by Willa Blair
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Willa Blair
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The Healer’s
Gift
by
Willa Blair
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Healer’s Gift
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Linda Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 706
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Faery Rose Edition, 2014
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-366-7
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-389-6
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Willa Blair
“Willa Blair delivers sizzling romance and adventure.”
~Rebecca York, bestselling author
“If you love romance, Scotland, and mystical happenings, Willa Blair is for you.”
~Mary Hart Perry, award-winning author
“THE HEALER’S GIFT is another captivating tale from Willa Blair, who brews fabulous Highland stories filled with love, adventure and magic.”
~Toby Devens, author
“Willa Blair is a wonderful story-teller!”
~Elizabeth Ashtree, RITA® finalist
“Looking for spellbinding Highland romance? Willa Blair delivers.”
~Chassie West, Edgar- and Anthony-nominated author
~~*~~
Don't miss the rest of Willa Blair's
bestselling, award-winning Highland Talents series:
HIGHLAND HEALER (Highland Talents, Book 1)
“This is a great novel. Lovers of Hannah Howell’s highland novels will love this just as well.”
~Romancing the Book (4 Stars)
“The wonderful setting in the Scottish highlands, along with the mix of valiant characters and a creatively robust storyline succeed in making it enjoyable.”
~InD’Tale Magazine (3.5 Stars, heat level 4)
“Action-packed and full of twists and turns…fast-paced and…a sweet romance that will warm your heart. Well written and full of imagination, this story is a must read for historical romance fans!”
~The Romance Reviews (5 Stars, Top Pick)
“Fast paced with strong characters and an intriguing plot.”
~My Book Addiction Reviews (4.5 Stars)
“A rich, enjoyable read.”
~Satin Sheets Romance Reviews (4 Satin Pillows)
~*~
HIGHLAND SEER (Highland Talents, Book 2)
“This is different enough from other Highland romances to stand out from the pack, and I will definitely read the others in this series. Ms. Blair’s writing style is natural and evocative...”
~Romantic Historical Reviews (3.5 Stars)
“[Sixteen]th-century intrigue, muscled men with claymores and a doomed romance—is it any wonder I was reluctant to leave the rich, riveting world of HIGHLAND SEER? Good thing I can make my way back easily enough—all I have to do is treat myself to Blair’s celebrated debut, HIGHLAND HEALER.”
~USAToday HEA
“The lilting dialogue, the portrayal of life in early 1500s Scotland and the wonderful description of the vast and beautiful highlands really puts one in the center of the story…a delightful highland romance!”
~InD’Tale Magazine (4.5 Stars)
Dedication
This one is for my husband,
who is rock-steady to my flights of fancy,
and party animal to my wallflower.
He has friends wherever he goes.
I’m glad he crossed paths with me.
Chapter 1
“The laird summons ye.”
Coira MacDugall frowned at the waves rolling onto the beach below the cliff where she stood. Though the lad’s breathless voice disturbed her, neither his arrival nor his announcement surprised her. She’d been aware of him moments before he spoke.
It had happened again.
She schooled her features into an unreadable mask and glanced over her shoulder, intending to acknowledge the summons, but the lad was already running back toward the keep as if the devil chased after him. Her heart sank.
Today, she would finally face the judgment of her clan.
Coira inhaled the moist sea air, hoping to relieve the sudden dryness in her throat. Everything seemed strange, as though she was seeing through someone else’s eyes. Since she’d returned to MacDugall lands from the Highlands, everything looked the same—the same stone keep, the same mountains of the distant isles to the west, the same beach below her feet. But everything had changed.
What had happened to the pampered lass who had suitors falling at her feet, yet spurned them all? Where was the fury, the dismay, the fear that had led her to violence in the Lathan hall? Was she so different?
She remembered it all with perfect clarity, though numbly, as if it had happened to someone else. When the Lathan laird announced his marriage to the Healer, Coira vowed to put an end to it. But when she learned he’d ordered her sent home, her last illusion died. She had failed to make a place for herself among her own people, then failed again at the Lathan keep. She was unwanted. Unloved. Unloveable. But the blame was hers to bear.
At the wedding celebration feast, mad with her grief and anger at being set aside for the lowland Healer, she’d held a young lass before her, a knife to the bairn’s throat. She had taunted Toran Lathan, and then stabbed his new wife. Stabbing the Healer had been bad enough, but threatening a child in order to force the Healer within reach was something she would never forgive of herself. That she’d done it all over losing the laird’s affections to his new bride—affections she realized she’d never enjoyed and never would have—shamed her past enduring. Toran, had tolerated her, but never cared for her, not as a man cared for a woman he wished to take to wife.
She remembered the cold steel of his blade at her throat. He tried to stop her to protect his lady, not to kill her. The hot bite of the arms master’s blade in her side was meant to kill, but hurt no worse than those two all-important words applied to someone else, not to her.
His lady.
