by Willa Blair
“Oh!” As she bounced off, her hands flew up to cover her mouth, garbling her exclamation.
Logen reached out to steady her. “Where are ye goin’ in such a rush, lass? What’s amiss?” By the saints, she was crying! She kept her gaze on the floor, but the tear tracks on her face were unmistakeable, as were the hiccupped sobs she fought to choke back.
“’Tis nothing to concern the laird...to concern ye,” she said softly.
Logen heaved a rueful sigh. “Everything about this clan concerns me, lass. Now, where were ye headed?”
“Upstairs...to my chamber.”
She still wouldn’t look up at him. With her sensitivity to others, anything could have caused her upset.
“Come in here and tell me the problem.” Logen herded her gently into his solar and closed the door with his foot, not wanting to release the grip he had on her shoulders for fear she’d bolt. He steered her to a chair and saw her seated, then hesitated and took the seat next to her. The chair behind the table would make him seem too distant, too official.
“I shouldna be here.” Coira wiped the tears from her face and gave him a tremulous attempt at a smile. “People will talk.”
Logen snorted. After spending the last several hours trying to unravel the tangled knots of the clan’s business, he had a headache and no patience for any more nonsense. If the laird could not speak in private with the woman the clan elders had made his charge, then a pox on all of them.
Coira stood. “Ye’re irritated. I’ve interrupted yer work. I should go.”
“Nay, not with ye.” Logen waived her back to her seat. “I’m irritated with the fools who think political games and assassination are the way to bring stability and prosperity to this clan or this country. The idiots who killed for power seem to have had no ability to see to this clan’s welfare.” At her quizzical frown, Logen grimaced. He forced himself to lean back and soften his tone, despite his irritation. “Never mind. Tell me what has ye so upset. Did someone attack ye?”
“No’ directly, nay.”
“What does that mean?”
“I was working in the herb garden. Two women passed by. I felt...”
“Ach. Now I see. Ye couldna shut them out? Close them off?”
She shook her head. “I havena the skill. Although there were a few moments when I thought I’d managed to make them...dimmer somehow.”
“Ye must seize on that, then.” There was a downside to knowing what everyone thought of you, Logen realized. Despite how useful it would be to know who hated him enough to plot against him—or didn’t care about him but wanted their own faction in power enough to kill him—drowning in those sensations all the time would wear anyone down. “Are ye sure what ye sense was directed at ye? Ye just misunderstood my irritation. Perhaps they...”
“They were talking, too. I heard their cutting remarks.”
He rubbed his jaw. “Ach, I’m sorry for that.”
“There’s naught ye can do.”
“Save cutting out their tongues?”
Even without possessing a special sense such as hers, Logen could easily read Coira’s shock. Then she picked up on his amusement, because she relaxed for the first time since he’d seated her.
“Ah, ye jest.” She sighed. “Although the idea does have some merit.”
“Ye must learn to protect yerself from the emotions of others. I’ll help ye, if ye wish.”
Her shoulders lifted with tension as she sat forward. “Why would ye? Ye have more than enough to do as laird.”
Logen sighed and fought to keep his dismay from her. The last thing he wanted to tell her was that the elders had made her his charge, so he was responsible for her. And felt responsible for her. Nay, bad as that was, it was only the next-to-last thing he wanted to tell her. The last thing was to confess his interest in her was personal, affectionate, sensual. Aye, she’d sensed it. But saying it out loud? It was much too soon for that. And given her experience in the highlands, he expected she’d be wary of anything other than friendship from him. From the sound of it, pursuing the last laird had nearly destroyed her. Aye, and nearly killed her.
She shifted in her chair. “I dinna need yer pity, laird.”
Logen winced. He needed a wall around his feelings, too, it seemed. “I dinna feel pity, Coira. ’Tis dismay over the difficulty of what ye need to learn to do.” Aye, she could sense what he felt, but not why. And truly, he did not lie. “The unknown.” He glanced toward the window, thinking.
