by King, Susan
"Scots may not legally own English horses, though in the Highlands I doubt that matters," he explained. "Lasair comes of a strong Border breed and has done well enough in this terrain."
"Until now. You should be riding a garron. They climb well, and their hooves are tougher for the rocky ground."
"The Council did not provide me a garron," he snapped. He did not need lectures on horseflesh from a girl who spent more time on foot than in a saddle. "All they gave me was that cursed document. I brought my own horse because I had no desire to walk here from Edinburgh."
She did not glance up. "His hoof needs attention." She rubbed the stallion's glossy black shoulder, murmuring softly."What do you call him?" she asked Duncan.
"Lasair."
"A flash of fire?"
"He is fast on Lowland terrain, I assure you."
"He is a beautiful animal." She straightened and looked at Duncan, her eyes rainwater gray. Drawing her slender brows together as if she considered something, she turned abruptly. "Come this way, then," she called over her shoulder, resuming her walk. "I know someone who can tend to your horse."
"Who, and how far?" he asked impatiently.
"A healer," she said simply. "Not far."
Duncan watched her stride away from him. If he took the horse back to Glenran, he knew that Elspeth would stubbornly go her way without him. And he agreed with Diarmid Fraser: she was not safe out here alone. The MacDonalds were not to be trusted.
Sighing audibly, he tugged at the reins and followed her.
* * *
They climbed along the gentle shoulders of slopes whenever possible, avoiding the steeper peaks in consideration for the horse. Now and again, sunshine broke through the clouds, wide transparent beams that sliced down and disappeared quickly. They walked on in silence; if Elspeth spoke at all, it was more often to Lasair than to Duncan.
She strode ahead, quick and sure, her plaid swinging above smoothly muscled calves. Duncan found this simple action quite pleasurable to watch. Her braid, gold and copper threaded together, thumped rhythmically between her shoulders. Suddenly he longed to flex his fingers in that mass of hair, to loosen it and feel its cool silk again. He wanted to hold her and create a new rhythm for her body in tandem with his own. His heart bounded at the thought, and he sucked in his breath.
Frowning as he walked along behind her, he wondered, not for the first time since he came to Glenran, at the consistent, complex pull that he felt toward this girl. No matter that she had a brassy tongue that clashed with her delicate silver eyes and spun-copper hair. No matter that she flared his temper. He had been immediately and deeply attracted to her from the first moment that he had touched her in the stream. And each time he was with her, he wanted to touch her again, wanted to hear her voice, know her thoughts. Blinking in amazement at his own thoughts, he walked on.
That attraction was unlike anything he had ever felt before. A familiar, pleasurable current of lust was created whenever his strong male body responded to her femaleness, but there were many layers in his reaction to her. He could hardly comprehend what he felt regarding her; lust was only a part of that.
Simply, she fascinated him. He was aware of her presence, of the melody of her light, clear voice. Her professed ability to foresee the future—his future—touched off his curiosity, if not his belief. Watching her, he had seen that she was bold but vulnerable, keenly intelligent but stubborn. He had encountered in her delightful humor and a thunderous temper, and had tasted the sweet touch of her lips. Elspeth Fraser was by far the most profoundly intriguing part of his visit to Glenran.
The compelling bond between them had grown stronger; he could feel its pull. If she were a lodestone, he would be cut from that same stone, two pieces cast apart by fortune and thrown together again. Turned this way, he wanted to leap away from her; turned that, he was drawn to her like iron or steel.
The twitch of the girl's braid, her frown, her single dimple drew him in; her loyal, her bold and earnest character held him. Seeking to understand what was happening, he could not. And each time she looked at him, the lodestone seemed to turn.
This attraction to Elspeth went contrary to his plans for himself; he had left the Highlands behind, and had mapped out a peaceful, undisturbed life. He had endured enough turmoil, years ago, and wanted no more. Conquering his temper and his wilder urges, he had found intellectual sanctuary in the law. Wholly safe, if a mild challenge for one raised with strife and action.
He tightened his grip on the horse's rein, his scowl a twin of Elspeth's now. These feelings were disconcerting, unexpected and inconvenient. He intended to collect those signatures and leave Glenran; he intended nothing beyond that.
