by Caroline Lee
But Brohn was level-headed, which was something Rocque had always admired about the younger man. He was quiet and thought things through before speaking, and the men admired his quiet certainty. Rocque had been considering making Brohn his second, and judging from the way the men were supporting the younger man, ‘twould be a good move.
At the other tables, men and women both were either ignoring the ruckus, or peering around companions to get a closer look. Across the way, a warrior lifted his hand to beckon for another helping, and Rocque saw Jessie nod and lift the pot of steaming porridge before hurrying toward the diner.
“She’s my sister, ye bastard!” Brohn roared, and Rocque saw Kiergan lurch forward. This rakish brother of theirs would never allow Lara to be insulted, and of them, he was the closest with her brother Brohn.
Before Da could respond, Rocque had shoved himself to his feet. “Cease!” he bellowed.
His command gained the attention of Brohn and most of the men at his table, but Hamish continued to wave his hands as he explained his joke. He swept one arm around behind him expansively, just as Jessie rushed by.
The back of his hand caught her under her burden, and Rocque knew he wasn’t the only one in the hall to hold his breath as the piping-hot, sticky porridge flew up into Jessie’s face.
The first sound the girl made was a kind of gurgle—the porridge was thick as tar, and just as hot—but by the time the pot hit the floor and she reached for her face, she was screaming.
High-pitched, frantic screams.
Poor lass must’ve been reminded of the pain from her burns, which had only just healed.
Cursing, Rocque leapt across the table, intent on helping. By the time he reached them, Moira and Minnie were already bent over the poor girl, doing their best to calm her agonized screams. So he turned his anger where it belonged.
Hamish took one look at Rocque and began backing away. “ ’Twas an accident! How was I to ken the clumsy lass was standing behind me like that?”
Typical Hamish; shifting the blame. Fists clenched, Rocque stalked forward. “Ye were the one to start the argument…”
“Bah!” Hamish almost tripped over a stool, but quickly righted himself. “Brohn cannae take a joke, ‘tis all. I cannae be blamed for the girl’s clumsiness or his inability to—”
Rocque was done.
Without breaking stride, he hauled back and slammed a fist into Hamish’s nose. There was a satisfying crunch and the man went down without a whimper.
Rocque stared at the unconscious man a moment, cradling his fist, then spat. “Actually, ye can be blamed for much more than ye think, Hamish.”
When the murmurs and cheers began around him, he whirled back to find Jessie’s screams had turned to tears. In two strides he was at her side, nudging Moira out of the way.
“Minnie, see to the rest of the meal, aye? Moira, fetch cloths and clean water.” With barely a grunt, he rose to his feet, cradling the sobbing lass against his chest.
He made eye contact with Brohn, who had a disgusted expression on his face. “Fetch Merewyn, and tell her to bring her herbs.” Not that the woman went anywhere without them. “We’ll be in the kitchens.”
His friend nodded, before stepping over the bench, spitting on Hamish, and hurrying off.
Rocque glanced at Moira, but the housekeeper was already heading for the kitchens. She stopped to exchange a look with the laird, and Da nodded as he rose to his feet and followed.
Cradling the crying lass in his arms, Rocque headed for the kitchens, aching for her pain.
Chapter 2
Merewyn hurried through the village, her skirts held high in one hand while she juggled her supplies in the other. She was following Brohn, whose long legs made it difficult for someone of her size to keep up with him.
“The porridge landed across her face, neck, and chest,” the young man was calling over his shoulder to her as they headed for the keep. “Ye ken how sticky it can be.”
She winced, praying she’d brought enough goatweed. Poor Jessie had been through so much pain in the last few months; it didn’t seem fair to inflict her with more. Especially not more burns.
“Do ye ken if the skin had blistered?”
But Brohn just shrugged, stepping to one side at the bottom of the steps and waiting for her to catch up. “She was still covered in the stuff as Rocque took her to the kitchens and started bellowing orders. But ‘twas only a few moments ago, Healer. ‘Tis lucky I caught ye afore ye left for Megan’s home.”