“Ye forget, I can sense what ye’re feeling, no matter what ye call it. I ken it.”
He needed to divert her. “Can ye do now what ye did with those women? Can ye block me out?” He indicated the area between them and moved a hand up and down. “Build a wall between us?”
She frowned, but settled herself and closed her eyes. “I’ll try.”
“What do I need to do?”
Her brows drew together again. “Naught. Give me a moment...”
Logen willed himself to calmness.
“Nay! Dinna do that,” Coira suddenly exclaimed. “Think about what had ye irritated when I arrived.”
Logen glanced toward the ledger on the table and the stack of papers—scraps, mostly, littering the surface around it—and groaned.
“That’s better.”
The twitch of her lips into a satisfied smirk only served to increase his irritation. Better that, he supposed, than quailing under how much she had at stake if this didn’t work. In comparison, his task seemed trivial. Nay, not trivial. The incompetence of his predecessors had consequences, too, for the clan as well as for him.
He risked a glance in her direction. Her frown gave away nothing but concentration. He stood quietly and moved around the table. If she wanted him irritated, he might as well accomplish something with the irritation. With a sigh, he opened the ledger and bent to work.
****
Coira built dunes along the pounding surf of Logen’s irritation until they stretched as far as her mind could see. Then she built them higher. His irritation still hid behind them, the roar muted, the wind blocked.
It worked! But could she maintain the barrier without focusing all her concentration on it? She opened her eyes and glanced around, surprised to see that Logen had changed his seat. She hadn’t noticed. That pleased her. A dune crumbled and some of the roar came back as Logen frowned at his ledger and made a note on the side. Coira closed her eyes and rebuilt the barrier, then opened them again.
Logen glanced up and met her gaze. He smiled.
Coira’s heart stuttered to see it, but her barrier held.
“Did ye do it?”
“Aye, I am. But I want to try something else.” She stood, turned away from him, and moved to the window. “Keep working.”
She held the essence of the dune wall in the back of her mind while she studied the activity in the bailey below Logen’s window. Then she moved to the bookcase and pulled a volume from the shelf, noting its weight, the texture of the binding, the dust along the top. Logen muttered an oath behind her, but the dunes held.
Sweet relief filled her. She could do this. At least here, isolated in Logen’s workspace, for a time. But in a crowd? Or facing hostile emotions directed at her? That would take more practice. She needed a harder test. She replaced the book on the shelf and moved back to the table. Logen set his work aside and faced her.
“I want to touch ye, to see if my barrier will hold.”
“Take my hand, then.” He held his arm out.
Coira took a deep breath, brought the dunes to the forefront of her mind and took Logen’s hand in both of hers.
The dunes dissolved and the roar of the angry surf crashed over her. Coira pulled away from Logen and shuddered. “Too much.”
“I’m sorry. I...these records were poorly kept.”
Was it only irritation with his task she felt? Or was there something else angering Logen as well? “Please, I’d like to try again.”
At Logen’s nod, Coira closed
her eyes and rebuilt her barrier, higher and stronger this time. With a fingertip, she touched the back of his hand, tentative at first, then with more confidence as her barrier held. She opened her eyes to meet his gaze. Heat flared like the rising sun on a summer day, the sand of the beach scorching her bare feet, burning away his irritation. An unexpected wave of emotion of a very different sort crashed over her, drenching her in his longing.
Sucking in a breath, she stepped back, diminishing, but not breaking, the link between them. “Logen...”
He shook his head and blinked as if dazed, then met her gaze. A hot flush stained his cheeks red. “I apologize. I didna mean for ye to feel that. I tried to stop it...”
“Nay, dinna apologize. I expected anger. Ye startled me. But Logen...” Her fingers curled into her palm as she fought for calm. She could not make the same mistake again. He might want her, but not in the way she wished for.
“Dinna say it.” He stood and moved away, anger now rolling off him in waves.