Elspeth glanced back, frowned at him, and lengthened her stride. Duncan, determined to keep up with her, walked faster, although he had hung back for the sake of the horse.
When he had been as young as these Frasers, a decade and more ago, riding with his cousins the Kerrs, he had enjoyed passionate involvements with young women. One dark-eyed girl he would have married. She had pleasured his body sweetly, and had a kind temperament. He had felt an obligation to her, a loyalty more than love. But she had died of a fever, and he had not met a woman, after that, with whom he cared to spend more than a night or two.
But even with that sweet girl, he had never experienced this deep, pounding rush of blood and heart and thought mingled together. He felt swept along by a force he did not understand.
Beside him, the horse nickered and pulled, slowing down.
"Easy," Duncan murmured. He stopped to look at the injured hoof. "Elspeth," he called.
She turned. "What is it?"
"He needs to rest." Seeing a huge old tree, Duncan led the horse that way. When he draped the horse's reins over a branch of the tree, Elspeth walked over to pat the animal gently along the nose, speaking softly.
Duncan sat and leaned against the gnarled trunk. He looked up into a maze of branches, heavy with dark green, shiny leaves. This was the largest yew he had ever seen, wide and enormously high, and intricately convoluted at the center of its trunk.
Elspeth reclined on the grass, leaning back on an elbow. She peered up into the screen of leaves. "This yew tree is said to be thousands of years old. See there, where it has split at the center—a new tree grows out of the old one."
Duncan noticed that the gnarled and twisted trunk was actually two trunks: the original yew tree, and the emerging trunk of a much younger tree.
"The new tree grows from the heart of the old," Elspeth said. "That is why the Frasers take the yew for our clan badge."
Duncan picked up a small broken branch from the ground, twirling it in his hand. He recalled what he had heard in childhood about tree lore. "The yew tree regenerates itself," he said. "Just as the Fraser clan has been reborn in these last twenty years."
She nodded. "Hundreds of Fraser men were killed by the MacDonalds at Blar-na-Léine. Like the yew, we are resilient. We will not be diminished by such as the MacDonalds." She frowned. "And now the MacDonalds are about to receive news that will not make them more fond of Frasers."
Duncan nodded. "I witnessed the letter that was sent to the MacDonalds. The promise to wed you to Ruari is withdrawn. Hugh sent it out along with his own refusal."
She tilted her head, her braid tumbling down. He saw the shining crown of her head. "Hugh told me that it was your suggestion," she said. "I am glad that it was done."
"You will be able to marry whomever you like. Hugh will surely find you a good husband." That thought cut through him more bitterly than any wind. He lowered his glance and stroked the smooth leaves in his hand, releasing a sharp piney fragrance.
She looked at him, a flash of silver, and then away. "You may have helped me to avoid this marriage, Duncan Macrae, but now you have made yourself some enemies."
"Have I?"
"Robert was very angry. You are the queen's lawyer, and a more powerful man than he. Robert hates to be proven wrong."
"He signed the letter courteously enough. He understands the law, Elspeth."
She shrugged. "I know him. He will seethe for a time. Though he may do nothing, he will not forget this. But you have a greater enemy than Robert."
"And who is that?" He flicked at the leaves idly.
"Your signature was on that letter as witness. If the MacDonalds learn that you are here, even though you have been sent by the queen, they may seek some revenge. Ruari has a savage nature. He will be infuriated by that letter."
"The MacDonalds are no new enemy to me, girl." His voice was quiet and hard.
She frowned. "What quarrel could a Lowland lawyer have with Clan MacDonald?"
"I am a Macrae," he answered. "My clan has fought MacDonalds for generations."
Tilting her head, she looked at him, so long a moment that he wondered if she had heard him. "Your heart still hurts, though your body has recovered," she murmured.
"What do you mean?" A chill crept up his neck.
Her eyes were extraordinary just then, the color of clouds and rain. "I sense a pain in your back and your chest. Old pain. You have been injured by the hand of a MacDonald. Though the wound has healed, you still hold the hatred. The anger. You lost much that day."
