by Jen Holling
“I’m so sorry, sir. What did I do wrong?"
He slumped back onto the bed and buried his head in his forearms. "Nothing—just leave me."
He heard her scurry out of the room. He lay motionless on the bed, face pressed into his arms. The whisky dragged at him, pulling him down. He fought at the oblivion tonight. If he gave in to it, he would not wake early.
He pushed himself off the bed, teeth grinding, back screaming. He gathered some personal items, some poppy juice and whisky, then thought that perhaps he might need food, too. In the kitchen he wrapped bannocks in a napkin and tossed in dried meat and apples. He wrote a short missive and addressed it to Rose at Strathwick.
He went to the stables. There he told the groom he would be leaving in the morning and asked him to inform the steward. Before the boy left, Stephen gave the groom the letter to Rose, then sent him to sleep elsewhere. Stephen found a soft pile of hay, rolled up in a blanket, jammed another rolled-up blanket behind his back, and waited for the throbbing in his back to subside. It did, incrementally.
The groom would tell everyone how their master eschewed his grand soft bed to sleep in the stables, and they would all think. He’d finally gone over the edge. Stephen didn't particularly care. This was the only way he could be certain she wouldn't leave without him.
Judging by her response to him that evening, she would not want his company. Too bad for her. She would get it anyway. He might be crippled, but he was not an invalid. He could function quite well through the pain. Sometimes he was useless the next day, but that would likely work to his advantage as well. She was a compassionate sort and would not leave him to suffer.
He finally drifted off to sleep. It didn't seem as if he'd been asleep long when a soft voice drew him from his slumber. The dim stable swam in and out of his vision, and his stomach lurched. His back had locked into position. There would never be any jumping out of bed in the mornings for Stephen Ross. During sleep, his back tended to freeze. The next morning, getting out of bed was a nightmare. But it was a nightmare he'd grown accustomed to. There had been a time when he'd toyed with the idea of actually becoming an invalid. Putting himself through the misery of moving every single morning for the rest of his life had been almost too much to bear. But in truth, the longer he didn't move his back, the worse the pain grew. Daily activity, along with the rubs and exercise, had minimized the pain as much as possible. That and liberal doses of alcohol. He supposed the human body wasn't much different from any tool—regular use and the application of a lubricant kept it functional.
His stomach still heaved, and his head felt thick and foggy. He only hoped he didn't need to bock. It would be quite unpleasant, since he wouldn't be rising from the hay anytime soon. Lying in his own vomit was not an experience he enjoyed.
He lay still, listening to the voice, willing his mind and body to calm.
"Leave me alone." The words were ground out softly, steel girding every word. "You have a groom to tend you and besides, I don't care!”
A horse blew and stomped a hoof.
Was she leaving already? Stephen lay helpless, and slightly panicked, wondering if he could force himself out of the hay before she left. He was reluctant to begin thrashing about or call for help. He knew she already saw him for what he was—a cripple—but there was no need to rub his ailment in her face. He did have some dignity.
"Be silent!" she hissed.
Stephen could only imagine that she was speaking to the horses, since he had not said a word, nor had he heard anyone else in the stable. Her voice had taken on a hysterical edge, so he decided it was time to lighten the mood.
"Forgive me," he said. "I must have been talking in my sleep."
He heard a frantic scrambling, then she shrieked. "Who's there?"
“It’s just me.”
"Where? Where are you?"
"Over here in the hay, trying to get some sleep...and not having much luck with all the arguing."
She came into view, legs apart, hands on hips. "You've been spying on me."
Stephen's head was beginning to clear.
His stomach had finally settled. He shifted, getting an arm beneath him. His back gripped and he decided that was far enough for the moment.
"Hardly. I was here first, and I was asleep until you came in."
She scowled down at him. She had cleaned up since He’d seen her earlier. Her clean, scrubbed face was porcelain smooth, her cheeks pink with emotion. Her wild curls had been somewhat tamed and hung to her shoulders in soft corkscrews. Still, a few pieces of hay stuck in her curls, making her look as if she’d just had a tumble. His groin tightened at the sudden image of her in the hay, beneath him.