At himself, she was sure. He desired her and had not meant to let her know. She saw his chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath and began to control his emotions, seeking calm. She mirrored him, sighing and forcing her body to relax.
“I willna ask ye to do, to become, anything ye dinna wish for,” he said, turning to stare out the window. “I ken the reception the clan would give the idea of…ye with me. ’Tis too soon. I ken it. But ye are no’ the only one alone here.”
He paused and she held her breath. What would he say next?
“Ye please me. Yer gift fascinates me. And ye can help me. Aye, ’tis self-serving, I ken that, too. But ye may be the only person here I can trust.”
“Ach, Logen.” Her fingers spread, and she lifted her hand toward him, fully aware of what that admission cost him. But she dropped her hand back to her side without touching him. Could she make him understand? “Ye can trust me. I do wish to help ye. But I dinna ken if I can…it may be too much for me.”
His gaze shifted away from her. “All I ask is that ye try.”
Coira could not fail to sense his disappointment. She fought it off, determined not to reflect it and make it worse for him. “I’ll go now and leave ye to yer books.”
Logen didn’t turn from the window. “Perhaps that’s best.”
That he would not face her stung a bit. But given the import of what he’d just revealed, not only his desire, but his isolation, his—aloneness—she understood. Truth be told, she felt much the same—on both counts. Unlike him, she knew the possible devastating consequences of acting upon either of those feelings.
She opened the door a crack and waited for her gift to alert her, then peered into the hall just to be sure. No one. Silently, she slipped out and closed the heavy oak softly behind her, then continued on to her chambers, where she’d been headed, in tears, before Logen intercepted her and changed everything.
****
Logen watched the activity in the bailey below his window. It all looked so normal—movement and shouting, animals and people milling around, going about their normal daily activities. Beyond that, he could see the curtain wall, then the endless sea and sky, interrupted only by the line of mountains on the islands to the west. The view made him feel small and insignificant.
Most of his life, he had been insignificant, one of many fisherman’s sons in the clan, related to, but not in the direct line of succession of the MacDugall of that name. Logen leaned against the wall and thought wistfully about his years fostered at MacKyrie, and the months he’d spent with them after bringing the sad news about their losses at Flodden. He’d thought he could recover there, perhaps make a home, but despite the number of lasses who had been made husbandless by the battle, in truth no one had tempted him to stay. Eventually he realized, if he hoped to wash the blood of Flodden from his soul, he must return to the sea.
If he’d known what he would face here, he might have chosen to stay and help Ellie rebuild her clan. But nay, he belonged here.
After he returned and the story of his survival got out, the clan hailed him as a hero. When someone put his name forward to replace the latest in a line of ill-fated lairds who hadn’t survived the clan’s in-fighting, he’d laughed it off and gone fishing, never expecting to be selected. But the vote had been taken, and now that he led by the will of the clan, he would do the best job he could.
As a near-outsider, he should find dealing with the factions easier, since he could not be accused of being partial to any of them. But he also lacked the friendships and loyal followers that developed over years spent hunting and fishing, or fighting Campbells and other western clans together. Without those, it was nearly impossible to gain insider knowledge of the conspirators’ plans or of their goals beyond gaining control. And when gaining control of the clan meant eliminating him, that knowledge became crucial to his survival.
He’d been sloppy the day the fishing boats came in. Too comfortable in familiar surroundings, doing familiar work, he hadn’t believed he was in any danger. Aye, he did believe the dunking was an attempt on his life, or at least a warning. There could be no question that he’d been warned. So he must find the malcontents and deal with them, or he’d be forced to die trying.
He could step aside, but the idea left a bad taste in his mouth. He wasn’t a quitter. And with Coira’s arrival and her gift, his odds for surviving improved tremendously. Her ability frightened her, but if she could learn enough control to protect herself, she could be very useful.
