by Lily Baldwin
A heavy feeling settled over Gwynn while she raced to keep up with Owen. She could barely draw breath. The world was closing in around her, and yet her feet moved as if of their own accord—all the while her heart was breaking. When they passed through the door into the keep, she pressed her hand to her mouth to silence the sob that fought to break free.
She wanted to cry, to scream!
The village woman had said that Lady Margaret was ill, but Owen had already told her that his mother had passed away. If Clan MacArthur had a lady, the woman in question must be Owen’s wife.
In this life, he had already given his heart to a woman.
Why had the fairy not told her?
Why did she allow Gwynn to believe love was possible?
Gwynn had sacrificed her powers, and an immortal life, all for a man who was already married. And now, she would die a human death, never knowing his touch, his kiss. She would never hear him speak her name with love.
Everything had been for naught!
As realizations and questions blasted her mind, she followed after Owen through the great hall that was built deep into the mountain and up a wide staircase, then down a hallway alight with candle-fire. He stopped and turned to face a closed door. Reaching for the latch, he faltered, his hand never touching the handle. He growled with frustration and gripped his hands in his hair. “What am I to do?” He turned to her. “Ainslee was Moraig’s apprentice. Both are dead. We have no healer!”
Her nostrils flared as she drew a deep breath. In that moment, she realized why the fairy had sent her to this place, to his side. It was not for Gwynn to find her heart’s own true-love, but for Gwynn to find true redemption. After all, the fairy had granted her one wish!
Gwynn closed her eyes and searched her mind. As the knowledge to heal came to the fore of her thoughts, her heart filled with a joy she had never known...willow bark could reduce a fever, hemlock lessened pain, mustard plasters soothed a cough—she could go on and on!
Seizing her courage, she took hold of Owen’s hand and declared, “I am a healer!”
Fresh hope filled his gaze. He pulled her in a fierce embrace. “Now I ken why the Heavens sent ye to us.” When he pulled away, his warm, brown eyes beseeched her. “Please do whatever ye can to save her. No one in this world is dearer to me.”
The love he clearly bore Lady Margaret filled her own heart with bitterness, but she shook her head against her selfish thoughts, chasing the distasteful feelings away. It was right and good that she save the love of his life when in another life, she had been so very careless with true-love’s heart.
“Ye have my word that I will do everything in my power to heal her,” she vowed.
They entered the room. Lying as still as death was a young woman with golden hair and delicate features. Gwynn crossed to the lady’s bedside and pressed her hand to her forehead. Her skin, bone dry to the touch, burned like fire.
“What do ye need?” Owen asked from where he stood, looking over her shoulder at his beloved.
Gwynn shifted her gaze, once more meeting his wide, fearful eyes. “I need help. Send to me her womenfolk, those who would tend her with love.”
Standing, she scanned the bedchamber, searching the shelves and tabletops for tools useful to healing. Crossing to a table littered with rolls of parchment and numerous jars and vials, she seized a jar and tipped it into her palm, pouring out a drop of green paint. Shaking her head, she examined some shelves in the corner, finding skeins of yarn and half-finished needle work.
“Doesn’t she keep any herbs?”
“Nay,” Owen said. “She has little talent or knowledge for healing.”
“Then bring me Moraig’s supplies. Surely, she healed with tisanes and salves.”
He nodded. “Her room is off the kitchens. I will have everything brought to ye.”
“And Lady Margaret’s closest companions,” she reminded him. “Send them here straightaway.”
Turning on his heel, Owen raced toward the door. With a last worried glance toward the frail, beautiful creature lying motionless on the bed, he hastened to carry out Gwynn’s bidding.
Gwynn turned and sat beside Owen’s young wife and took hold of her hand, which, unlike her forehead, was icy to the touch. Bringing her hand to her lips, Gwynn pressed a kiss to her cold skin. “Keep breathing, dear lady. Ye must stay strong and fight, fight to breathe, fight to live, fight for those who love ye!”
Only moments later, the door swung wide and two women hastened into the room. One was young, tall and lithe, and achingly beautiful with ropes of red curls, which framed her delicate features, and cascaded below her knees.