Inwardly, he was shocked, though he gave no sign. "Many people in my clan have been hurt by the MacDonalds," he said curtly. He glanced at the horse, who nuzzled on grass beyond the tree. "We should go. How much farther to this friend of yours, this healer?"
Elspeth got to her feet in one lithe movement. "Not far. Up the next hill and down again, to the edge of Glenran." She went over to the horse and took the reins.
Duncan stood, stretched his arms, and stopped. He felt the slight, stiff tug of the scar tissue that ran in a jagged strip across the ribs beneath his left arm. Drawing his brows together, he watched Elspeth as she led the horse up the slope.
He was certain that she did not know of the scar. Although she had seen him without a shirt, both occasions had been in darkness. The original wound had been deep and serious, but its traces were faded now. His frown deepened further.
A MacDonald had given him that scar, years ago.
Chapter 10
There's comfort for the comfortless
There's honey for the bee;
There's comfort for the comfortless,
There's nane but you for me.
~"The False Lover Won Back"
"Finish your ale, now, and I will look at the lawyer's horse," Bethoc said.
Elspeth nodded, sipping cool ale from a wooden bowl, and glanced at Duncan. They sat outside Bethoc's house, seated on a grassy block of turf placed against an outside wall.
Duncan had drained and set aside his wooden bowl, and stood leaning one shoulder against the wall of the house, his arms crossed. He watched Eiric run in the yard with the little dark bog-lamb. Elspeth wondered what the lawyer was thinking.
She had taken a moment, before they had arrived, to mention that Magnus had a small daughter, motherless now, who lived with Bethoc. The lawyer had lifted his brows in surprise, but had said little. Elspeth had noticed that he had a way of listening carefully, in patient silence, whenever the matter was of a serious nature. Though he was doubtless trained to listen well, she appreciated the quiet respect showed in his attentive silences. Whenever she spoke, he would fasten his blue eyes on hers, keen and alert. In those moments, she felt that he saw only her, heard only her. The feeling was as heady as strong wine.
"This morning," Bethoc said, "my little goat was missing. She was out in the pen by the garden, and I thought she had chewed loose the gate-rope and wandered down to the burn, but I have not been able to find her."
"Perhaps the MacDonalds took her," Elspeth said.
"I think it likely," Bethoc replied.
Duncan frowned. "Why would they take a widow's goat?"
Elspeth glanced at Bethoc, and saw the woman shake her head to discourage any mention of Ruari MacDonald's earlier visit and his brutality. Bethoc's bruises had already faded, and Duncan would have no clue of trouble.
"They might have taken the goat," Elspeth told Duncan. "And they might have done worse than that. Please, Bethoc, come to Glenran and stay with us. You and Eiric will be safer there."
"We are fine here," Bethoc said, with a stubborn tilt of her chin. "I have performed a charm around the croft, to keep us safe. I made a cross of rowan berries for over the door. And juniper and lavender grow just there, see, at the edge of the yard, as a protection from strangers."
"None of that protected your goat," Duncan said wryly. "A charm is not much good against MacDonalds who care to go reiving."
Bethoc stood. "Let me look at your horse." She limped ahead of him, her club foot rocking beneath her. Pausing by the horse, she bent down and picked up the injured hoof.
After a moment she nodded. "I will perform an eòlas, a healing charm. The swelling will cool and lessen." She went into the house and returned a moment later with a bucket of water and a short length of black yarn.
Kneeling by the horse, Bethoc murmured a steady, lilting chant as she looped the yarn around the leg. "Bone to bone, and joint to joint," she chanted. "Sinew to sinew, all heal in the name of the Lord." As she spoke, she tied knots in the yarn, pulling each one tight. When nine knots were done, she tied the string around the horse's fetlock.
Elspeth watched, holding Eiric in her arms. Bethoc lifted her hands over the water and made spiralling motions, murmuring another chant. Taking from her pocket a small stone with a hole worn through its center, she dropped it into the water and continued her soft sing-song.
Elspeth was familiar with the words and the gestures. Bethoc had taught her much about the ancient ways. She knew the chants for curing, and knew the power of knots tied in lengths of colored yarn, each color with its own power. She knew how to charm water for healing, and knew some of the ancient words and gestures that Bethoc said could raise the powers of earth and air and fire.
