by Jayne Castel
“What … now?”
“Can we go to yer tent?” she asked, the blush upon her cheeks deepening. “I have something to ask of ye.”
18
Broken
COIRA FOLLOWED CRAEG into his tent, her heart hammering. Wiping damp palms on the skirts of her habit, she attempted to steady her nerves.
Calm down.
She hadn’t expected to be this anxious, but the thing she needed to ask Craeg made her feel as if she were climbing the steps to the gallows.
What if he denies me?
She hoped he wouldn’t, for her hopes rested upon his consent. If she never intended to return to Kilbride, she needed to carve another role for herself among these people.
It was a conversation that couldn’t wait.
Craeg’s tent was a lean-to built against the ravine wall. It was small and furnished only with a single fur on the floor and a brazier in the center, where a lump of peat glowed.
The outlaw leader turned to Coira, and suddenly the tent felt cramped and airless. His presence sucked the air out of the smoky interior. Craeg’s height and breadth made her feel tiny in comparison. Her thoughts suddenly scattered.
Concentrate, she chided herself. Ye must focus.
“What did ye want to speak to me of?” he asked with a slow smile. It was a purely masculine expression and a reminder that Craeg hadn’t forgotten what he’d said to her back in that moonlit glade.
Neither had Coira, but that wasn’t why she’d asked for a moment alone with him.
She swallowed. “I will get to that in a moment,” she replied. “First … let me take a look at yer side.”
Craeg hesitated, as he continued to watch her intently. He was probably wondering what was amiss with her. However, he didn’t argue. Not shifting his focus from her, he began to unlace his vest. He then shrugged it off.
The sight of his naked chest was distracting. She’d seen his nude torso before, yet this time it made Coira’s breathing grow shallow, an ache forming just under her breast bone.
Forcing herself to focus, she stepped toward him, set down her basket, and deftly unwrapped the light bandage he wore. Then, bending close, she examined the injury to his left flank.
It was healing beautifully—better than she’d expected. The scab that had formed was dry, and there was no unpleasant smell issuing from it.
“Ye are tough,” she admitted, drawing back from him. “Such a wound would have killed many men.”
Craeg’s mouth curved, his eyes gleaming. “Aye … so I’m healthy enough to swing a sword tomorrow?”
Coira nodded. His proximity was making it hard for her to keep her thoughts netted. The heat of his body was like a furnace, and the warm, spicy scent of his skin made a strange yearning rise within her belly. “Make sure ye bind the injury well first though … or ye risk splitting it open again.”
Reaching for a clean bandage, she wrapped it around his torso, and as she did so, she became increasingly aware of his nearness and the gentle whisper of both their breathing.
The words that he’d said that night returned to her, taunting her. She’d not remind him of that incident. Yet she knew he was watching her, waiting for her to speak.
Coira finished her task and stepped back from him. “Ye can put yer vest back on now,” she said, cursing the huskiness in her voice. She couldn’t let herself get distracted. He looked like he wanted to kiss her, and although part of her yearned for it, her heart suddenly shrank at the thought.
She’d made this journey partly because of him, but the situation was starting to feel too real, too intense. Coira realized then that she wasn’t ready to take the next step, whatever that was.
Craeg did as bid, but as he laced up the vest, his mouth quirked. His eyes darkened as he gazed upon her. “Out with it then … what do ye wish to ask?”
Coira heaved in a deep breath. When he looked at her like that, it was nearly impossible to form a coherent thought. Yet now he’d given her an opening, she wasn’t going to waste the opportunity. “Would ye let me remain here?” she asked, the words rushing out of her. “With yer band?”
Craeg’s eyes widened, a smile creasing his face. “Of course, Coira.” He reached forward then, clasping her hands with his. “So ye have left the order?”
Coira nodded. “I must,” she whispered. She was tempted to leave it at that, but her thudding heart warned her that she couldn’t. Craeg needed to hear this story—even if the truth repelled him. She was tired of carrying around her dark secrets. The urge to bare her soul to him was too great.