Once upon a time, Gwynn would have hated her at first glance so jealous would she have been of the other woman’s beauty. But now, Gwynn soaked in the woman’s grace as she might a fine sunset, and this fearless act filled her heart with even greater courage. At the great beauty’s side was an older woman, slim and nimble with thoughtful blue eyes and thick, white hair coiled in a braid on top of her head.
Gwynn stood and hastened to greet the newcomers whose brows were pinched with worry. “I am Gwynn,” she said simply. “I am a healer.” She took hold of each woman’s hand and led them to their lady’s bedside. “I told Owen to bring me yer lady’s dearest womenfolk.”
Tears flooded the red-haired woman’s gaze. “I am Julia, daughter of one of the laird’s tacksmen. Lady Margaret and I were born under the same moon and have been as though sisters since we took our first steps.”
Gwynn smiled and squeezed Julia’s hand. “I’m so glad ye’ve come.” Then she turned to the older woman who dipped in a low curtsy in front of Gwynn. “Ye needn’t curtsy to me. I am as humbly born as the wheat that rises from the earth.”
“Wheat gives us bread,” the old woman said. “And bread gives life.” She clasped Gwynn’s hands. “Ye have the knowledge to save lives. There could be nothing more noble.” Then she cast her gaze toward Lady Margaret. “She is not of my body, but I love her as though she were my own daughter. Her mother, may God rest her soul, was my dearest friend. We, too, were born under the same moon. I would do anything for her. My name is Katie and I will do yer bidding.”
Gwynn’s smile brightened. “As women, we need each other to survive in this harsh world. Yer presence here will be more healing to yer lady than any remedy I can give her. Join me now. Together, we will do all we can to raise Lady Margaret out from under this dark cloud. I will give ye instructions, but as we mix tonics and poultices, speak to her, sing songs of yer clan, songs of hope. Although, it may not seem like it, she can hear ye. Surround her with yer love, and she’ll draw strength from yer loyalty.”
Just then a knock sounded at the door and Owen came in, a basket piled high with clay jars and pouches in his arms. Behind him, three men followed, each carrying items she knew had come from Moraig’s chamber, a mortar and pestle, wooden bowls, potted herbs, dried bunches of flowers, and a basket of talismans.
Gwynn set to work steeping wormwood and crushing nettle while Julia and Katie changed Lady Margaret’s tunic and bedding, and just as Gwynn had asked, the ladies sang while they worked.
Their voices blended in a harmony that could rival fairy song. The sound moved through her, bringing peace to her soul. So full was Gwynn’s heart that she lost herself in the moment. Her hands became still as she stared absently into a wooden bowl filled with hot water. Then, suddenly, she drew in a sharp breath as she noticed the reflection staring back at her from the water’s surface. It was an unremarkable but familiar face that she had not glimpsed for many lifetimes.
Her hand shaking, she touched her freckled skin and then her wide, unfashionable mouth.
She jerked around and met Julia’s gaze. “What color are my eyes?”
Julia’s song trailed off as she drew close. “They’re brown.”
Gwynn closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her heart. She was her true self again.
“Are ye all right?” Julia asked.
&
nbsp; Gwynn opened her eyes, both women now stood at her sides.
Unable to contain her joy and relief, a laugh fled Gwynn’s lips as she threw her arms around her new friends. Of course, she couldn’t tell Julia and Katie the reason for her sudden outburst—that her appearance was no longer enchanted—but when she spoke next, her words rang true. “Ye’ve filled my heart with yer beautiful songs.” Then she added crushed willow bark to the bowl and handed it to Julia. “Give yer lady this tisane, and keep singing. Together, we may have the perfect remedy to break her fever.”
Julia and Katie took turns stroking Lady Margaret’s brow and lifting her head so that she could drink the brew; meanwhile, Gwynn set to work hanging the talismans around the chamber to ward off wicked spirits. When they had done all they could, the lady’s kinswomen laid down beside her and held her close. They continued to sing softly while Gwynn sat in a chair beside the bed and listened, savoring the healing sound.
