Black Richard's Heart (The MacCulloughs #1) - Suzan Tisdale Page 0,1

of his skull to his neck — or the gaping, bleeding wound on his side — he did not know. ’Twas agony either way.

It seemed an eternity passed before silence filled the air. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. A strong breeze blew in, chasing away any remnants of the clouds. Soon, the sun was shining so brightly it pained his eyes to look upon it.

This must be the end, he told himself. Death has finally come for me.

Chapter One

It hadn’t been death that had come for Black Richard. Nay, it had been their healer, Donald MacCullough. The aging, thin, and gray-haired man had been the one who pulled him from the bloody battlefield with his bare hands.

Black Richard was meant to die honorably, just as his father and brothers had. Donald took that away from him. ’Twas an act of treason as far as Black Richard was concerned. An act that could never be forgiven.

Dragged away from the field of battle, the man saw to his wounds as best he could before Black Richard was put into the back of a cart and carried to their encampment, for the keep was still smoldering. Floating in and out of awareness, jostled about like a sack of leeks, the short trip seemed to take an eternity.

For days, Black Richard begged anyone who would listen to let him to die. His younger brothers refused to allow it. The healer refused to listen. “Ye’ll nae be dyin’ on my watch, laird. Ye’ll not be leavin’ me to raise yer heathen brothers.”

His brothers — half-brothers — Raibeart and Colyne, were more than two decades younger than he. Their mother had died during the original attack from the Chisolm’s five years ago. Left alone, raised by a father and brothers intent on revenge, they had not had the best upbringing. Aye, they were heathens and quite often in trouble for one offense or another. Let someone else better than he raise the lads. There were more important things for Black Richard to do, such as dying.

The skin on his face and gut were stitched back together, the bones in his face and wrist were set. When he’d been laying on the battlefield he was certain there was no greater pain or agony. He’d been wrong. The setting of his bones, the stitching together of his tender skin had been far worse.

One day blended into the next until a month had passed in a haze of foggy, bitter, and feverish moments. Moments where he begged for death, for mercy. Death refused him.

More likely than not, God didn’t want him and the devil was too busy dealing with all the Chisholms he’d sent to Him.

The changing of his bandages were God awful. The linens, sticking to his bloody wounds, would make a most disgusting sound when peeled away. Similar to when the hide and fur were skinned from squirrel or rabbit. ’Twas enough to make a grown man want to retch.

Gradually, his wounds and broken bones began to heal. But he was left looking like a monster. While one half of his face looked as it always had, with smooth, flawless skin, the other half was scarred and mangled. Scarred to the point he could not bear to look at his own reflection. From the top of his skull, across his right eye, down his cheek, across his lip, through the center of his neck, to his collarbone on his left side. ’Twas a white, jagged reminder of what had happened that day. A reminder that he hadn’t died as he should have.

The lasses who had once giggled whenever he offered them a dazzling smile, now looked away. At their feet, their hands, the bloody floor; anywhere but at him. Thus he took to wearing a cowl, slung low over his face in order to keep his horrid visage in shadow.

The reaction was the same with everyone, save for Raibeart, Colyne, and his cousin Lachlan. “It makes you look fierce,” Colyne told him.

“Aye,” agreed Raibeart. “One look at you and the enemy will run the other way. They will be thinkin’ ’tis a demon come to take them.” They were twelve and nine, respectively. No one had ever taken the time to teach them to think before they spoke.

Black Richard knew the words were not said to injure or cause him more pain. Nay, the young lads meant well, for they were naught more than innocent boys, romanced by all the stories of battle