Coira’s breathing caught. “It’s MacKinnon,” she gasped the hated name. “He’s after me.”
Craeg went still, dangerously so. The joy in his eyes faded, as did his smile. All trace of good humor leached from his face. “Why?”
Dear Lord, please have mercy on me. This was her chance to lie, to cover up a past that she wished belonged to someone else. But she wouldn’t. She’d tell the truth.
“Do ye remember when ye told me about yer upbringing in Dunan?” she asked finally, forcing herself to keep looking at him.
“Aye,” he replied, his tone wary.
“Well.” She cleared her throat then. Lord, this was harder than she’d expected. “I didn’t tell ye at the time, but I know The Goat and Goose well … for I … I worked there for a time.”
His green eyes grew wide at this admission, before they shadowed. In their depths she saw sympathy, and a hard knot formed in her belly in response. She doubted he’d look so compassionate when he heard the next part of her story.
“I arrived around a year after ye left,” Coira pressed on. She lifted her chin then as she continued. “I was yer brother’s favorite whore.”
Craeg’s sharply indrawn breath filled the tent. He drew back, as if she’d just struck him, although he didn’t release her hands. Coira swallowed hard. It was as she’d feared, and yet she forced herself to continue. He might as well know everything.
“My parents were cottars who worked the land near Dunan. They died suddenly, and then I fell on hard times. I was still young when Maude took me on as a serving lass … but when I entered womanhood, I was expected to service the men who visited the brothel—or be cast out onto the street again.” Coira sucked in a deep breath, noting that Craeg’s face had gone taut. “MacKinnon took a liking to me … and then started asking for me each visit.”
Coira broke off there. Saying the words aloud made her feel ill. Surely, Craeg would be revolted by her once he heard it all.
“He liked me to dress up as a nun … and then he’d rip off my habit and use me.” Her voice, raw now, choked off. Suddenly, it was too difficult to continue.
“Coira,” Craeg breathed her name, his voice raw. “Mo chridhe … did he hurt ye?”
My heart. How could he even call her that? Didn’t the truth disgust him?
“Aye … he used his fists on me … did vile things to me,” she whispered. “And finally, one day, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I fled Dunan to Kilbride … and started a new life.” She halted, sucking in a deep breath. “But MacKinnon knows where I am now, and he has given me an ultimatum: return with him to Dunan or he’ll slaughter everyone at the abbey.”
A hollow silence filled the tent as her voice died away. Coira’s belly twisted. It occurred her then that she might have already put the sisters’ lives in danger. Had her act in running away made MacKinnon turn on Mother Shona and the other nuns? Had he already taken his revenge?
Coira clenched her jaw, her gaze remaining upon the fur beneath her feet. She couldn’t bear the thought.
Craeg didn’t answer immediately, yet when he did his voice was barely above a whisper. “No one should have to endure what ye did,” he said, his grip upon her hands tightening as he spoke. “No one.”
Coira lifted her chin and forced herself to meet his eye. She expected to see disgust written upon his face, yet she didn’t. His face was taut, and a turmoil of emotions in his eyes had changed th
em from moss-green to dark jade. But there was no revulsion.
Suddenly, Coira felt as if she were standing naked before him. “Will ye still let me stay with yer band?” she asked softly. She needed to bring the conversation back to safer ground. “As ye can see … I can’t go back to the abbey.”
Silence stretched between them, and finally Craeg broke it. “Do ye remember what I said to ye that night … the night I left Kilbride?”
Coira’s pulse started to gallop. Dear Lord. This wasn’t the time to bring that up. However, when she didn’t answer, he continued.
“I said that if things were different, I’d do everything in my power to make ye mine.”
“Stop, Craeg,” Coira gasped. She tried to pull her hands free, yet he held her fast. “Things aren’t different … they’re worse. How can ye even say that … after what I’ve just told ye?”
He scowled. “None of what happened to ye was yer fault. I care not about yer past. My own isn’t a rosy tale as ye well know.”
