His lord lay cushioned on pillows in the opulence of the tent he insisted on setting up each night. He behaved as if he were an important member of the royal family on tournament instead of what he really was. An evil old, dying man.
“Sir Peter!”
Young Edward ran toward him, his face radiating the healthful glow befitting a child.
“My father says I should give this to you.”
He held out the leather-covered flask containing the potion his uncle relied so heavily upon in his illness.
Though Hawthorne and his son traveled back to England under the protection of Moreland and his men, he had severed all ties with Lord Henry after the incident at MacQuarrie Keep. Richard seemed to have realized at last that his only son was too precious a treasure to entrust to Lord Henry’s keeping.
“It’s most important you remember the chatelaine’s instructions for his lordship’s medicine,” the boy warned. “No more than three times each day. She made me swear to it.”
Peter didn’t doubt that she had. He’d watched the chatelaine herself prepare the potion for his uncle, a dangerous mixture of briony and honey, opium and henbane, all tossed together with a splash of hemlock juice.
Though not a student of the healing arts, even he understood that what was contained in the flask would not cure his uncle, but merely dull his pains. And while a small amount of the addictive mixture might ease his uncle’s suffering, too much would serve to hasten his end.
It was no wonder the chatelaine had instructed the child to withhold the flask save the three times. And of no concern to the old crone how many times the boy’s ears would be boxed for that withholding.
“I shall remember, Edward.” As he remembered many things.
He accepted the flask the boy offered, ruffling the child’s hair with his other hand. “You’ve been an excellent page, boy. I’d be honored if you’d one day consider applying as my squire.”
He’d miss having Edward at Moreland Manor. His smile, rare though it had been of late, had been a boon to the gloom of their home.
“Thank you, Sir Peter.” The child started away, stopping with a deep practiced bow before running back to his father.
Edward’s life should be much improved now and Peter found he was grateful beyond measure for that.
“Where is he? Send the damned brat with my potion!” His uncle’s shout rang out from the tent, his next words lost in another fit of coughing.
Peter passed through the flaps and kneeled at his uncle’s side, extending the flask as he did.
“Your page is no longer with us, your lordship. Perhaps, to make things easier for you, you’d like to hold on to the flask yourself.”
“Yes, yes,” his uncle agreed, taking the flask from his hands and tipping it to his lips.
Once, twice, and a third time before Peter stood and made his way back outside.
Memories assaulted his thoughts as he strode away from the tent. Too many of those memories ones he could only hope to one day forget. Too many he’d give his very soul to purge from his mind.
Memories of the sweet smile Henry’s wife, the gentle Elspeth, had offered to everyone she encountered. Memories of the fear in her eyes each time her husband had entered the room or of her screams, muffled behind the door of the chamber she’d shared with his uncle. Memories of her body after her fall from the tower, broken and bloodied but still clutching her lifeless babe.
Perhaps it was the more recent memories that would haunt him longest, like that of his uncle, deep in the throes of the opium, reliving those last moments with Elspeth on the tower.
These were the memories that wracked him, bringing with them guilt because he’d been blind to the danger, blind to the evil that was Henry. Guilt for not having acted in time.
Whether his uncle had pushed her from the tower himself or ordered it done by another, Peter might never know. Which one made no difference, her death was on his hands all the same.
Behind him, for the first time tonight, all was silence. Above him, a streak shot through the sky, blazing a brief and glorious trail before it disappeared.
By his ignorance and oblivion, he had failed to help the gentle Elspeth when she’d needed him. Perhaps by his actions now he had at last given her soul the peace she deserved.
Tipping his head once more to the heavens, he sent up a prayer for the recovery of the woman left behind at MacQuarrie Keep. It was through her sacrifice he’d come to know the miracles that would forever change him.
He’d witnessed the warning of the miracles. Witnessed and heeded, sending up with his prayers an oath never to be the man his uncle had been.
Thirty-five
Chaotic dreams assaulted Leah as she floated somewhere outside her body in a gloriously color-streaked void. Even in this ethereal state, Leah recognized the severity of the shock her physical body had suffered.
She’d never healed anyone so close to death before. Even her sister’s husband Jesse had more life left in him when she’d healed his gunshot wound than poor little Edward had. Her only attempt at anything even close to this had been when the Tinklers had brought Robbie back to MacQuarrie Keep, but the seal of the old magic encasing his wounds had protected her even as it had prevented his healing.
Your gift is strong, but not without limits, daughter.
Words spoken into the chaos by a beautiful man with her sister’s eyes. He claimed to be her father, this apparition floating next to her in the river of mist.
When the waves of mist had first licked up around her waist, lifting her from her feet, she’d panicked. Fear that she’d drown pummeled her until voices, thousands of voices, had reassured her. The mist itself swirled with every color of the rainbow, heaving and seething like a thing alive, holding her aloft, gently carrying her through the currents.