"I thought you didn't talk to animals anymore!”' he said.
“And I thought rich men slept in beds."
He smiled. "I suppose we both have some explaining to do, eh?"
"Humph." The sound was very derogatory.
In the hopes of encouraging her to talk to him, he decided to be honest with her.
"I came out here to sleep because I didn't want you to leave before I woke."
She blinked and took a step back. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why?"
"Well…I thought you might need some company on your journey—a companion. After all, you're a woman alone, and such an undertaking isn't safe."
She folded her arms over her chest and leaned back slightly, brows raised. “And you think you can protect me?"
He was accustomed to such insults. Nevertheless, coming from her, it still stung. But just a twinge.
"Well, aye. I may be crippled, but I'm not an invalid. I can travel and I can protect you."
She shook her head. "No, I don't need some rich man and his entourage. It will frighten the blood witch. And as a witch myself, I don't travel with anyone I am not sure of. I don't know your people."
“As you wish. They will remain behind." That would be inconvenient, but he really hadn't expected anything else. "You can trust me." "I don't know you."
“Aye, you do. I remember you when you were but a wee thing, talking to dogs and rats and whatnot. And your family, they know me and trust me. The MacDonells, they love me. Sir Philip is like a brother to me. My uncle is an earl. Really, need you better reference than that?"
Her mouth curved into a smirk. "That was before."
"Before what?"
"Before you squirreled yourself away on your estate, hiding so that everyone believes you to be a baobhan sith. No one really knows you anymore."
He didn't like her answer...mostly because there was some truth to it. Not much, but mayhap a wee bit. "I still see family and friends. And I write to them frequently." His back had relaxed, so he chanced pushing himself up farther. It locked again, but he was sitting now. He fought to keep the pain from showing on his face. He didn't think he was entirely successful. She was canny, and he noted that she studied his expression closely.
"Why do you really want to come with me?”
"Your family would cripple me for good if they knew I let you set off on your own."
She shook her head. "No. I don't believe you really care about me or them."
Now Stephen was taken aback. "There's where you're wrong, lassie. I care whether you come to harm and I care very much about Rose and William."
"You hate my parents."
Her words brought him up short. Pain knifed through him from the sudden movement, but he ignored it. "From whence did you get such a notion? Surely not from them."
She shook back her curls with a superior air. Hay fluttered to her shoulders. "You are bitter and angry that they could not heal you. So much magic and yet none for you."
His brow lowered. He had felt that way, but it hadn't mattered then and it didn't matter now. He was past that. Some things ran stronger and truer—and he knew that if Rose or William could have healed him, they would have. Just as they had aged themselves prematurely trying to heal Ceara.
No, he did not blame th
em. This was his lot. He'd been an outsider even in his own family. The bastard son of a bastard who'd died ignominiously, it was inevitable, he supposed, that his own life would end in a similar manner. The sins of the father’s and all that. At least his father had had the decency to die well.
"You have some strange thoughts, lass. I hold no grudge against your family. I love Rose like a sister, and William the same."
Her aims dropped to her sides and lines creased her forehead, but she didn't appear entirely convinced. "Then why? Why would you undertake such a journey?”
Stephen sighed. "For the same reason you do."
She frowned. "To get rid of magic?"
"Not the exact same reason. I want something. If there is such a thing as a baobhan sith, then I want some of the magic too."
"But the blood witch didn't cure Ceara."
"Ceara was ill, not cripple." He shrugged. “At least I can come with you to
Creaghaven and see what Drake has to say about it."
Deidra considered him, her head tilted to the side. "You're sure you can sit a horse?"
"Oh, aye—for hours," he lied.
She chewed her bottom lip, contemplating the hay-scattered floor. Finally, she sighed. "Very well. You may come. But if you cannot keep up"—she pointed a threatening finger at him—"then I will leave you behind."
