole damned ordeal. Finn knew then he’d made a grave mistake. If he’d had his own boat, he would have turned around right then.
“I’ll have the witch put to death for her false prophecy,” George said.
“Her prophecy was true,” Finn said. “As it turned out, the lad belonged to one of the Sinclair families who still live on Orkney.”
“How is it that you survived?” George asked, and slapped him on his shoulder, which George could damned well see had been badly cut in the battle.
Finn clenched his teeth to keep from wincing.
“Can’t ye see the poor man is injured?” Mary chastised her son, then she turned her gaze to include her grandsons. “Unlike the rest of ye, Finlay sailed to Orkney to fight at your chieftain’s side.”
Finn felt a wee bit guilty that she credited him with loyalty to her husband when he’d only done it for the promise of lands.
“I’m chieftain now,” George said, his eyes burning bright as he looked down at his mother. “You’ll not speak that way to me again.”
“Grandfather’s attempt to take Orkney was a foolish quest that did nothing but waste the lives of Sinclair warriors and invite our enemies to attack us here at home in Caithness,” Barbara said. “We remained here to protect what is ours.”
“Come, Finlay,” Mary said, and took his arm. “Let me tend to those wounds.”
He gritted his teeth with the effort not to lean on the elderly woman and topple them both as she led him up the stairs to one of the bedchambers above. His leg and the cut across his shoulder hurt like bloody hell.
Mary sent for food and drink, which he wolfed down while she cleaned, sewed, and bandaged his wounds with an expertise born of practice. When she was done, she helped him into a clean shirt that belonged to one of her grandsons.
“Ye ought to stay in bed for a few days to let these wounds heal,” Mary said.
Remaining with the Sinclairs seemed the worst of the bad choices before him.
“I’d like to,” Finn lied, “but I ought to let my family know I’m alive before news of the battle reaches them.”
Mary did not contradict him, though they both knew there would be no weeping from his family if Finn never returned.
“The Sinclairs will expect ye to stay at least another day to avoid crossing the Ord on a Monday,” she said.
Sinclairs were even more superstitious than most Highlanders, and that was saying something. It was on a Monday that the Sinclairs had crossed the Ord of Caithness, the pass that marked the boundary between Caithness and Sutherland, on their way to fight the English in the Battle of Flodden. Because most of them died in that disastrous battle, no Sinclair had crossed the Ord on a Monday since.
“My luck could not get much worse than it already is, so I’ll risk it,” Finn said with a laugh.
“Ye misunderstand me.” Mary’s tone carried an urgency he had not picked up on before. “Though I wish ye could stay and let your wounds heal, ye must go tonight. ’Tis not safe for ye here.”
He took her at her word. Still, he asked, “Why?”
“My son is a dangerous man, and ye know how he feels about ye,” she said.