Coira knew she would have been dead in moments, save for her victim. She’d been told Aileana fought free of her husband’s grasp and dropped to Coira’s side, pausing only long enough to stanch the bleeding wound Coira had inflicted in her breast.
After all that, Coira’s only punishment had been to be sent home in disgrace. Banished, but with her life, which could easily have ended there in that hall, save for the gift of the Healer.
The gift of her life…and perhaps, more.
Coira ran a hand over the scar hidden beneath her clothing. The scar left by Donal MacNabb’s blade. In the few short weeks since the wound had been inflicted, it should have pained her, been sore, or itched. But nay, the Healer’s work le
ft no discomfort. None in her side, at least. But in her soul?
Early glimmerings of the change within her had started on the journey home. Strange sensations raised the hair on the back of her neck but subsided as quickly as she noticed them. At first, she’d blamed them on her growing anxiety over her homecoming as she and her Lathan escort made their way carefully through Campbell lands and drew closer to the coast and MacDugall territory. She felt moods she could not claim as her own—gone as quickly as she recognized them. She’d assumed she was still in the grip of her madness, certain her own emotions plagued her, changing wildly from numbness to disgust, amusement, even satisfaction. She’d been surrounded by people on arrival, and she blamed what she felt then on exhaustion from her journey. But nay. The idea had come to her, slowly. She somehow sensed the emotions of her escort and the crowd.
The MacDugall healer had recommended a time of quiet reflection to soothe her before she rejoined the life of the clan, so she’d spent much of her time in her chamber, or walking these cliffs and down to the beach, alone, undisturbed, wrapped in the numbness that had protected her since leaving the Aerie.
She turned her face into the wind and let it blow her hair in a stream behind her. A few strands whipped around her nose and mouth in quick, irritating flicks, like the hints of emotion that she got from others. Lately, she realized she knew when someone was nearby, even if she did not see or hear them.
Nothing was the same. She was not the same person she’d been only weeks ago, but she must answer for what she’d done.
What would the MacDugall decide? To hang her from the Dule Tree, there at the edge of the woods beyond the keep, where the clan’s criminals traditionally met their fate? Her hand pressed against the smooth skin of her throat. Perhaps they would not hang her, rather merely finish the job Donal MacNabb’s blade had begun.
Nay, they would do nothing so drastic. Thankfully, her victim had not died, or death would have been her fate as well—if she’d survived Lathan blades. Without Healer Aileana’s intervention, she would not be standing here now.
Time in the dungeon, then. Or as a scullery maid. Or put to cleaning chamber pots. Or...
Where was her anger? How could she face such a future without emotion?
The sun peeked from behind tattered clouds. She shielded her eyes from the glare. Today was considered a calm day on the coast. But the wind off the water had a chilling bite along with the salty tang. Midwinter was still more than a month away, but the sea air carried nearly as much cold as the air at the higher elevation and more northerly climate of the highlands. Shivering, she gathered her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Perhaps it was more than the cold? Was it nerves or fear that had her insides quaking? Perhaps she’d finally come to her senses.
Sea birds wheeled and screeched above her. Would she hear their cries after today?
She hoped so. Something else had changed that gave her a glimmer of hope. The old laird who’d sent her to the Lathans as a prospective bride had died while she was away. He would have been outraged by her crime, but would have deemed the worst part of her betrayal her failure to secure a marriage. He had wanted an alliance to benefit the clan in its constant struggle with the Campbells.
People she overheard in the halls still spoke of the years of unrest and successive battles as factions in the clan fought for control. That strife lasted until the old laird’s nephew, a distant cousin of hers, had been named laird just a few weeks before her return. She hadn’t seen him yet, but she would today. She’d been summoned to face the consequences of her actions and accept the punishment of her clan.
Who would attend her audience with the laird? How many emotions would bombard her newfound sense with disgust, anger, and embarrassment?
It mattered not. She straightened her shoulders and regarded the stone edifice looming over her. Like it, she was proud and strong. And changed. The old Coira would have stood her ground and glared her contempt at any who dared to judge her. Her breath faltered. Would she be able to maintain her dignity? Or would she be reduced to pleading for the laird’s mercy? What would the new Coira do?
For a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut against the humiliating scene she imagined. Nay, she would bear whatever came to her. Nothing they could do to her would make up for what she had done in the Highlands. Chin lifted, she followed the path back to the gates. It was time to face her past.
****
After the windy cliffside, the solar’s warmth seemed oddly welcoming to Coira. Sunlight streamed through mullioned windows, and a fire glowed in the hearth. She inhaled the scents of leather, books, and peat smoke, familiar and heady after the astringent salt air.
She was alone in the chamber, which surprised her. She’d grown up in this keep and knew where to find the laird’s solar. Since no one had been sent to escort her, perhaps she had arrived more quickly than expected. But nay, the angle of the sun’s rays told her she’d arrived on time.
