Fire Raven

by McAllister, Patricia

  “Morgan,” she begged him, turning her damp face into his linen shirt, “Oh, Morgan, don’t leave me yet. Please.”

  There was no question of it. He held her tightly, safely, in his protective embrace, till at last she slept.

  “THERE, THAT SHOULD DO it,” Winnie proclaimed with satisfaction, securing the last of the compresses in place and stepping back from her patient. “There now, Katie love, I want you to keep the ointment in your eyes. Blink as little as possible. We’ll change the dressings twice a day.”

  “’Tis soothing,” Kate admitted, raising a hand to touch the soft linen wrap over her eyes. “What’s in it?”

  “Eyebright, golden seal, and witch hazel. An old Welsh remedy for sore eyes. A week or so and you should be right as rain again.” Winnie wiped her hands on her apron and observed her patient with a motherly air. “In the while, I want no undue moving about. You’re bruised enough as ’tis.”

  “Aye, Mum,” Kate agreed, with a grin for the scolding undertone in Winnie’s voice. “I hope your order doesn’t rule out any calls of nature. After all the tea you’ve brought me, I’m nigh close to bursting!”

  A short time later, Winnie saw her patient settled for the night, and departed for her own cottage nearby. Kate lay in bed listening to the gentle drizzle of the rain outside, wondering why she couldn’t sleep. She knew the answer.

  He was in her heart, and he also had a name: Morgan Trelane. She rarely stopped thinking about him. She must admit she was fascinated by the man. His voice, his hands, the rugged contours of his face. She remembered how his face had felt to her touch: the proud aquiline nose, the high cheekbones, the thin yet sensuous lips. Morgan was smooth-shaven. She liked that, too. She saw him in her mind’s eye right now: his brown velvet eyes gazing down at her in the bed; an ebony lock of hair spilling boyishly over his brow. He was smiling …

  “Faeilean?”

  The deep male voice seduced her from the edge of consciousness, and she murmured with sleepy pleasure:

  “You called me Faeilean. Is’t my name?”

  Morgan chuckled. “Nay. ’Tis the Gaelic for ‘seagull.’ That’s what you reminded me of when I carried you upstairs, looking for all the saints like a wee, drowned bird washed up with the tide.”

  She smiled, and Morgan’s heart contracted in his chest. A hoarseness entered his voice.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t disturb your rest. I’ll leave — ”

  “No! I mean, please stay. I’m glad you came up to see me again.”

  Morgan swallowed hard and pulled up a chair. It was a mistake to linger, he knew. All the while his mind reasoned, his gaze devoured Kate in the bed. Tonight Mrs. Carey had dressed her patient in a deep blue nightrail. The color brought out the lustrous highlights in her dark hair.

  “I’ve brought the amulet along, as I promised. Here, hold out your hand.” She did so, and he placed the cold disk in her palm, curling her fingers about it.

  “’Tis red-gold, well-crafted, and looks ancient,” Morgan informed her as she explored the object with her fingers. “It is strung on a simple cord, one rather well-worn, from what I can tell. I imagine ’tis a talisman, either meant for protection or has some sort of pagan significance. I believe the bird carved in it might be an eagle, mayhap a raven.”

  “’Tis a raven,” Kate whispered, not aware of such knowledge until she spoke. Startled from her reverie, she clutched the amulet to her breast It comforted her, somehow, just knowing it was a part of her mysterious past, whatever her past was — a link to an unknown family.

  Morgan made no move to take it back from her. Instead, he offered:

  “I wondered if you wish me to read you a story. I thought a familiar book might bring back pleasant memories to you.”

  “Aye, I should welcome it very much.”

  He reached out, found, and held her left hand, while the other still clutched the amulet. He found her fingers every bit as calloused as his own. He drew her hand along with his to rest atop the leather cover of the book he had brought.

  “Let’s see if you can guess what I have here.”

  She smiled at the challenge. “’Tis thick. Is it the Bible?”

  “Ah! Our first clue. You were raised in a Christian household. This is working better than I imagined.”

  She shook her head, puzzled. “But you said the amulet appears to be pagan in design. What does it mean?”