Only a few moments.
Well, thank the Virgin for small blessings.
Nodding distractedly, Merewyn hurried past him on her way into the great hall. As Brohn had said, half the diners were still eating, while more were whispering to one another. Or gesturing as they’d relived what had happened. Brohn had told her of Hamish’s actions, and she was pleased to see the weasel of a man had recovered enough to drag himself away before she’d arrived.
There’s no telling if she’d have the discipline not to spit on him as she passed.
Already mentally cataloguing what was in her basket, Merewyn hurried past them all on her way to the kitchen stairs. She’d need hemlock for pain, and goatweed for the burns, assuming the skin hadn’t broken as badly as last time.
Nae use borrowing trouble. Ye’ll see what’s what soon enough.
She found them all in the little room behind the hearth, where Cook usually slept. Merewyn’s eyes went right to the bed, and not just because poor Jessie was still sniffling. Nay, ‘twas the man beside the lass, the huge man, who was gently resting the girl against the pillows, who made her heart beat faster.
Blessed Virgin, but how could he still have this effect on her? Merewyn’s hand dropped to her stomach, in a futile effort to ease the little flip-flopping Rocque’s gaze always caused her. He had the most wonderfully intense blue eyes, set in a wide face framed by russet hair which was always in need of a trim. Today his hair hung in his eyes, and she vowed to talk him into letting her trim it soon.
When he straightened, Rocque sent a glance her way, and she swore she saw relief—and something else?—in his gaze before he nodded. The command in that one movement told her he’d never doubted she’d arrive.
And why wouldn’t she? This was her life, after all.
She was a healer, and at her clan’s beck and call.
Even if she’d rather belong to just one man.
This man.
On the bed, Jessie gave a little whimper, and Merewyn snapped herself out of her fanciful wishes and hurried forward.
“Well, let us see what kind of damage has been—Och, ye’re still covered in it!”
From her side of the bed, she glared up at Rocque. “Ye dinnae even think to clean the poor lass?”
He raised a brow at her censure, and one side of his lips twitched. “I’ve been busy.”
She clucked her tongue as she turned back to the girl. “Well, at least ye mopped some of it off with yer shirt.” The front of his linen shirt was caked in porridge, and she hoped he hadn’t been burned as well. “But now we have to clean the rest.”
“Here, lass, I’ll help.”
The offer came from Moira, who ran the Oliphant keep with an iron fist, and was rumored to have helped raise Rocque’s brothers the same way. She’d just stepped into the small room with the laird, who crossed his arms and rested his shoulder against the door jamb as he watched them work.
Nay he watched Moira, and wasn’t that interesting?
Merewyn shook her head to focus. “Are yer hands clean?”
The older woman was well-rounded, with a kind face which was now pinched with concern as she held out a cloth. “Always,” she declared indignantly.
Hiding her smile, Merewyn quickly folded a cloth and dunked it in the bowl of cool, clear water. “First we need to wipe it off.” She gave Jessie a gentle smile. “I ken it hurts, lassie, but can ye be brave for us?”
When the girl whimpered, Moira clucked pityingly and nudge
d Merewyn aside as she leaned forward to gently clean the porridge from Jessie’s face and neck.
Stepping back, Merewyn watched the housekeeper critically for a moment, then nodded in approval. ‘Twas obvious from the concern in the older woman’s gaze that she cared about the girl. Since Jessie’s arrival at Oliphant Castle, she’d likely been in Moira’s care, and there was no doubt the lass needed love and affection.
Even more so, now.
Merewyn glanced toward the door, only to see the laird’s wistful look as he gazed at the pair on the bed. Her eyes widened slightly, but Rocque’s quiet question cut through her musings.
“What do ye need?”
“Um…” She stepped toward a small table and upended her basket. “Cold water, lots of it. As cold as possible. I’ll see what else…”
She trailed off as she began to paw through her herbs, dimly aware of Rocque’s nod.