Instead of taking a seat at the large table dominating the room, she moved to the window. The view was little different than the one she’d regarded along the cliff and did not hold her attention now. She turned her back on it and studied the nearby bookcases.
She could read, but rarely had when she lived at home before her fostering, preferring to spend her time gossiping with the other lasses over their needlework. She pulled an especially worn volume from the nearest shelf and opened it, moving to the window to better see the lettering within. Poetry. French. But even familiar words made no sense to her. Suddenly irritated, she realized she was in no state to concentrate enough to tease out their meaning.
“Ah, Francois Villon. Do ye read his poetry, then?”
Coira’s heart skipped a beat as the deep voice broke the silence. She snapped the book shut and whirled to face the intruder. Her eyes widened as she regarded the man before her. Tall, a few years older than she, with the gold-streaked brown hair common among the clan, his external demeanor was calm, his expression and tone of voice cordial.
Although she hadn’t heard him enter the room, she realized where her irritation had come from—him. As he arrived, or certainly when he approached her closely enough to recognize the book she held, a favorite, judging by the wear on it, she felt it. Yet his irritation faded, quickly replaced by curiosity. He held out his hand.
Without thinking, she placed the book in it. Her irritation suddenly spiked. Hers? Or his?
This man was angry, but hiding it behind his deceptively simple question and polite treatment of a stranger. How much did he know about her?
“Are…are ye laird...” she managed to stutter.
“Logen MacDugall, aye, newly Laird MacDugall. And ye are Coira, recently returned to us from the highlands.” He turned the book over in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, then returned his gaze to her. “Ye must tell me of yer adventures there. I’m sorry I failed to welcome ye before now, but our healer wished ye to have some time to yerself.”
So his anger had not been directed at her? Her lack of understanding of this new ability frustrated her, but she dared not show it. If he was not the firebrand she expected, bent on delivering her punishment, she did not want to incite his anger further. What should she do? A flush warmed her chest and neck.
“I...I thought that was why I had been summoned, laird. Because of my...misadventure there.”
A hint of sadness drifted to her, heavy and low, followed by a slight creasing of the skin between his brows, then stronger chagrin. Logen’s lips pursed and he stepped away, behind the table. “Indeed. Please, sit down.”
“Is no one else joining us?”
“What? Nay. I wish to speak with ye without the...interference of others.”
Coira exhaled softly, tightly controlling the urge to sigh in relief. No onlookers. No one else to judge her. No storm of others’ emotions in the chamber to confuse and overwhelm her. She might get through this with her dignity intact after all.
She nodded and took a seat, head down
, hands clasped in her lap, and waited.
When the silence became unbearable, she looked up again. Laird MacDugall, Logen, watched her. A chill ran down her back, but she held his brown-eyed gaze, suddenly emboldened by his hesitation.
“Ye ken this is an unusual...”
“I understand this is unusual...”
They spoke over each other. Logen’s lips lifted slightly, and Coira nodded in acknowledgement of the awkwardness. “How much did my escort tell ye?”
Logen sat and placed the book on the table in front of him. “Enough.” Suddenly he seemed cold, closed off from her.
Coira blanched. Enough...for what?
Logen’s gaze drifted to the window where the sun hid behind puffy clouds. His unreadable expression gave her no clues as to what he was thinking—or feeling.
Though her strange new talent worried her, the loss of its insight frightened her. Waiting for his judgment set her teeth on edge. Coira fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest.
Suddenly, a ray of sunshine brightened the room. Logen turned to her and nodded. “The Lathan, on the advice of his lady, excused yer actions due to the illness ye suffered while ye fostered with them, and hoped returning to the sea air would make ye well.”
“What?” Confusion swept over her, stealing her breath and forcing her to her feet. Suddenly, she was back in the Lathan great hall, watching as Toran, Laird Lathan and his new bride, the Healer Aileana, approached her. She could feel the trembling child beneath her arm, the dirk in her other hand. And see Donal MacNabb’s steely glare focused right between her eyes. Her own feelings were still missing. Numb. Even the memory of plunging the dirk into the Healer’s chest and the fire of Donal MacNabb’s blade as it pierced her side failed to arouse any of the fury that had been a howling, raging beast within her that night. It was as if everything had happened to someone else. Not to her.
“Are ye well, Coira MacDugall? I was told the Lathan Healer treated ye.”
“I...” Coira’s knees went weak, and she lowered herself into her seat as another memory claimed her attention. Dimly, as if viewed through morning fog, she saw Aileana leaning over her where she’d collapsed on the rush-strewn floor. A blood-soaked cloth covered the wound Coira had inflicted on the Healer, but her hands moved over Coira’s dying body with strength and…what? She felt the warmth of the blood welling from her own wound as Donal’s blade was drawn from her side. Then it all faded away, except she could almost hear Aileana speaking to her, like an echo from distant hills. Faint, but repeating. What had the Healer said to her? What had she done?