He’d come too far, lived through too much, to allow anyone inside his guard. Yet, she had slipped through his defenses like no one else ever had—or could. Her determination to make a better life for herself appealed to him. She meant to win friends and allies among the very people initially suspicious of her. Her willingness to help him, even though she suffered for it, proved to him that no matter what had happened to her in the past, she had a caring heart. He even let himself believe she cared for him, not just for the laird she sought to protect.
And like him, she was newly returned after years away and beholden to no one inside the clan. If they were smart, and careful, all would be well.
If only he could believe that.
Chapter 5
Coira paced within her small chamber. Her thoughts kept running in circles replaying the comments she’d overheard while in the garden—the women’s decidedly unfriendly emotions and then Logen’s disappointment in her. Why had the Lathan Healer done this to her? Could it be undone? Or was she condemned to know, intimately, every feeling of every person near her for the rest of her life?
This had been her clan, long ago, before she’d changed, before so many had been killed at Flodden, the clan itself had changed. She had expected to be unwelcome here, but with the old laird and most of his men gone—dead—things could be different.
If Logen succeeded, this could become her home again. She had promised to help him, days ago. Today, for her own protection, she had all but refused to do what she’d promised.
What other choice did she have, but to help him? Where else could she go? Not back to the highlands. Surely, the tale of her actions would spread beyond the Lathan keep. To the lowlands? The borders? Could she sail a birlinn to Ireland? Nay, not by herself. She glanced out the window as she paced. Sunlight glinted on the low-rolling breakers of the incoming tide.
Suddenly, she couldn’t stand the confinement of her chamber any longer. She needed air, space, freedom. To be somewhere outside of walls—not just walls of stone, but also the invisible walls of her fears—and Logen’s expectations.
She grabbed her cloak and fled down the stairs, heart pounding, desperate to get outside. She moved swiftly through the bailey, her gaze intent on the gate ahead of her, her thoughts intent on her goal.
“Coira!” Elizabeth’s voice. She ignored the call.
Outside the walls, she slowed her flight. The cliffs or the beach? Elizabeth might follow her to the cliffs. The beach it would have to be.
&
nbsp; She hurried down the path, heedless of the distance to the rocky ground below. Twice she slipped, catching herself by clinging momentarily to the rock face next to her. She reached the bottom, heart pounding, and ran to the narrowing strip of sand quickly being covered by the encroaching tide.
There she stopped. She pressed her hand over the knife scar in her side, hoping to ease the sharp cramp that reminded her too well of the pain of Donal MacNabb’s blade. Her fault then and her fault now, thanks to her headlong flight out of the keep. She bent forward and sucked in the briny tang of the ocean air. The chill of it burned the insides of her nose until fat tears began to spill from her eyes, causing her nose to run. She gasped against the pain, in her side and in her heart, and fought to breathe.
Finally, the cramp began to ease and she straightened. She regarded the ocean before her. Between her and Ireland stood the isles of Jura and Islay, the treacherous whirlpools in the waters around Scarba, and the open waters of the Irish Sea. Even if she managed to wrestle a boat into the surf and tried to sail it, she’d never make it.
She turned her back on the sea and contemplated making her way through Campbell territory. If she survived the first few days, likely she’d be picked up by a Campbell patrol, and wouldn’t the Campbell love to get his hands on her? A forced marriage would give him reason to petition the crown for MacDugall territory the Campbells had coveted for years. Logen would lose the clan, and perhaps his life, without ever facing a Campbell blade in battle.
She whirled back to the sea and for a moment, imagined walking into the waves. Nay! She dropped to her knees in the sand and lowered her head into her hands, her tears falling afresh. She could not take the coward’s way out. But no matter which way she faced, she saw no future.
“Coira!”
Logen’s shout startled her out of her self-absorbed misery. Nay, not now.
Strong hands pulled her to her feet and turned her to face him. “Elizabeth told me she saw ye running from the keep as if the very devil himself chased after ye.”