But it was his father who spoke up. “I’ll get it. Well,” he added with a chuckle, “I’ll have Minnie organize it. But ye’ll have yer cold water, Healer.”
Nodding distractedly, she murmured her thanks as she felt, more than heard, Rocque move up behind her. Her fingers didn’t need her brain’s interference as they deftly sorted through the herbs she’d need for this afternoon’s work, so she glanced up at him.
Dear Lord in Heaven, but those eyes! Her stomach flipped over again, at the way those blue-gray depths swirled with emotion. She saw anger there, aye, but also…sorrow?
“What happened?” she whispered, not wanting to disturb the pair on the bed.
Rocque didn’t seem as concerned with niceties. “Hamish,” he growled.
Well, that was no more than she knew already. Frowning, Merewyn settled her hip against the table and raised her brows, urging him to continue. “Hamish hit her, Brohn said.”
When he crossed his arms in front of his chest, it pulled the material of his shirt, and she noticed yet again just how much porridge covered him. Thanks to his quick action to bring Jessie to the kitchens, that shirt would need to be washed before it was ruined.
With a sigh, he scrubbed his hand across his face. “The idiot is an expert at shifting the blame. I am no’ sure if ‘twas an accident as he claimed.”
“But ye hit him?” According to Brohn, at least.
Frowning, Rocque stared down at his knuckles. “Aye,” he admitted. “I should no’ have, since he’s so much smaller than me. I’ve resisted the urge for years—and believe me, he tries my patience.” Still rubbing at the back of his hand, he glanced up at her. “But ‘twas his reaction to it I couldnae abide, Mere,” he hissed, his eyes darting to the bed and back. “The lass was lying there screaming in pain, and he refused to acknowledge his fault!”
Mayhap this accounted for the sorrow she’d seen in his eyes.
Blowing out a breath, she patted him on the knuckles, then wrapped her fingers around his and gave them a squeeze. “From what I ken of Hamish, lover, he’s needed a good head-knocking.”
He lifted another brow at her claim, and she shrugged. “He’s a bit of a shite-weasel, is he no’?”
Merewyn hadn’t lived in the village her whole life, but she was an Oliphant, through and through. When she’d heard that the old Healer was ailing, she’d moved near the keep to take over caring for the people, and had gotten used to putting off men who were interested in her.
Interested in having her. Owning her.
Since aligning with Rocque, the rest of the warriors had stopped pestering her…all but one. Hamish had, more than once, found her alone and struck up a conversation. It had all been innocent, but struck her as wrong.
“When did he speak with ye?” Rocque growled.
She shrugged, dropping his hand and turning her attention back to her herbs. “Sometimes he speaks at me. I dinnae encourage him, but I am no’ rude either.”
At first, he’d tried to manipulate her into spending time with him, but she was no fool, and quickly saw through his schemes. But she’d kept an eye on him, because there were plenty of lasses who would fall for his manipulations and insults hidden as clever compliments.
“What do ye speak of?”
Rocque had gentled his voice, although she could tell he was fighting a powerful emotion of some sort.
She rolled her eyes, more at his possessiveness than the thought of Hamish being a rival. “The weather, his prowess with a blade, and what a good kisser he is. The man likes to hear himself talk.”
Come to think of it, Hamish had always wanted to speak of himself, which is why she avoided him when possible. His opinion of his own skills and bravery were tiring.
When Rocque blew out a breath, she glanced his way. He was shaking his head.
“I ken I shouldnae be jealous, Mere, but I am. Ye’re my woman, and if I have my way, ye’ll be my wife. The way he’s always been sniffing around yer skirts…”
My woman.
She hadn’t agreed to that. What they had was an informal arrangement, and he’d asked her to marry him. That would formalize things, but she…
She couldn’t say yes.
Forcing a smile, she stretched up on her toes and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Then I guess ‘tis best I’m no’ yet yer wife, eh?”
Before he could do more than suck in a breath, Minnie bustled in with a pitcher of cold water. Merewyn nodded thankfully for the distraction and whirled toward the bed. “Let us see if those burns are clean!” she called in an over-loud voice.