  “Mayhap nothing. Often the two are combined. For instance, many here still celebrate Beltane and Samhain, the old Celtic festivals, along with Christmas and Lent.”

  She relaxed, then tensed with excitement again. “Let’s see if I know how to ‘read’ the letters, as well.” She drew her fingers over the gold leaf in the leather. Counting out the spaces, she concentrated a moment and then laughed with triumph. “A Midsummer Night’s Dream!”

  “Correct,” said Morgan. Her laughter was so sweet and spontaneous, he could not resist joining in. “I take it, then, you’re acquainted with Shakespeare. Shall I read a bit?”

  Kate nodded eagerly and leaned towards Morgan as he read from the book. It was one of her favorites. She knew it somehow, just as she knew Morgan’s rich, deep voice was suited to reading aloud:

  I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

  Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

  Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

  With sweet musk-roses with eglantine:

  There sleeps Titania sometime of the night

  Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight

  For an hour, she sat mesmerized as he recreated the scene of Shakespeare’s fairy kingdom. Its queen, Titania, chose a flowery woodland bank for her bed, whereupon she seduced her lover, Nick. It mattered not that fairy magic transformed Nick into a lower creature; the same blissful magic blinded Titania to her lover’s defects.

  Bedecking Nick’s crown with flowers, Titania murmurs love words in his ear. Kate imagined two twining vines, the pair of entangled lovers on their grassy bank beneath a swaying canopy. Her heart beat faster, as Morgan leaned close and murmured Titania’s words from another time, another place:

  “Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms ... so doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle gently entwist.”

  She closed her eyes, wishing she might confess her growing feelings for Morgan, praying he might somehow sense her need and thus respond. She heard him shut the book.

  “You must get some sleep. I didn’t mean to keep you up overly late.”

  “Oh, I loved every moment. I wished we didn’t have to stop,” she said wistfully. “I dread the thought of going to sleep again. Whenever I do, I have the same nightmare.”

  “The fire?” His voice held obvious concern.

  “Aye, and something more. There’s cold water rising around me. I’m trying to swim, yet I can’t. I’m too tired. I keep thinking ’twould be so easy to slip under the waves and find peace ...”

  Morgan drew the blankets up around her shoulders. “You’re tired, is all. Sleep now, and I’ll have Mrs. Carey check on you first thing in the morning.”

  He rose to leave, and she heard him pick up the taper holder from the table beside the bed.

  “Sleep well, Faeilean,” he murmured, lulling her to sleep with his gentle Welsh burr. “Know I’ll let no harm come to you, while you’re in my care.”

  Chapter Three

  KATE SLEPT DEEPLY AND awoke late. Since her arrival at the homestead where Morgan and Winnie lived and worked, she felt consolation for the first time, instead of fear. Though her eyes were still wrapped, she heard well enough to ascertain that the dreary rain had stopped at last. When Winnie tiptoed into her room a short time later, Kate’s first request was to have the windows thrown open wide.

  “Mercy!” Winnie exclaimed with real surprise. “Whatever for?”

  “Why, to smell the fields after the rain, of course.” Kate was surprised when a memory of rich, loamy soil came to mind. She aimed what she hoped was a wi
nning smile in the housekeeper’s general direction. “Please, Winnie?”

  “Well … ” Not approving, but anxious to please, the older woman bustled across the room. “Just for a moment, dear. We don’t want you catching a chill.”

  “Thank you,” Kate whispered. The moment the hinges creaked open, she slipped from the bed and fumbled her way towards the source of the cool, moist air pouring into the chamber.

  She felt each smooth, individual wooden joint beneath her bare feet and hesitated when she realized she must be on an upper floor. First levels customarily had sod floors. She didn’t know how she knew such a fact, but she did. Falcon’s Lair must be larger than she had imagined. She gripped the window ledge in both hands and leaned out, feeling her hair whip back in a sudden gust of wind.

  “Oh! ’Tis breezy out. How fresh it smells!” She drew a deep, reverent breath into her lungs. Then she also caught the tangy scent of the sea. Close. Too close. Her hands tightened on the ledge, and she made a faint, choking sound. Winnie hastened to pull her away and shut the windows.

  “Poor poppet! You’re shivering. Come back to bed.”

