by Amy Jarecki
Janet did as asked. After putting a small pillow under her palm, Mary Catherine cut the dirty bandages while Robert held a slat beneath the injured arm. Within two ticks of the mantel clock, the healer removed the old splints while he supported Janet’s arm with the new slat. Aside from a few gasps, the brave lass remained calm.
But the healer didn’t rewrap Janet’s arm right away. Mary Catherine took a salve, doused a cloth, then lightly cleansed the injury. “You’re healing well. Though you’ll need to keep splinted for two more months.”
“Two months?” Janet cried. “Why so long?”
“If you want full use of that arm and fingers, you’ll do as I say. Earlier, you moved your fingers with a fair bit of pain, did you not?”
“Aye.”
“Then ’tis settled.”
While Mary Catherine applied the top splint and started wrapping a fresh bandage around the arm, Janet shifted her gaze to Robert. “The healer is as stubborn as you are.”
“Me? I am not stubborn.”
“Och,” said Mary Catherine, tying off the bandage. “I believe that’s the first tall tale I’ve ever heard you utter, Your Lairdship.”
Janet grinned—at least she wasn’t crying or howling from pain.
“Now, how does that feel?” asked the healer.
Janet raised her arm and slowly lowered it to the bed. “Like I have two boards bound to my arm.”
“You’ll grow accustomed to it. In the meantime I’ll give you a tincture of mallow, valerian, and willow bark. It will help reduce the swelling as well as take the edge off the pain.”
“Is it laced with whisky?” asked Janet, waggling her eyebrows—the wee vixen.
A stunned expression crossed the healer’s face. “I beg your pardon?”
“Hmm.” The Cameron lass smiled, feigning a picture of innocence. “It seems Mr. Grant swears by his whisky.”
Mary Catherine turned to Robert, shifting a fist to her hip. “You mean to say you gave this poor lady whisky?”
He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Merely a tot or two, and ’twas the only thing available at the time.”
Janet sniggered, clapping a hand over her mouth. “I’m not saying another word.”
“Come here, young man, and sit in the chair. ’Tis your turn.” Aye, the cut on his face was the first thing the healer noticed when she’d arrived.
“I’d be obliged if you would remove these stitches.” He plopped onto the seat.
“Do they itch?” asked Mary Catherine.
“Aye.”
“That is a good sign.” She hovered over him with a bottle of salve and a piece of cloth. “But the skin hasn’t quite healed enough to remove them yet. Tell me, what happened?”
Robert hissed with the sting from the ointment. “Miss Janet’s brother sliced open my face with a dagger.”
“Is he still alive?” Stilling her hand, the woman glanced back to the bed.
“When last I saw him,” he growled.
“A Cameron attacked you with a blade and has lived to tell about it? Heavens, I never thought I’d live to see the day.” She swiped a bit more salve over the wound, and none too gently. “Unless…”
“What?” asked Janet.
Mary Catherine replaced the stopper on the bottle. “Unless a bonny lass altered his priorities.” Smug satisfaction curled up the corners of her lips. “Och, are ye smitten, Your Lairdship?”
Groaning, Robert stood and chose to change the subject. “Did you say you had a tincture for Miss Janet?”
“I did. And those stitches can come out in another four or five days.” She retrieved a vial from her basket and set it on the bedside table.
“Is there anything else you need, Miss Janet?” Robert asked.
“Nay, aside from a sturdy horse to take me home.”
“It would be best if you remained at Glenmoriston. The roads are too hazardous for a coach this time of year, and you risk another fall if you ride horseback. In fact, Robert, you must send a missive to her kin telling them she mustn’t ride a horse until the arm is completely healed.”
Janet bolted upright, swinging her legs off the bed. “You cannot be serious. I rode down from the slopes of Ben Nevis this very day and you expect me to remain here for two months?”
“Come, lass. Now that you’re safely at Moriston Hall, there’s no use tempting fate. What is two months when compared to a lifetime?”
“But my mare needs proper care. I cannot sit idle while she suffers the onset of winter.”
