Relic - Jaid Black Page 0,5

on top of their games. She absently ran a hand over her mane of curls before standing up to stretch her legs.

Chapter Two

Bothwell Castle, 10 miles southeast of Glasgow

Scotland, 1301 A.D.

Laird Angus of Karrik, feared Highlander warlord of legend and master of all he surveyed, was in a bedamned dungeon.

The laird frowned at the wee old mon who’d caused his current predicament, though in truth he wasn’t overly concerned about his fate. His stupid English captors didn’t ken just who it was they’d caught—of this truth he was certain. His clansmen would free him and kill them all in the doing did it come to that. Nay, Angus was not worried. His black mood came down to embarrassment… and to knowing he’d be in the debt of whichever warrior first freed him.

“I’m certain this will be over very soon,” the wee old mon stammered out in unschooled Gaelic. His accent, Angus noted, was as odd as the breeches and tunic he wore. “They need me,” he said on a sigh. “They’ll be coming soon.”

One of the laird’s eyebrows arched almost imperceptibly. The elder who called himself “Doctor” had the look of a mon who didn’t want found. ‘Twas an oddity, that. And mayhap why Angus deigned to speak to him.

“Who are they and what need have they of you, old mon?”

“I’m what you might call a healer in your tongue.” Another sigh. “And one of a handful of people when I come from that can speak ancien—I mean to say—who can speak Gaelic and English.”

Angus must have misheard him. “When you come from?”

“Where,” the older man quickly amended. “Where I come from.”

The laird grunted. “’Tis women’s work, healing.”

“Not when—I mean where—I come from. Men and women both can be healers.”

Again with the when. Doctor would drive him daft did he allow for it. Angus was about to dismiss him when a thought suddenly struck him. The Karriks had need of a healer. Mayhap he wouldn’t be letting they take him after all. Leastways, Doctor was in his debt for Angus having saved his scrawny neck. Had the warlord not stopped when the little mon appeared from out of nowhere, the laird wouldn’t be sitting in this odious dungeon in the first. Nay, he’d be halfway to the Highlands, to home, by now.

“Mayhap I will keep you, old mon.” His admission, like himself, was arrogant and decisive. “Clan Karrik has need of a healer. They can steal themselves another bluidy one.”

“Oh no no no!” Doctor said quickly, shocking Angus. Nobody gave a Karrik, let alone The Karrik, their nay… never. “I mean to say, you have been most kind and generous to me, but—”

The laird’s eyebrows rose. Kind and generous? The daft mon made him sound like a tenderhearted maiden! ‘Twas nothing kind nor generous about Angus Karrik. He frowned severely, wondering if Doctor was trying his nerves a’purpose.

“—but you mustn’t risk your life for me again.” He looked directly at Angus. “The ones who are coming cannot be defeated, I fear. They will kill you before they permit you to take me.”

Aye, Angus decided, Doctor thought to drive him daft. His nostrils flared. Were it not for the sincerity in the old mon’s voice—as if he was giving him a boon!—the laird would have killed him where he sat for questioning his fighting capabilities. But then again, Angus was sitting in a bedamned dungeon. He grimly conceded the old mon should be forgiven for his flawed logic on that basis alone.

“I won’t be in here o’er long,” Angus bit out. “I am but resting my sword arm.”

“A sword won’t offer protection from them. I’m sorry, but you must trust me on this matter.”

A tic began to work in the laird’s cheek. He gruffly ran a hand over his shoulder-length black hair plaited at the temples. Glancing across the chamber to where his second-in-command sat stewing, Angus narrowed his dark brown eyes in challenge. The old mon might not ken well enough, but Colban assuredly did. To Colban’s credit, he looked away. Angus was mayhap the only mon on earth who could tell that Colban felt well humored. To the rest of the world, he appeared quite grim.

Angus felt like sighing. He would never live this humiliation down. Not unless ‘twas he who escaped afore another could rescue him. Aye, that feat would keep Colban’s lips from flapping like some bloody minstrel singing a bawdy tune.

Standing up, Laird Karrik stretched out his six-foot, five-inch frame. Heavy with muscle and riddled with