Highland Treasure

by Lynsay Sands

  Faced with all of that should he fail to stop her, Elysande supposed nothing would be beyond his capabilities at the moment. Even razing the city of Ayr itself, she suspected. Burning down the inn with all its occupants, including innocents, would matter little to him.

  Shoulders slumping in defeat, Elysande nodded solemnly. “Very well. I will remain in the room and even pretend to be dying if I must.”

  Relaxing a little, Rory nodded and then glanced to Conn and Inan. “Ye must be careful no’ to reveal by word or deed that she is no’ dying. If Simon even suspects she is recovering . . .”

  “We’ll be careful,” Conn assured him.

  “Aye,” Inan agreed, tearing his gaze from the hallway briefly to make the promise.

  “It’ll no’ be so bad,” Alick said, speaking for the first time to address Elysande. “Ye’ll ha’e Rory and I to entertain ye most o’ the time.”

  Elysande smiled reluctantly at the promise, but said, “I’d rather have food and drink.”

  “That can be arranged,” Rory assured her.

  “But not a visit to the privy,” she guessed grimly as she became aware of that need.

  His gaze slid to a chamber pot on the bedside table, and Elysande barely held back a moan. But then she straightened her shoulders. “Fine. Then go out in the hall and talk to the men or something while I use it.”

  “Lass, I do no’ think—” Rory began, but something in her expression must have made him realize he wasn’t going to win that argument. He stopped speaking, hesitated and then nodded and headed for the door, gesturing for the others to follow.

  Chapter 15

  “So, what brought about your interest in healing?”

  Rory started to glance around at that question from Elysande and then caught himself at the last moment. She was in the bath. Naked. And he was seated in the chair by the window with his back to her. He was not supposed to look, and frankly he didn’t want to. It was torture enough imagining her in the bath without actually seeing it. He’d seen enough when he’d removed her wrappings to check her wounds. Both were healing nicely. The swelling was nearly gone from her head, and the cut had scabbed over, seeming smaller than the last time he’d checked it. As for the wound on her breast, it too was healing well. In truth, it was only a touch worse than a scratch. The knife hadn’t gone in far at all. He probably hadn’t needed to stitch it up. But on top of that, the bruising on her back and side had faded to a faint yellow and would be completely gone in a day or two. The same was probably true of the bruising on her bottom and legs, though he hadn’t been able to come up with an excuse to see that.

  “Rory?” Elysande prompted.

  “Aye, sorry,” he murmured, and then cleared his throat as he tried to remember what her question had been. When he couldn’t recall, he said, “Mayhap we should no’ talk while so far apart and with the shutters open.”

  He didn’t point out that someone in the yard might hear her speaking and realize she wasn’t close to death. He didn’t have to. They’d been arguing about what she could and couldn’t do for most of the night and day, including her desire to take a bath. Rory had understood. He was a frequent bather himself and knew it must have been driving her crazy to have to go without. But arranging a bath for her meant Rory had to lie and claim he wanted a bath, and then they had to risk the servants carrying in the tub as well as bucket after bucket of water. He hadn’t worried about one of them attacking her, but about her ability to feign unconsciousness until they left, and he felt it was important for them to continue this ruse until he could spirit her away from the inn.

  The lass was one hell of a stubborn woman. She’d pestered him about the bath almost nonstop while they’d consumed the food and drink Conn had brought up after telling the innkeeper’s wife it was for Rory and Alick. She’d continued her campaign through the games of dice, cards and chess that he and Alick had played with her to pass the time all day, and then again through the sup Conn and Inan had brought up for them to share with her. It was after the meal, when she’d threatened that if they would not arrange a bath for her, she’d just slip out and wash up at the horse trough once darkness fell. That was when Rory had given in. Partially because he wouldn’t put it past the lass to try it, and partially because she was becoming more angry and frustrated with him every time he refused. Rory found he didn’t like to disappoint and anger her.

  So, he’d ordered her into bed, warning her not to open her eyes or change her expression in any way that might give away that she was awake, and arranged for the bath to be brought up. Now, he was sitting at the open window, peering out at the side yard and trying not to imagine Elysande reclining naked in the tub of water just feet away.

  “Then close the shutters and come sit beside the tub so we might talk,” Elysande said more quietly, and it sounded almost like an order. When Rory didn’t respond at all except to freeze like a deer with a mad horseman pounding toward it, she confessed, “When we are not talking, my mind travels down dark paths. I think of my father’s crying out and stumbling from the table with de Buci’s dagger in his chest, and my mother screaming in agony as de Buci beat her, and my own helplessness in the face of their deaths and abuse as well as the beating I took. I—” Her voice broke, and he was sure that if he looked he would see tears in her eyes, but then she cleared her throat and said hoarsely, “When you talk, it all goes away, at least for a while.”

  Rory stood abruptly, closed the shutters and picked up the chair to carry it to the tub. He did not look at her. That was just asking too much. He kept his gaze on the chair as he set it down with its back almost against the tub, and then he sat in it, and cleared his throat before asking, “What do ye wish to talk about, lass?”