She had rarely used these rituals herself, but she knew that none of them were nonsense. Glancing at Duncan, she could tell that he was skeptical of this simple healing charm. Though his expression was mildly perplexed, he remained silent and observant.
Bethoc scooped a few handfuls of water to pour it over the horse's hoof. Steam rose, as if the hoof were hot, but the day was cool and the horse had been resting.
Setting Lasair's leg into the bucket of water, Bethoc stood upright and looked at Duncan. "The hoof will need to be soaked. Leave the horse here for the night."
"He does not like to keep his hooves in water," Duncan said.
She smiled. "He will stay in this water, for he knows that it will heal his wound."
Duncan raised a brow at this curious comment. "He will need a few days to heal," he said. "Let me pay you for boarding him."
Bethoc held up her hand. "No coin will I take from you, Duncan Macrae. Your horse will be fine by tomorrow, I think. But you come when you can, for the next few days will be busy for you. You are always welcome here."
Elspeth looked with wide eyes at Bethoc, who smiled and turned to walk into the house, beckoning them to follow.
"Sit there," Bethoc told Duncan. "You have a deep bruise under your eye. I can help it."
Duncan glanced at Elspeth, and sat on a bench by the open door in a thin wash of daylight. Bethoc fetched some clay jars from the wooden cupboard, and stood behind Duncan. Murmuring a low chant, she laid one hand over Duncan's left eye and closed her own. The hand-healings that Bethoc sometimes did could be very powerful; Elspeth knew she could quickly banish headaches and bellyaches, and heal cuts and bruises in a day or two.
Listening to the steady rhythm of Bethoc's breathing, Elspeth kept a careful eye on Eiric, who sat on the floor with a ball of yarn and a wooden spoon. The child wrapped the yarn around the spoon as if it were a spindle, with a look of intense concentration on her face. When the lamb wandered in the open door, Elspeth quietly shooed her out again.
Turning back,
she saw that Duncan sat patiently, his eyes closed, his long, thick lashes black crescents beneath black, straight brows. A slight flush touched his cheeks above the dark sand of his unshaven beard. Dark waves of hair fell past his jaw, feathering along his strong neck. Elspeth remembered how cool and soft his hair had felt beneath her hands last night. Looking at his firm, pliant lips, she remembered their pressure on her own, and she blushed.
As if he heard her thoughts, Duncan opened one eye and looked directly at her. Bethoc removed her hand and stood back, and Duncan kept his bright, intense gaze evenly on Elspeth.
She ducked her head, heat staining her cheeks, and turned to Eiric, who was so content with her yarn and spoon that she was oblivious to the others in the room.
Bethoc set a small earthenware jar on the table. "Here, mo cuachag," she said to Elspeth. "Apply this to our friend's cheek and nose. Rub in a good amount, gently. I will begin the supper."
"But—"
Bethoc smiled. "The best healing comes from the hand that dealt the blow."
Duncan's eyebrows jumped high at this. Elspeth sighed, knowing how deep the Sight ran in Bethoc. Still, she was surprised. She came forward, her flushed cheeks growing hotter.
Feeling his gaze on her, she dipped two fingers into the thick brown mixture of comfrey, willow and birch oil, used for muscle and skin injuries. Smearing the oily stuff delicately over his cheekbone and across the bridge of his nose, she was grateful when he closed his eyes, for his gaze was distracting.
His breath blew softly over her hand as she worked. She could have counted each dark hair of his brows and lashes. His features were precisely made, almost beautiful. She listened to the sound of her breath coming into rhythm with his.
Her fingertips soothed the slick stuff gently over his cheek and up over the bony ridge of his nose, back and forth, a sweet relaxing rhythm. The ointment grew slippery and warm. Her glance drifted to the firm curve of his mouth, so close to the palm of her hand; his breath drifted over her wrist. A swirl of excitement plunged through her, and she inhaled quickly. She kept recalling, like a flood of sensation, the feel of his lips over hers, the warmth of his hands last night.