  “I’d rather not.” Kate swallowed the rising hysteria the salt-brine smell had unexpectedly brought to her mind and tried to concentrate on other things.

  “If you don’t mind, Winnie, I’d rather get dressed and move about. With your kind help, of course. My legs need some exercise. It seems they aren’t used to lying about.”

  Winnie shrewdly studied Kate as she took the younger woman by the arm to guide her across the room. She nearly made a remark about the girl’s skin — brown like a serf’s — then thought the better of it. It was obvious Kate was a young woman of low birth, though attractive enough. Quite likely she was a dairy maid or a peasant’s daughter, judging by her knowledge of the land and her unaffected airs.

  The only thing still puzzling Winnie was the girl’s speech. Kate spoke no Welsh. Her English was cultured and bordered on insubordination when she spoke to Lord Trelane as an equal. Winnie was amazed he’d let the girl get away with it.

  Mayhap the Master pitied Kate. Aye, Lord Trelane was gentle in nature and with his hands, as Winnie often witnessed when he handled the newborn lambs. Morgan knew animals didn’t fear or pity him. Because Kate couldn’t see him, he apparently felt comfortable with her, too. It could not last, of course. Winnie felt sad and relieved at the same time.

  “Here’s the settle, Katie dear. Now you sit tight while I go find the outfit I pressed this morning.”

  She saw a delighted smile part Kate’s lips. “Why, Winnie. You were prepared.”

  “Aye,” Winnie said with a touch of pride. “’Tis my place to anticipate whatever guests might need or want.” She settled Kate with firm hands onto the cushioned bench.

  “There. Now stay put. I’ll bring another girl, Gwynneth, to fix your hair. We can’t leave it all tumbled down and wild.”

  “Why not?” A male voice said lazily at Kate’s right side. “I rather prefer it thus myself.”

  Winnie saw Kate’s face light up at the Master’s voice. The younger woman was radiant as she turned toward Lord Trelane. Winnie didn’t miss the danger signal and was quick to step between them.

  “Go on with you, now,” she fussed. “This is a lady’s chamber, no place for a man to be. Send Gwynneth up, will you, on your way out. I’ll bring Katie down myself when she’s fit for company.”

  Morgan’s chuckle rolled low and rich throughout the chamber. “I intend inviting our guest downstairs to share my morning repast, Mrs. Carey. And I need a yea or nay, for Cook’s benefit.”

  “Yea!” Kate burst out before Winnie had opportunity to protest. With a triumphant wink at his housekeeper, Morgan turned and left.

  “Goodness,” Winnie murmured breathlessly. “I’ve never seen him look so happy.”

  “Isn’t he usually?” Kate asked. She knew the answer before her caretaker spoke again. There was some hidden, deep sadness within Morgan Trelane, something she sensed rather than saw.

  “Nay. Himself is moody as the Irish Sea sometimes. ’Tis no wonder — ” Sensing she’d overstepped her bounds, Winnie fell silent. The tense silence was broken by the arrival of another party, the maidservant Winnie had summoned to dress Kate’s hair.

  Gwynneth also brought a russet gown and kirtle for their guest. Winnie debated over what Kate might wear. The torn breeches and blouse she was found in were out of the question, as was anything finer than servant’s raiment. Besides, Winnie reassured herself, Kate couldn’t see the outfit. She suffered a pang of conscience anyway when Kate winced as the coarse, scratchy under-tunic was drawn down over her head.

  Compliantly, however, she allowed Winnie to hook the bodice and adjust the whalebone stays about her waist. A stiff, plain wired collar, called a rebato, rose nearly to Kate’s ears. Worsted hose and leather shoes completed the outfit. Winnie stepped back and pressed her lips together, wondering why the sight of Kate in such thrifty attire didn’t seem quite right.

  “Ah,” she nodded, mostly to herself. “Finish her hair, Gwynneth. I’ll return shortly.”

  Kate was prepared to feel the deep, soothing strokes of bristles upon her hair again. The moment Winnie disappeared, however, the brushing became vigorous, borderline rough. She raised a protective hand to her prickling scalp, hoping to provide a hint of some sort, but Gwynneth didn’t relent. Was it deliberate? Surely not.