It was not long before Gwynn noticed something glistening on the lady’s brow. She jumped to her feet and took a closer look.
“Her fever has broken,” she exclaimed.
Julia and Katie jerked upright.
“She’s sweating,” Gwynn explained before hastening toward the chamber door. Despite how her own heart ached knowing Owen could never be hers, she was overjoyed to give him the good news.
She swung open the door and found him sitting with his back against the wall. Straightaway, he was on his feet.
“What is it?” he blurted, his face tense with fear. “Is she...has she...”
Gwynn held out a soothing hand. “She’s alive. Her fever has broken.”
His head fell back, and he expelled a long breath. Then, he seized her, crushing her against his chest and kissed her hard on the mouth.
Furious, she pushed him away and fisted her hands to resist the urge to slap his face. “How could ye? Yer wife is yet bedridden and ye kiss another woman! I thought ye were an honorable man. I...”
His eyes widened. “My wife?”
She glared at him. “Aye, yer wife! And yet, ye kiss me...Well, ye best listen hard, Owen MacArthur. Ye might think ye can just—"
He gently grabbed her arms, silencing her tirade. “Gwynn, Lady Margaret is my sister.”
A soft gasp escaped her. Her mind started racing. She pressed a hand to her temple. “She’s... she’s yer sister?”
He smiled down at her. “Aye, she is my wee sister, six years my junior.”
A wave of dizziness struck her. She shrugged off his grip and backed away, trying to breathe while her stomach fluttered and her head spun.
“Gwynn,” she heard him say. “What is it?”
He reached for her and, again, took her in his arms.
Struggling to speak, she looked up and met his gaze. “Then...ye’re not married?”
His face softened. “Nay, lass. I’m not married.”
Hearing her greatest hope confirmed, emotion surged through her, bursting from her throat in a sob she smothered with her hand. She turned away, incapable of controlling herself. She had thought she had lost him forever, that she would die alone with only her grief, never having the chance to love him as she believed was her destiny...And now, suddenly, she could hope again. She could believe that love was possible...and...she touched her lips...and he had kissed her!
Laughter bubbled up in her throat combining with her tears.
He moved to stand in front of her and brought his thumb beneath her chin. “Gwynn, speak to me. Do ye hate me?”
She hiccupped and took a deep breath. “Never,” she vowed. “Not in this lifetime or any other.” She took a deep breath. “In fact, I’m...I’m rather fond of ye.”
A serious expression came over his face. “Gwynn, I—”
Fearing he might reject her, she interrupted him. “Ye no doubt think me mad, but in my defense, our coming together has been under rather intense circumstances.”
He smiled gently while he slowly grazed his fingers down her cheek. “That is very true.”
She nodded vigorously, her heart racing as words rushed almost unbidden from her lips. “’Tis not everyday one wakes up in a frozen cave on top of an enchanted mountain, lying naked with a man. And then our perilous climb, the tragedy that’s befallen yer people, and Lady Margaret’s illness—my heart hasn’t stopped pounding. And when I thought ye were married, the spark I hoped to kindle with ye...well...I had resigned myself just to be happy for ye, because ye had already found the love of yer life. But now...I—” Gwynn sucked in a sharp breath having caught movement out of the corner of her eye.
She turned toward Lady Margaret’s chamber door. Standing in the doorway, her eyes as wide as saucers, was Julia.
The red-haired beauty cleared her throat and stepped back into the chamber. “Lady Margaret is doing fine. I was just seeing what was keeping ye, but ye’re clearly busy,” she began to shut the door just as a smile broke across her face. Then she said in a rush before the door closed, “Take all the time ye need.”
Gwynn clamped a hand over her mouth the instant before Owen threw his head back with laughter and pulled her close. Her whole body softened into his, letting her own laughter spill out.