Coira shook her head. Her belly now churned. Her eyes burned, and it felt as if an iron band was squeezing her throat. “But I’m broken,” she whispered.
His eyes shadowed, and he stepped closer to her. He then lifted one of her hands to his lips. The kiss he bestowed upon the back of her hand was feather-light, reverent. “So am I, Coira,” he said, a rasp to his voice. “Why don’t we heal together?”
19
Let Me Have Mine
I’M GOING TO enjoy killing him.
Cold, splintering rage pounded through Craeg as he watched Coira leave the tent. Whispering a curse, he raked his hands through his hair. The urge to storm out of this ravine, go straight to Kilbride, and rip Duncan MacKinnon’s heart out almost overwhelmed him. The look on her face as she’d recounted that tale, the shadows in those beautiful eyes, would haunt him forever.
Cursing once more, Craeg scrubbed his face with his fist. An edgy, twitchy sensation swept through him. His hands clenched and unclenched as he imagined them around Duncan MacKinnon’s throat—as he squeezed the life out of him.
The man had to die, and he would enjoy ending his cruel, perverted life. MacKinnon scorched anyone he came in contact with. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.
Heart hammering, Craeg left his tent and made his way back to the far end of the ravine.
Gunn still sat by the fire, staring sightlessly into the dancing flames, whereas Coira was nowhere to be seen.
“Have ye seen Coira?” he asked his friend.
Gunn glanced up, his gaze struggling to focus. “She’s gone back in to attend Fen.”
At that moment a slight figure emerged from the larger of the two tents, where the two men had been tended. Flora—a woman who’d lost her husband earlier that summer when MacKinnon raided their camp—was pale and tense.
“They’re both dead now,” she announced, her voice flat. “There was nothing to be done.”
Craeg nodded, his already racing pulse quickening further. The lives of all the souls in this ravine were his responsibility. If the sickness took more of them, he’d feel to blame.
The bodies of the dead men would have to be burned, but there would be no time for that tomorrow. They would have to wait.
Craeg’s hands fisted. Battle had to come first. He had to have his reckoning against his brother—especially now that he’d discovered what Coira had suffered at MacKinnon’s hands. He’d make him suffer before the end, and how he’d enjoy doing so.
Events were set in motion now; they couldn’t have turned back even if they’d wanted to. MacKinnon was after him too.
Craeg knew his brother wouldn’t have wasted any time in sending out scouts; it was likely he’d discovered their hiding place by now. Craeg would need to leave a group of warriors behind to protect the camp, and he’d make sure the war party left a little earlier than planned, just in case MacKinnon decided to launch a dawn raid.
A few feet away, Gunn’s face twisted. “It will take Fen too,” he said, his voice hoarse with grief. “My bonny love.”
Flora’s chin trembled at these heart-wrenching words, while Craeg swallowed hard.
He wanted to reassure his friend, to tell him that maybe Coira would find a way to save her. Yet he wouldn’t lie to Gunn. He wouldn’t lie to himself either.
“Dear Lord of Mercy, send out yer words to heal.”
Coira’s whispered words blended with the rasp of Fenella’s breathing in the tent. Kneeling before the fur on which the sick woman lay, her hands clasped in prayer, Coira squeezed her eyes shut. “Please send yer healing words to yer servant. In the name of Jesus, drive out all infirmity and sickness from this woman’s body.”
The words, murmured in desperation, poured out of Coira. She’d donned her scarf over her lower face to re-enter the tent, but noted immediately that Fenella’s condition had worsened.
The lumps that had formed under her armpits had grown. They were now red and angry-looking. Her skin had gone a pasty color, highlighting a strange rash upon her lower arms. Just like the farmer’s wife and daughter in Torrin, it looked as if Fenella had been bitten by fleas. The woman’s breathing had become labored.
If she continues this way, she won’t last the night.