  Kate had her answer when Gwynneth plucked several hairs from her head.

  “Ouch!”

  “Gray hairs, miss,” the maid servant said with a faint, unmistakable undertone of malice. “I’m sure you’ll be wanting me to get rid of them, now.”

  Shocked, Kate was spared a reply when Winnie burst back into the room. She heard the housekeeper cluck her approval.

  “The perfect touch,” Winnie said, setting a cap upon Kate’s head. She clapped her hands with delight, not noticing, as Kate did, that Gwynneth remained mutinously silent and did not echo her approval.

  When Kate’s hand rose to finger the dainty lace cap, Winnie explained, “’Tis called a shadow. Most fitting for an unwed maid still wearing her hair loose.”

  “Mayhap I’m married,” Kate suggested, though her mind was disturbingly blank in regard to any details about her former life.

  “Methinks not, dear You wore no wedding band.”

  “Perhaps I was robbed before I washed up at Morgan’s feet.”

  Gwynneth made a soft sound. It sounded suspiciously like a snigger. The maid was silenced by Winnie’s disapproving cluck.

  “Perhaps,” Winnie echoed noncommittally. “Now I’m sure you’ll be wanting to break your fast. Let me guide you downstairs.”

  Kate nodded. She rose and took Winnie’s arm, walking carefully beside the older woman as they navigated the stone stairs. She still sensed Gwynneth’s piercing stare on her back as they descended to the first floor. She wondered what cause she had given the maid to dislike her so. She forgot the strange incident the moment she heard Morgan’s voice.

  “There you are. I was wondering what took so long.” Kate sensed Morgan studying her; she also ascertained something was not quite right. Indeed, his tone sharpened. “Mrs. Carey, I wish to speak to you after the meal. I’ll take care of Kate till then.”

  Morgan transferred Kate’s hand to his own arm. She felt the fine lawn of his shirt under her fingertips. The material was soft, yet the definition of his arm beneath was muscular. She took a deep breath, wondering why she felt light-headed.

  “I’ll go slow. Lean against me if you wish.”

  If you wish. The words echoed in her mind and took on a different meaning. She restrained herself from doing what he suggested. Morgan’s presence was comforting, yet disconcerting at times.

  His lips brushed close to her ear as he murmured, “I don’t know your tastes, so I ordered some of everything.”

  “Except broth, I hope,” Kate responded with a nervous little laugh.

  “Oh, most definitely
broth. I should enjoy any excuse to touch those rosy lips of yours again, albeit with a spoon.”

  The suggestive bit of banter caught Kate off guard. She felt a corresponding tightness in her throat. Her riposte was quick and playful. “Fie, sir, methinks y’are becoming too familiar.”

  Morgan observed Kate’s high color, the rapid beating pulse on her slender neck. He didn’t know why he felt inclined to tease her in the first place. He saw how she responded. She was attracted to him. To a man she couldn’t see and didn’t know.

  So, too, had a few women in his past risked such further knowledge, only to be shocked into screaming fits once they saw his marred face in the full light. He must harbor no illusions as to this acquaintance. It must, by necessity, end soon.

  “Here’s your seat.”

  Morgan’s voice was suddenly cool and impersonal. Kate felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach as his impersonal hands guided her onto the chair. Had she angered or disappointed him somehow? She felt obliged to make amends.

  “Please, where are you going?” She heard his footsteps recede into the distance.

  “To the other end of the table, of course. Otherwise there won’t be room for all of the dishes.” Morgan made it sound a lighthearted jest. She knew his heart wasn’t in it. She sensed his disapproval again and wondered what she’d done to displease him. Had she been too coy, too bold? Was he annoyed by her unsophisticated banter? It was obvious enough, she was no courtly beauty. She felt awkward and ugly, on the verge of tears.

  Her distress was set aside when a mouthwatering smell wafted down the table. Despite her upset, she found she was ravenous.

  Morgan broke apart one of the hot, steaming scones and slathered it with creamy butter and preserves. Just as he was prepared to sink his teeth into the fresh-baked bread, he caught sight of Kate sitting at the other end of the table, hands folded in her lap, patiently awaiting his help. He could hardly ignore the hint when she licked her lips.