“I’ll see to it my stable master treats her like a royal filly. I do not want you to worry yourself. She’s a strong-willed horse, that one. If anyone can set her to rights, it is my man.”
“Excellent.” Mary Catherine picked up her basket and swept out the door.
Robert followed, taking the woman by the elbow and hastening her below stairs before she blurted another word in front of Miss Janet. He still couldn’t believe the woman’s audacity—even if she had been the midwife at his own birth.
Smitten? I have never in my life been smitten.
“Would you like me to return in a few days to remove your stitches?”
He glowered. “I reckon I can do it myself. I’ll send for you if need be.”
“Very well. And I meant what I said. I’ve lived a great many years and have seen many things. I was your father’s healer most of his life. So you must heed what I say: everyone in these parts kens Sir Ewen Cameron is ruthless. Dispatch a missive straightaway and tell him everything that happened—and make it sound grave—life and death for his daughter. Tell him you are solely responsible for keeping her alive.”
“Och, mind yourself. I have matters in hand.” Robert didn’t care much to be lectured by a mere healer. “Truth be told, I was in the midst of setting quill to parchment before your arrival.”
Lewis and Jimmy were waiting in the entry. “Jimmy,” said Robert. “Please see Mary Catherine home.”
He bowed, paid, and thanked her. Once she was on her way, he took Lewis by the shoulder. “As ye ken, the Camerons insist they have not stolen our cattle.”
“And you bloody believe them?”
“Not certain, but I believe their claim that they’ve endured losses as well. Take what men you need and scour every alehouse between here and Achnacarry. Do not wear anything that ties you to Clan Grant. Say you’re in the market for prime beef at a bargain. See what your inquiries turn up.”
“All right, but the thieves aren’t poaching a few head. I reckon they’re organized.”
“Aye. That’s another reason we blamed the Camerons, is it not?” Robert clapped his henchman on the back. “I want proof one way or another. Someone in Scotland kens what happened to our yearlings. Hell, if you must ride all the way to Crieff, then do so.”
“Very well. We’ll leave at dawn.” Lewis started for the door but stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Ah…what do you plan to do with Miss Cameron?”
“I’ll dispatch a missive to her father come morn.” Robert’s jaw twitched—he’d already started the letter, making it clear his sister was dutifully overseeing Janet’s convalescence. Thank the stars he had a sister, or else things would be even more difficult to explain.
“God’s bones, Lochiel is likely to declare war.”
“Perhaps. But he kens if he rides on Moriston Hall with the bloody Cameron army, I’ll repay his actions tenfold.” All this talk about his archrivals was making him tense. Robert rubbed the back of his neck. “Mary Catherine says ’tis too perilous to move the lass. Said to wait two months.”
“Two bloody months? That’s past Hogmanay. And she’ll be here over Christmas.”
“Christ.” With a groan he hit his head with the heel of his hand. “I hadn’t thought about the holidays.”
Lewis gestured south with his palm. “You rode here from Rannoch Moor, did you not?”
“I did.”
“I reckon you should bundle her up and—”
“Haud yer wheesht.”
Robert sliced his hand through the air and cut him off. “I will decide when ’tis time to take the lass home. You have a task at hand and you’d best set your mind to it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Janet stood in the center of the rose bedchamber while Mrs. Tweedie worked on the hem of one of Emma’s kirtles. “It will only take a moment to tack this up. At least it will set you to rights until the seamstress returns.”
Janet swiped a hand across her forehead. “Och, I do not ken why everyone is making such a fuss.”
“I don’t think it is a fuss,” said Emma from her perch on the chair. “You need a change of clothes and loose sleeves for your arm.”
Since the healer had replaced the splint, Janet felt more comfortable, though she couldn’t discount the benefits of the tincture and the feather mattress. She’d slept better last eve than she had since her fall. This morn Robert had started the ado by summoning the dressmaker after the morning meal. The woman had taken measurements and left, saying she would return with new clothes a sennight hence. Next Emma had volunteered one of her kirtles for the interim. The problem was that Robert’s sister was a good six inches taller than Janet.