Coira squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t let despair in; she couldn’t lose hope. “Dear Lord,” she continued with dogged determination. “I ask ye to turn this weakness into strength, this suffering into compassion, sorrow into joy, and pain into comfort. Let this woman be filled with patience and joy in yer presence as she waits for yer healing touch.”
Drawing in a ragged breath, Coira opened her eyes. The prayer had calmed her, focused her. She’d been close to tears when she left Craeg’s tent, and the urge to find a shadowed corner where she could seek refuge and weep had almost been overwhelming. His gentle words had nearly unraveled her.
However, she couldn’t indulge in tears—not when she had the sick to attend.
Fenella needed her.
Coira lowered her clasped hands, her gaze sweeping over the woman’s body. She was clad in a sweat-soaked linen tunic, and although she’d been conscious when Coira entered the tent, she appeared to have entered a strange delirium now. Her limbs twitched and shivered, and she uttered soft, piteous groans.
Watching her, Coira searched her mind for every last bit of healing knowledge her mother had imparted upon her.
How I wish ye were here, Ma, she thought. I could do with yer wisdom right now.
Indeed, her mother had been bold and fearless in her skills; never afraid to go against common wisdom if she thought it would save a patient.
Coira’s gaze settled upon those horrid swellings under Fenella’s armpits. The two men from Dunan had shown the same symptoms. She’d heard about these ‘plague boils’ and how they appeared during the latter stages of the illness. However, no one had said how a healer dealt with them.
Shifting closer, Coira peered at one of the boils. It reminded her of a large abscess.
How would she treat such a thing usually?
I’d lance it.
Coira’s belly twisted at the thought of touching the vile swellings. However, as she continued to stare at the swelling, an idea took form in her mind.
Her pulse quickened then, and she rose to her feet. Emerging from the tent, she found Craeg, Gunn, and Flora seated around the fire, their faces grim.
Craeg glanced up, his gaze meeting hers. His lips parted as he readied himself to speak, but Coira forestalled him. “Can ye get me a pair of leather gloves?”
His eyes widened, while both Gunn and Flora turned to stare at her. “Aye … the smithy will have some … why do—”
“I also need a small, long-bladed knife,” she continued. “And some vinegar.”
Gunn drew a boning knife from a sheath on his thigh. “Will this do?”
Coira nodded. Meanwhile, Craeg had risen to his feet. “I’ll go and get those gloves and vinegar.”
Coira swallowed down nausea and held the
knife steady.
The gloves Craeg had found for her were too big, making her movements clumsy; yet it was a necessary precaution. She’d not lance these boils without protecting her hands.
She’d cleaned the blade by holding it in the flames till it glowed red. Now she held a small earthen bowl under the boil she was about to lance, ready to catch whatever fluid escaped.
Clenching her jaw, Coira sliced the knife into the boil. Pus and blood burst forth, and her belly roiled. Fighting a gag, she continued her work, cutting open the swelling so that it emptied completely.
Revolting.
Coira had never seen a boil like it. She just hoped that lancing them in this way wouldn’t send her patient’s body into shock. Once the first had been lanced, she moved onto the second boil—and once that too had emptied, she doused both with the vinegar Craeg had given her.
Her mother had always used vinegar on lanced ulcers and boils, swearing that it prevented them from festering. Coira too had noted how effective it was.
Fenella, who’d been insensible during the entire process, moaned. Sweat slicked her face, and her body still trembled from the chills that wracked her.
Sitting back on her heels, Coira let out the breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. No wonder she was starting to feel light-headed. The drained plague boils weren’t a nice sight, but they were definitely less sinister-looking than how they’d looked previously.
Gathering up her things, Coira left the tent.
Gunn was standing outside, waiting for her. “Did it work?” he asked. The man’s face was haggard with worry, his gaze gleaming.
Coira stripped off the gloves, dropping them onto the ground next to the tent’s entrance. “It’s too early to tell,” she admitted softly. “But what I’ve done has not worsened her condition.” She straightened up and met Gunn’s eye. “If she survives the night, ye may have cause to hope.”