  “You,” she answered promptly, her voice lighter, though he suspected it was a forced lightness to cover the darkness her memories brought with them.

  The chuckle he gave then was just as forced. “Well, I fear there is no’ much o’ interest about me. I spent most o’ the last ten years training in healing. Reading any treatise on it I could find, and talking to any healers who would speak to me.”

  “Why?” she asked softly.

  Rory blinked at the question, and then smiled faintly. No one had ever asked him that question. His brothers and Saidh already knew and understood the reason, and no one else had ever cared enough to ask why it had been so important to him. Until now.

  “My mother,” he answered solemnly.

  “Was she a healer too? Did she train ye?”

  “She was handy at healing, aye,” he allowed. “But probably no’ as skilled at it as yer own mother. And no, I did no’ get my interest from her in that way and she never trained me.”

  “Then how did your mother raise your interest in healing?” Elysande asked, trying to understand.

  “She became ill about ten years ago,” he admitted. “Terrible ill. She had trained Saidh in what she knew about healing, and Saidh tried everything she’d taught her to try to mend her, but had no idea what to do. None o’ us did. When it became obvious she was no’ getting better, we sent fer the most skilled healers we knew of. But none o’ them kenned what to do either and in the end we could do naught but watch her die. It was horrible. I felt so helpless. I imagine Saidh and me brothers did too, but—”

  His throat was becoming constricted by a lump, or perhaps just a tightness there, and he had to stop and swallow to clear it, before continuing. “I was verra close to me mother. We all were, and losing her was hard on all of us,” he said, and thought it was probably the largest understatement he’d ever uttered. His family had always been close, his parents loving and supportive. Losing their mother had been a crushing loss for all of them, equaled only by losing their father and brother.

  “But I felt so useless just sitting there watching her struggle to live and not being able to do anything to help her,” he said, his voice low and full of the torture he’d felt at the time. “My brothers handled it by practicing in the bailey, or bea
ting each other to a pulp. Even Saidh did, but that gave me no peace or release, and I never wanted to feel that way again. I never wanted to watch a loved one just fade away and die in terrible pain and suffering, growing weaker even as their pain increased each day.” He shook his head. “So, I determined to do something about it. I stopped training with me brothers and started learning all I could about healing.”

  “I understand the helplessness,” Elysande murmured solemnly. “’Tis how I felt watching de Buci beat my mother. And I never want to feel that way again either,” she admitted unhappily. “Mayhap I should train in battle.”

  Rory gave a start and half turned around before catching himself. “What? Why would ye?”

  “Because if I’d had a dagger or some other weapon and had known how to use it, perhaps I would not have been so helpless. Perhaps I could have saved at least my mother from de Buci,” she said sadly, and then asked, “Would you teach me how to wield a knife?”

  “Aye,” he said, though he doubted there was anything she could have done to save her mother. Any more than he, with all the knowledge he’d gained over the last ten years, would now know what to do for his mother were she here and ill as she had been ten years ago. He’d never again encountered an illness similar to hers, not in the writings he’d read or the patients he’d tended. Rory had come to suspect that sometimes there was just nothing you could do for the people you loved, no matter how much you wished you could. Sometimes there just wasn’t enough knowledge, skill and love to save them. Otherwise, no one would ever die. But death was as natural and necessary as birth.

  The sound of water sloshing made him still. It sounded like Elysande was getting out of the bath. He almost asked if she was, but then just waited.

  “’Tis so nice not to be in constant pain anymore,” Elysande said suddenly, apparently deciding a lighter subject was in order.

  “I can imagine,” he murmured, thinking that her voice sounded like it was coming from several feet higher than it had been. She was getting out of the bath. Forcing away the image that came to his mind of her standing up, and water sluicing away down her naked body in the light cast by the fire, he added, “I think surely ye’ve suffered a lifetime o’ pain in the last two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?” she asked with alarm. “Surely it has not been that long?”

  Rory did a swift calculation, and then assured her, “It has been about twelve days since de Buci attacked Kynardersley, so aye, nearly two weeks.”

  “It does not feel like it has been that long . . . and yet, at the same time it feels like a lifetime has passed since de Buci charged in destroying everything,” she said sadly. “Is that not odd?”

  Rory suspected it was a rhetorical question so didn’t answer her, but he didn’t think it was odd at all. In fact, he completely understood. For time had passed quickly for him too since her arrival in his life, and yet at the same time he felt like she had always been there.

  He heard Elysande sigh and then the slap of her wet bare feet on the wooden planks of the floor as she stepped out of the tub. It was followed by the rustle of what he presumed was her drying herself with the linen the innkeeper had sent up for him to use. The bath was supposed to be for him, after all. And would be. He planned to use it once she fell asleep. He hadn’t bathed since the night they’d arrived either and was no more happy about it than she had been.

  “Are you going to use the bath now?” Elysande asked as if reading his mind. “I know you did the last time after I went to sleep, but if you plan to bathe you should do so while ’tis still hot. I promise not to look,” she teased. “I am just going to sit by the fire and brush my hair.”