A ragged streak of light had split the colors around her and she’d felt a cool touch to her forehead and heard her mother’s voice.
You are stronger than you know, my Lee-Lee. Let it go. Release the negative. Embrace love.
Hallucinations. There could be no other answer. Just as she’d hallucinated Drew sitting at her side each time she’d tried to awaken.
She’d swear it was him sitting there, wringing out a cold damp cloth to place on her forehead, holding her hand, tears tracking down his cheeks.
Hallucinations, all. Drew would never cry, least of all over her.
But hallucination or not, she wanted to be with him. More than anything in her entire life, she wanted to be at his side, as his wife, no matter what it took.
Around her, the mist rose up in mighty waves as a putrid slime oozed from her body and into the beautiful swirling colors. Like whitecaps in an angry ocean, the waves swept over her, washing against the ooze that tried to steal the color from the iridescent river until, at last, all that remained was the sparkling mist, clear and exquisite as a rainbow of liquid crystal.
How long she’d floated in the joy of that mist she couldn’t say, but as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone. The beautiful apparition that claimed to be her father, the blinding white light with her mother’s voice, the soothing fingers of the mist itself. All of it gone.
All except Drew.
She opened her eyes to find him sitting at her side, his head resting against the back of his chair, eyes closed. His hand, large and warm, encased hers.
After so long in the void, her body felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds, pushing down into the bed. No hallucination, this, there could be no doubt.
She was back. From where, she had no idea, only that wherever it was, she was back from it and next to her, the man she loved slept in a chair, his hand clasped around hers.
Drew’s dark lashes lay against purpled hollows reminding her of the black lace fan she’d coveted as child in the costume store down the street. As she watched, the lashes fluttered and lifted and, slowly, his velvety brown eyes focused.
“Thank the Fates!”
He was on his feet
in an instant, gathering her in his arms.
“I thought I’d lost you.”
Please don’t be a hallucination. But if it was one, she didn’t ever want it to end.
“Yer grandmother swore you’d recover, vowed it had not been such as this the last time you’d used yer gift.”
No, this had been a new experience, even for her.
“I’d never healed someone so close to death before. I guess it took a little more out of me. And Edward? Is he all right?”
“Yer wee cousin was fine within moments after the . . .” He shook his head as if he grappled for the words. “. . . the event. Yer never to attempt the like of it again, do you ken? Never.”
Such a bossy man, her husband, but surely he didn’t mean his words. After all, they both knew he’d married her with the full intent that she’d use her gift to heal him. A healing she’d told herself would never happen.
But now?
He’d risked his life for a second time for her. First in the churning waters of the loch when he’d pulled her from the clutches of death and then again when he’d come to MacQuarrie Keep to save her from Richard’s plan for her.
She wouldn’t refuse him the gift that would make his life better. Especially not if healing him was what it would take to keep him in her life.
She lifted her hand to stroke his cheek but he grabbed it, placing his lips to her palm.
“As soon as yer fully healed, I’m taking you home to Dun Ard, where you’ll be safe.”
“This is my home, Drew. MacQuarrie Keep.” Her responsibility as well as her home with Richard gone.
“As my wife, you belong at Dun Ard,” he insisted stubbornly.
“As your wife,” she repeated, the awe of his words filling her heart.
She could point out that he belonged here, taking his rightful place as the next laird if he truly meant to be her husband in more than name only. If he wanted her as his wife for more than her gift alone.
She had to know the truth.
“I don’t need to go back to Dun Ard with you to heal the injuries to your body, Drew. My gift works anywhere. I can do it right here.”
Right now, if that was what he wanted. She was ready. Both her body and mind fully recovered. What she’d been through in healing Edward had shown her she had no reason to fear her gifts. Healing Drew would be simple. Knowing she was capable of that and so much more had lifted all desire to deny her blood right.
It was like being a child again, feeling the wonder of the gift coursing in her veins.
“No!” He all but shouted the word, clasping her hand to his heart. “I meant what I said, dearling. Never again. When I asked it of you, I’d no idea that in order to heal me, you’d have to take on the injury yerself. Watching the woman I love fight for her life these last days was something I dinna want to do again. You’ll no ever put yerself through that again. No for me. No for anyone.”
The woman he loved! Her. He wanted her for her, not for her gift. The knowledge sizzled through her blood, making her want to spring from the bed and scream it to the heavens.
“I’ll no allow it.”
Allow?
That one word burst her celebratory bubble quickly enough. She’d tell him what he could do with his allow, all right.
But looking into his eyes, seeing to the depths of his soul and the sincerity of his love for her, she bit back the words she would have said. She could well continue this bickering long into the night, but arguing with him wasn’t what she had in mind. The years stretched out ahead of them for her to educate him on the error of his word choice. For now, she felt much too good for either arguing or educating.
Rolling to her side, she pushed up to sit, slapping his hands away when he tried to stop her.