“We’ve no more secrets now,” he rasped, holding her close. Then he lifted her feet off the ground, and with a dreamy sigh, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
He kissed her, slowly, tenderly. When their lips parted, he gazed down at her, his eyes full of warmth. “These last days have, indeed, been intense. Remember, lass, that I was the one who was conscious for the two days we were lying naked together.” His expression grew serious, once again. “Ye know my conduct was nothing but gentlemanly.”
She nodded. “That I do not doubt for a moment.”
Then the heat returned to his gaze. “It was torture,” he rasped and stroked his hand down her waist and over the flare of her hips. “How I wanted to caress yer silken skin.” Then his brow furrowed, and he cupped her cheeks again. “But it was more than desire of the flesh. Ye were this fragile creature, and I knew yer goodness the moment I saw yer face. And I...I thought ye might die in my arms, and I would never have the chance to know ye.”
She smiled gently. “And now ye do.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist. “And now I do.”
She raised a quizzical brow at him. “So what are ye saying, Owen MacArthur?”
His laughter warmed her to her toes. “I’m saying, Gwynn MacArthur, that I’m rather fond of ye, too.”
Chapter Eight
Owen stood in the courtyard, his heart grave. In front of him, five funeral pyres were positioned in a row. Beyond his departed kin, the setting sun painted the surrounding moorland to the east and the sea to the west in warm shades of gold and rose. Behind him, Clan MacArthur had gathered to bid farewell to those whom they would never stop loving. Through a blur of tears, Owen slowly touched each pyre with the flame of the torch he gripped, his knuckles white from the strain of his emotions.
One by one, the fires rose high, carrying the departed spirits upward toward the Heavens...Ainslee, the smithy’s wife, a kind-hearted woman who many believed to have been the finest singer in the clan; Moriag, their ancient healer; Finn, a child of seven years who had begun to train with the hunters but would never take aim at his first stag; Mary, a widow and one of his mother’s closest companions who was known for her sharp-tongue and fierce spirit; and Hamish who had known more than sixty summers and had been Owen’s greatest adviser—he, Owen would miss most of all.
The heat from the fires warmed his face and melted the snow around the tall piles of tree limbs and branches. Garnering his strength, he took a deep breath. Life on the mountains was hard—a fact he had known since his earliest years when he would stand beside his father and bid farewell to those who had departed. Each and every time, he had been heartsore and mourned the loss of his kin.
But as laird, his grief was different.
Each member of Clan MacArthur was his responsi
bility. He was father to all, and when he lost a kinsman, he battled not only sorrow but inwardly directed anger.
“There was nothing ye could have done,” he heard a gentle voice say.
He shifted his gaze. Gwynn had come forward to stand at his side. She placed her hand in his. “Ye’re not to blame. The Heavens have called them home.”
Taking a deep breath, he accepted her gentle reminder. With a grateful heart, he pulled her close and gazed down at her freckled nose and soft brown eyes. “Ye’re an angel, an angel sent to heal my clan.”
A shadow crossed over her face. “I’m certainly no angel.” Then she stood tall and looked him straight in the eye. “But I vow to ye, Owen, that I will always try my best to help ye and yer clan in any way I can.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “That is all any of us can do—our best.” A sad smile curved his lips. “A truth I, too, needed to remember.”
The sun dipped below the horizon, taking the warmth of color and light with it. Only the greys and violets of twilight painted the moors and waves. And as stars appeared in the darkening sky, the wind picked up, blasting the mountain side with its icy fingers.
“’Tis time,” he said, taking her hand. “Be by my side this eventide.”
She squeezed his hand. “I’ll not leave yer side for a moment.”
They turned and faced his people, and together, they led the way through the courtyard into the MacArthur keep.
GWYNN WALKED SIDE BY side with Owen into the great hall. The ceiling was low, supported by columns of carved natural rock. Torch-fire lined the unadorned walls. There was no need for tapestries as the wind could not reach them through the mountainside, no matter how hard it blew. Nor were there trencher tables. The floor, a mix of flat rock and clay, was covered in woven mats made of dried rushes upon which sat clusters of straw mattresses and piles of fur blankets. The warm nests dotted the floor throughout the hall, allowing families to sit in intimate groups, nestled together to keep warm.