  Rory automatically started to turn toward her to answer, caught a glimpse of rosy pink flesh fresh from the hot water and quickly jerked his head back.

  “Aye, mayhap I will,” he answered, and closed his eyes when he heard how rough and husky his voice was. Just a glimpse of her generous curves had affected him. Having to live and sleep so close to her for more than a week did not help. Oddly enough, neither did talking with her, laughing with her or even arguing with her. All of it just increased his attraction to her. One that had started out as admiration for her courage and strength, but had quickly come to include lust. Elysande de Valance was one of those rare women a man could like, admire, respect and still want in his bed.

  “I am sitting by the fire now. ’Tis safe for you to disrobe,” Elysande said lightly.

  Turning, he saw that she was indeed seated by the fire. She had donned her tunic, had wrapped her plaid around it under her arms, and was now curled up on the fur, brushing her hair in front of the flames. For a moment, Rory was tempted to join her and do the brushing for her, but instead he stood and removed his clothes, and then stepped into the bath.

  “Will Tom and the others return from Buchanan in time to board the ship with us?”

  Rory had just dropped to sit in the tub when Elysande asked that question. It was a small tub and he had to keep his knees up with the tops of his upper legs nearly flat against his stomach to fit in it, but the water was still hot and it felt damned good. He’d actually felt the tension seeping out of his body before Elysande had asked that question. It immediately made him tense again.

  Rory didn’t much care for lying, but when she’d asked about Tom, Donnghail and Fearghas earlier that day, and whether he’d tell them of his suspicions about Simon, he’d said he couldn’t, that he’d sent them to Buchanan to fetch more coin to cover their prolonged stay at the inn. It was the lie he’d told the others, and was the one he was sticking to.

  “Nay,” he said finally. “’Tis at least a two-day journey to Buchanan from here. But I’ll leave a message for them with the innkeeper.” What he was really leaving was a note telling them where to find their horses. The ship he’d managed to get the men on going south had been fully loaded with cargo and had not had room for their mounts. They’d had to leave them behind and he’d given them coin to cover purchasing new ones when they reached Bristol. He’d then paid to have their mounts collected and stabled at an inn known never to take English guests. The innkeeper’s wife had been raped and beaten to death by an Englishman some time ago and the man would sooner kill one as look at him. The innkeeper wouldn’t be telling anyone with an English accent, or in English clothes, anything, let alone that he had Buchanan horses in his stables.

  Fortunately, the horses weren’t a worry for their own voyage. Having just unloaded its cargo, and carrying his group only so far as Thurso before continuing on to collect a fresh load in New Aberdeen, the Mary Margaret did have room for their mounts. So at least he wouldn’t have to leave their horses behind and purchase new ones for the six of them when they reached their destination.

  “Why did you send Tom with Fearghas and Donnghail?” she asked now, sounding troubled. “You do not suspect him too, do you?”

  “Nay,” he assured her quickly. “It just seemed better to have three to guard against attack by brigands or such, and I wanted at least two o’ me men here to guard ye besides Alick and myself.” That was almost the truth.

  Afraid of what she might ask next, Rory prevented her from asking anything at all by telling her tales of the troubles he’d encountered on past travels as he rushed through his bath.

  “My, you have traveled a lot and had some adventures,” Elysande commented, still laughing softly over a tale he’d told her about his party being attacked while he was bathing in a loch, and his rushing out to fight them naked, hampered by the need to cover himself with one hand for fear his adversary might lop off his manhood.

  “Aye. I suppose I have,” he agreed, sounding surprised at the realization.

  Elysande hesitated and then asked, “Have you ever fallen in love during your travels?”

  “Nay,” he assured her with amusement. “No’ until n—” He broke off abruptly, and then cleared his throat and said, “I was always too busy learning all I could about healing to pay much attention to the lasses.”
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  Elysande was silent for a minute, considering what he’d said, and what she thought he might have been going to say. She was quite sure he had been about to say “not until now.” At least, she hoped those were the words he’d cut off, because he made her feel loved and cared for and safe. The way he acted with her reminded her very much of how her father had been with her mother, and they had loved each other dearly. Her father had always been following her mother with his eyes, as Rory did with her. Had always been caring and solicitous, as Rory was with her. Even when disagreeing about something, her parents’ love had been unmistakable.

  And Mildrede had thought Rory cared for her. The alewife’s comments about it were what had made Elysande notice his behavior toward her, and recognize her own growing feelings for him. Or at least acknowledge them. She supposed she’d been aware of them on one level before that, but hadn’t truly acknowledged them until Mildrede made her with a few comments. She liked the man. She liked how he led the men with confidence and ease. She respected him too, for both his healing skill and intelligence. And she wanted him. Ever since those kisses and caresses in the woods . . . well, they were never far from her mind. Nor was the desire to experience them again. And perhaps more.

  “What are ye thinking, lass?”

  Rory’s voice directly behind her made her start and glance over her shoulder to find he was out of the bath, clad in his tunic and plaid and settled on the fur behind her. She stared at him blankly, vaguely aware that he was taking the brush from her hand, and then she murmured, “That was fast.”