“You need yer rest, dearling. Yer injuries need time to heal.”
How little he understood.
“They are healed. Completely.”
In reply, he arched a disbelieving eyebrow.
“Seriously. That’s how it works. Once it’s gone, it’s as if it never happened.”
His look of utter skepticism said more than any words could.
Fine. Two could play the silence game.
Reaching up, she loosened the ribbons holding the neck of her nightdress, sliding one shoulder out to free her left arm.
“What do you think yer doing?” he demanded, rising to his feet at her bedside.
She smiled her reply, edging the other shoulder down until her right arm was free as well. Her next move was to push the gown to her waist and remove the bandage from her rib cage.
“I’m simply showing you that there’s nothing left to heal.”
His hand lifted and his finger traced the spot where the wound had been.
“Just hours ago,” he whispered, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “You . . . you need yer rest,” he stammered, like a man who hadn’t yet accepted the reality confronting him.
“I don’t need rest,” she corrected, urging his hand up from her unblemished ribs to cover her breast. Her breath caught in her throat at the contact, her body instantly heating with desire. “What I need is you.”
And then he was there beside her, his lips moving from her face to her neck, his strong hands holding her close to him as he whispered in her ear.
“In that case, dearling, you’ve my oath as yer husband. You’ll always have what you need.”
As he would, if she had anything to say about it.
His shirt and plaid disappeared in record time, not that she was keeping track of time, really. Time didn’t matter. It was her ally. She needed only to have her wits about her when he lost his.
Hanging from his neck, her stone.
When she reached up to touch it, he pulled it off over his head, dropped it down over hers, tracing its marking as it lay between her breasts.
“Where it belongs,” he whispered.
He made love to her slowly, sweetly, taking his time until she thought she might scream from the beauty of it all.
When the time came, after he’d sent her cascading over the edge of her own need and brought her back again, she was ready.
As his back arched into his release, she slid her hand from his abdomen down, digging her fingers into his damaged thigh, latching onto the scar he thought to keep her from healing.
He shouted when the magic hit, driving deep inside her with the force of the magic behind him. The power sparkled behind her eyes, ricocheting from her body to his and back again, melding them together until at last it shattered around them into a billion glittering shards.
Her highlander was healed.
Epilogue
MACQUARRIE KEEP
THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND
AUTUMN, 1305
Wild Woman! Bring yer man some tea!” Drew propped his head on his arms, watching the emotions dance across his wife’s face as she made her way toward him.
Her ties hung loose and open, allowing him a lovely view of the stone she always wore, gently swaying back and forth between her breasts, enticing him to crawl back under the covers.
“Sorry, my sweet. The Wild Woman’s got things to do today and so do you.”
It was undeniable fact she spoke.
“And so I do,” he answered, pushing himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. “Dispute Week.”
It was all he could do not to groan with the knowledge of how his day would go.
First week of each month was set aside at MacQuarrie Keep for the hearing of disputes. As new laird, it was his responsibility to pass judgments and settle petty problems to keep the people happy.
With each complaint he heard, he had a greater understanding as to why Hugh had “done him the honor” of naming him laird right away. It left crafty old Hugh all the time in the world to sit in a boat with Walter, fishing and tilting back a jug of whisky while he was the one sitting in a dank hall listening to whiners.
“Maybe you’ll get lucky and everyone will be happy with each other for a c
hange.”
“Maybe.” He took the steaming mug she offered and set it on the table next to the bed, reaching out quickly to catch her wrist before she made her escape.
She squealed as he pulled her back down on top of him, but there was no fight in the woman, only giggles.
“Drew! There’s no time. They’ll be waiting for you in the Hall.”
“Let them wait,” he countered, burying his nose in her hair. She smelled of spices and herbs, like some exotic dish he couldn’t get his fill of. “I find I canna leave my bed just yet.”
“You’re a spoiled, spoiled man, Laird MacQuarrie,” she teased, biting her way up his neck.
Yes, he was. Spoiled and happy beyond belief. He had a home and a loving wife and one day, if the Fates saw fit, MacQuarrie Keep would be filled with all the little MacQuarries Margery nagged about regularly.
“Are you happy, Lady MacQuarrie?”
In response she smiled, covering his hands with hers. “Ecstatic, my laird. And you?”
“Beyond happy, dearling.”
On that first night they’d spent together at Sallie’s, he’d held Leah as she slept and he’d known then she would be the instrument through which he would reclaim the future the Fae had stolen from him.
What he hadn’t expected was the manner in which that future would be returned to him.
Leah had given him so much more than the Fae had taken away. She hadn’t just healed his body; she’d healed his heart as well.
With her at his side, for the first time in his life, his soul was complete.
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Melissa Mayhue
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Prologue
BERWICKSHIRE, SCOTLAND
1296
This hardly looked a proper cottage at all, let alone the home to a seer of Thomas the Rhymer’s fame.
Healing the Highlander Page 25