“I thank you.” Janet glanced at the heap of blue taffeta discarded in the corner. “I’m afraid my gown is ruined.” It had suffered tears and snags during her tumble from the cliff, not to mention the dirt and grime from spending three days in the bothy. Her shift’s condition was equally deplorable. Fortunately, Emma had found a spare that had been her mother’s. It smelled of camphor, but Janet wasn’t about to complain, because the length was perfect. And it felt wonderful to have fresh linen against her skin.
Emma stood and held out her hand, smiling expectantly. Guessing the lass wanted her to respond, Janet grasped the lass’s fingertips. “Is all well?”
“Aye.” Emma slowly moved her free hand to the sling and touched it lightly. “Does your injury pain you overmuch?”
“I’ll not say ’tisn’t uncomfortable, but I am certain the worst is past.”
“You mustn’t jostle it,” said Mrs. Tweedie with a mouth full of pins.
“True,” Janet agreed. “Any wee bump hurts so badly my head spins.”
Emma moved her hand to Janet’s shoulder. “May I see you?”
“Don’t mind her.” Mrs. Tweedie scooted around to the back. “She sees with her fingertips.”
That’s why she acts awfully familiar. Janet nodded—though, realizing the gel wouldn’t be able to observe the gesture, she also replied, “Certainly.”
Emma placed her cool palms on Janet’s cheeks. “I ken our clans have feuded, but I hope you and I can be friends.”
“I’d like that very much.” Janet closed her eyes while curious fingertips skimmed across her lids.
“’Tis forever lonely at Moriston Hall.” The fingers continued upward.
“Do you attend clan gatherings?”
“Aye, clan only, otherwise I must be kept hidden.”
Janet knit her brows. “Why?”
“Robert says ’tis for my own good—as did our father afore he passed.”
“That hardly seems fair.”
“But it is the way of it. People outside of kin are afraid of the blind—they think us demons.”
Janet knew how superstition pervaded the Highlands, and Emma was right. Being out in the public eye could be traumatizing. Nonetheless, the poor lass deserved happiness, just as did any living soul.
“Your hair is soft,” said Emma, still smiling, even though Janet was trying to blink back tears. How awful it must be to grow up without sight, let alone be kept hidden.
Janet sniffed. “’Tis an unruly bird’s-nest most of the time.”
Laughter accompanied the fingers as they swooped over Janet’s coiffure, breaking every rule about maintaining a respectable distance. “I think you’re telling tall tales.”
“Oh no,” Janet said emphatically. “My lady’s maid complains about the knots often enough. Though Robert…” Goodness, her face grew hot while she drew her hand over her mouth.
“Robert?” asked Emma and Mrs. Tweedie in chorus.
Why didn’t I think before I blurted his name? Janet certainly couldn’t mention a word about the bath—or being naked and soaking wet, for that matter. “W-well, I’m left-handed, and when we were trapped in the bothy, my hair was in a tangle…f-from the fall, and Mr. Grant used my comb to work through the knots. Believe it or not, he was a fair bit gentler than Lena, my maid.”
“I believe it. Robert has a great capacity for tenderness—at least with people he deems worthy.” Seeing with her hands, Emma made her way back to the chair and sat. “Hmm. I reckon my brother is fond of you.”
“Heaven’s stars.” Janet gripped her midriff to quell the sudden fluttering. “I think His Lairdship acted out of chivalry and will be much relieved when I am no longer a thorn in his side.”
“Hogwash,” blurted Mrs. Tweedie, being quite free with her opinion. She lumbered to her feet. “I’ve known that lad since the day he was born, and I’ll tell you right now, he’s enamored with you.”
“Oh no, I—”
“I think so as well.” Emma bobbed her head. “He’s never brought a lady to Moriston Hall.”
“He hasn’t. And he shouldn’t have brought you here, either, you being Sir Ewen Cameron of Lochiel’s daughter.” Mrs. Tweedie fanned her face. “Lord kens what will happen now.”