Moira had done a thorough job, and Merewyn was able to examine the wound much easier now.
With sure movements, she made the whimpering lass a drink from a pinch of powdered hemlock mixed with water, and helped her sit up long enough to finish it.
“ ’Twill ease the pain, and make my work easier.” The drink would also make Jessie sleep deeply, which would help her heal.
She narrated her actions, more from habit than anything else. Over the years, she’d found that her patients—and their families—appreciated knowing what was going on. On the one hand, it would enable them to help themselves…and on the other, it made her actions less mysterious.
Many a healer has been accused of witchcraft because her patients didn’t understand her potions.
Patients’ potions. Heh.
“Och, well, ‘tis no’ so bad, lass,” she murmured, turning Jessie’s head to one side so she could brush her fingertips across the angry red welts. “Think of how much worse it would hurt if yer hair were caught against these burns, aye?”
The girl reacted to the humor in Merewyn’s voice more than anything, and blew out a little breath which sounded it might be distantly related to a laugh. In the fire which had killed her father, Jessie had lost her hair. It had been burning when they’d pulled her free, and her rescuers had hacked it off to save her. Most days she wore a tam to cover the remaining wisps, but Merewyn and Moira both had assured her it would grow back.
Clucking her tongue soothingly, reached for a bowl and a pouch. “This is powdered goatweed, which ye should remember well, I’m sorry to say.” Deftly, she pinched a bit into the bowl, and added some water, which she mixed with her fingertip. “See, I’ll spread it across the burns, same as last time. Last time I mixed it with animal fat, because I needed it to stay longer, but those burns were much worse.”
Soothingly, she kept up the narration as she moved across Jessie’s face and neck. “Luckily, none of these burns have broken the skin, although this spot does bear watching.”
She paid special attention to the hollow at the base of the girl’s throat, where the skin was more inflamed. When Jessie hissed in pain, Merewyn reached for the cloth to dip into the pitcher of cold water.
“The goatweed will keep down the infection and pain, but I am sorry to say the best relief will simply be cold water. We can rotate out the wet cloths in order to give ye relief—”
“I’ll take care of it, Healer.” Moira jumped up, her plump hands already folding another cloth.
Nodding gra
tefully, Merewyn rose to her feet and stretched her back as she blew out a breath. Silently, she said a prayer of thanksgiving that Jessie’s burns hadn’t been worse. Truthfully, some of the scarring from her earlier burns had likely protected her today. ‘Twas hard to tell, but it was possible her screams had been less from the heat from the porridge and more from the memory of the earlier pain.
Jessie’s eyes were getting heavy, and Merewyn nodded as she collected her herbs. “Keep bathing her. Once she’s asleep, just focus on the worst of it.”
Moira didn’t look up from her ministrations. “She’ll sleep through the night again?”
“ ’Tis likely.” The hemlock was potent, even in the tiniest of doses. “Tomorrow, make sure she has plenty of water. And plenty of meat and leafy greens, to replenish her humors, aright?”
The housekeeper glanced up with a kind smile. “Meat, greens, humors. Got it.”
“What’s this I hear about an emergency?”
The strident call came from just outside the room, and as Merewyn turned, she caught Rocque’s roll of his eyes. Luckily, by the time Lady Agatha had burst into the room, he’d controlled his expression. The dear old bat was the laird’s aunt, and Rocque’s great-aunt, but everyone in the keep referred to her as Aunt Agatha, and tolerated her histrionics.
“Ye had the bollocks to have an emergency without calling me?” she called angrily as she clumped into the room, her cane smacking against the floor in time with her wrapped foot.
“My apologies, Aunt,” Rocque said blandly as he crossed to lend her an arm to rest on. “We were occupied and forgot about fetching ye for yer approval.”
“Besides,” Merewyn butted in, “ye’re supposed to be elevating that foot.”
“Bah!” The old woman waved her hand. “And miss out on the excitement?”