Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel by Rowan Keats Read Free Book Online

Bébinn. ’Tis an ancient Greek symbol of healing called the Rod of Asclepius, gifted to me by my mother.”
    “Satan takes the form of a snake.”
    “Satan takes whatever form he feels will gain him power,” Ana responded firmly. “Not all serpents are evil. Do you recall the tale of Moses and the copper snake?”
    The handmaiden frowned.
    Pressing her advantage, Ana added, “When poisonous snakes attacked the Israelites, the Lord bade Moses to craft a bronze snake and place it upon a pole. Any who had been bitten and then gazed upon that serpent would live.” She paused to let the crux of the story sink in. “This snake is bronze, too. ’Tis a sign of healing, not Satan.”
    Bébinn’s features softened.
    Ana reached inside her sark for the second pendant she wore—a pewter cross. “It rests around my neck next to the most sacred of symbols.” She pressed the warm pewter to her chilled lips, then held it up, too. “The Holy Rood.”
    A flicker of relief passed over the handmaiden’s face.
    “Each and every day, I thank God Almighty for blessing me with the ability to heal.”
    Bébinn smiled. “Indeed.”
    Ana turned to Elayne. The baroness’s expression reflected only mild curiosity. Ana tucked the two pendants inside the neckline of her sark and tightened the ties. “I’ll return anon. I’ve some lemon balm to add to the broth. Bébinn will tend you while I am visiting the cook.”
    Nodding respectfully to both women, Ana left the room. Once she was in the corridor with the chamber door shut solidly behind her, she sagged against the wall. The rough stones caught at the wool fabric of her dress, pulling threads, but her heart was beating too fast to straighten. The fate that awaited her if Bébinn shared what she had seen with the friar would not be pleasant. He would label her a witch, forsooth. Drowning and burning at the stake were the two most common deaths for witches—both of which, she knew, were horrid ways to die.
    She shook off old memories and pushed away from the wall. Bébinn had been successfully distracted this time, but counting on luck to save the day was beyond foolish. She had to take more care and ensure the woman never had cause to look at her strangely again.
    Else she might end up like her mother.
    Smoothing her skirts with damp palms, Ana strode to the stairs.
    •   •   •
    Niall adjusted his grip on his knife.
    If he waited in the shadows at the base of the stairs and caught them by surprise, he could vanquish the entire group of men. But the discovery of dead soldiers in the cellars would cause an unacceptable stir. This moment called for a strategic retreat.
    He reached for the nearest door and tugged. It rattled but didn’t budge—a lock hung from that latch, too. The buttery, perhaps? It made sense that the baron’s expensive casks of French wine and aged whisky be kept under key. He glanced at the door across the corridor. It was locked, too. Duthes’s steward was a very untrusting man.
    The boot steps were nearing the bottom of the stairs.
    He blew out the candle above his head to darken the corridor and dove for another door. This one swung open, revealing stack upon serpentine stack of colorful cloth bolts. Spindles of various sizes wrapped with wool and thread filled every nook and cranny. He squeezed inside only seconds before four burly soldiers descended into view. Thankfully, the hinges didn’t groan as he closed the door behind him. With the door marginally ajar, he watched the men march forward.
    No laughing or joking among this lot. The leader was a mountain of a man with a swarthy complexion. All were grim-faced, stiff-shouldered warriors alert and ready for treachery. Hands on the hilts of their blades, they peered into every nook as they passed. The baron might not have a large army, but he hired skilled men.
    Although Niall was confident the soldiers hadn’t seen him, his heart pounded as they drew closer. His hand tightened on the wooden