“Nothing. Mr. Grant will take me home as soon the roads clear, and that will be that.” She highly doubted an entire sennight would pass before Robert ignored Mary Catherine’s orders and decided to take her home. Janet moved to the looking glass and pretended to examine her hem while her heart raced. His Lairdship couldn’t possibly harbor feelings for her…just as she should not have any feelings for him. She brushed her fingers across her lips. Too clear in her memory was the passionate kiss they’d shared. A forbidden, secret, and irresponsible act neither one of them could afford to repeat.
The problem was that she’d enjoyed it, wanted more, craved more every time she thought of him—his ruggedness, the scar forming on his cheek, the vivid intensity of his gaze. Lord knew she was in uncharted and dangerous waters. Worse, nothing good could come of an affair between them. She could not entertain the idea of a union with a Grant, even though he was a laird in possession of a great many acres of land and a fine manse. Her father would sooner lock her in her bedchamber for the rest of her days than consent to such a marriage—if Robert were so inclined, of course.
I’m daft and thinking like a brainless finch. Robert Grant has no more interest in me than he would in an alehouse tart. He said himself he was no stranger to women’s garments. I mustn’t forget that he is a rake and no better than his reputation.
“Och, you’re full of doom and gloom, Mrs. Tweedie.” Emma tapped her chin. “If Robert is smitten, then everything will work out for the best.”
The housekeeper busied herself by putting away her shears, silk, and pins. “Aye, if you’re living in a fairy tale.”
“Whyever can they not?” asked Emma.
“Please, enough of this talk.” Janet faced them. “My arm will heal quickly. I shall return home to my kin, and you’ll most likely never see me again.”
“But I thought you said we’d be friends.” Emma folded her arms and frowned.
“We will be. You are welcome to visit me at Achnacarry anytime. I will make sure of it.”
“That would be well and good, but I ken you’re bonny—and affable. You’ll be escorted down the wedding aisle soon,” Emma ventured, growing meddlesome while Mrs. Tweedie looked on with an inquisitive stare. “Are you already promised?”
The door swung open.
“Ah—Rob—er—Mr. Grant,” Janet said in far too high a pitch.
He stepped in and bowed. “Ladies.”
She returned his bow with a hasty curtsy. “As you see, Mrs. Tweedie has kindly hemmed one of Emma’s kirtles for me.”
“It looks fine.” His eyes flic
kered no farther than her bodice while he moved nearer. “The courier is here to take my missive to your father. Before he sets out, I thought you might like to write to him as well.”
Janet glanced to her sling. “I would most definitely, but I’m afraid I am unable to hold a quill.”
“Thought of that—if you dictate, I’ll write on your behalf.”
“See, Mrs. Tweedie,” said Emma. “Everything will be set to rights. I feel it in my bones.”
Robert’s smile fell. “What’s this? Are the pair of you conspiring?”
“Never.” For a sightless lass, Emma had quite an expressive face. She was scheming all right. Though Mrs. Tweedie looked far less amused.
His Lairdship beckoned Janet with his fingers. “Come. I have parchment and quill waiting in the library.” Offering his elbow, the Highlander escorted Janet away. Thank heavens. Things had grown far too intrusive in the rose bedchamber. If Robert hadn’t come when he did, Mrs. Tweedie might have started mustering the Grant defenses, and Emma seemed apt to send for the local minster to administer hasty wedding vows.
“I hope my sister hasn’t been too overbearing,” he said.
“Not at all. She’s charming.”
“And a bit impractical. Woefully, I have had no choice but to keep her sheltered from society because of her…blindness.” He whispered the word as if it pained him to think of his sister as imperfect—a demon, as many would believe. “She doesn’t understand many things.”
“Oh no, I venture to guess you underestimate Emma. She’s perceptive as well as bonny.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” He opened the library door and ushered her inside. The room was lined with shelves and great leather-bound volumes. It smelled of old parchment and the candle wax encrusting the chandelier above. On the floor, a woolen Persian rug with filigrees of red, ivory, and black muffled their footsteps.
He moved to a writing table, but Janet chose not to follow. “Have you considered when you will start searching for a husband for her?” She could do a bit of scheming of her own.