He snorted, standing with as much dignity as he could muster. He was pleased that he had convinced her, but that didn't mean he fancied the manner in which she spoke to him. He could hold his own. She would see. He might need some whisky and a wee bit of poppy juice to manage it, but she would eat her words before their journey was over.
Chapter 3
Already he slowed her down and they hadn't even left Braighde Pele. She should never have agreed to let him accompany her. She'd made a huge mistake. She berated herself as Stephen limped back into his castle, insisting they eat an enormous breakfast before they set off. She gritted her teeth and agreed, acquiescing only because it might be some time before they ate such a hearty meal again. Finally, as the sun rose, they mounted up and set off. It was good weather for travel. In May, the weather was warm and the trees were brilliant—every shade of green and white and yellow blossoms blooming over trees and shrubs.
Deidra watched Stephen warily from the comer of her eye. He had limped from the castle to the stables, insisting on carrying all his own gear, but now that he was mounted, he moved as naturally as anyone else. Perhaps this wouldn't be as terrible as she'd feared. That is, if it hadn't been for the irritating beast he rode.
The horse was insistent. It was an unusually intelligent beast and sensed that she was different. It continued to query her tirelessly, becoming agitated as she ignored it, blowing and shaking its head with frustration. Just like all animals, this one wanted something. Something about another horse, but Deidra understood nothing else as she blocked it out.
Stephen frowned down at the horse as it pranced. He gripped the reins tightly. "What's the matter with her?" he murmured.
"How should I know?" Deidra snapped. She worried that the horse would toss Stephen off and she would be forced to somehow get him home not just crippled but unable to even walk.
Stephen raised a brow at her. "I was talking to the horse, lass."
A dog barked in the distance. The morning was cool and foggy; the air was thick and damp. A gossamer layer of sparkling dew covered Stephen’s blond hair.
He frowned, turning his head as if to look over his shoulder, but his range of motion was limited. The barking gradually grew louder.
"Damn!” he said under his breath.
Before Deidra could ask what he swore about, a small black bear burst from the underbrush. It bounded around Stephen’s horse, barking and whining. Not a bear, but a dog. Black and huge and shaggy, its breed was unidentifiable.
"Och—down, Duke, down! You'll spook Countess!"
The dog continued to bark and bounce hysterically. Its excitement at discovering its master was palpable to anyone, she imagined, but she could feel more from it. It had a reason to be deliriously happy. Duke had thought Stephen was leaving never to return and now they were reunited. She felt a pang of sympathy for the dog, then angrily shoved it away. She was usually better at blocking the animals, but the infernal horse refused to leave her alone.
"Duke? Countess?" she snorted. "What did you name your cat? Princess?"
He scowled at her but didn't answer.
She let out a surprised laugh. "You did, didn't you?"
Stephen ignored her. "Go home, Duke!" He held his arm out straight, pointing back in the direction they had come from. "Go home!"
Duke ignored his commands and continued to dance ecstatically around the horse.
"Why won't he listen?" Stephen stared at the dog with consternation, then shifted his gaze to Deidra. “And you won't do me the quick favor of sending my dog home?"
Deidra returned his stare levelly. "I told you, I don't do that anymore."
He cocked his head slightly. "That's not true. You spoke to Countess last night."
Her jaw tightened and her gaze narrowed. "No, I did not."
"You did. I heard you." He considered her, lips pursed. "You hear the animals, you just don't respond. Interesting. How does it feel, running from what you are?"
“At least I can run." As soon as the words passed her tongue, shame flooded her, but she bit it back.
His brows shot up, but rather than become angry at her barb he appeared impressed. "Well, I guess if you can run, then you should, aye? I cannot argue with that."
She thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn't. "What if," he said, hand out and a shoulder raised, “your father’s beloved dog was on its deathbed. You are the only one who can save it by communicating with it."
Deidra shook her head. "That would never happen. My father could heal it."
"What if he couldn't? What if it was some ailment beyond him—like your uncle's wife?"
She shrugged. "Then there is nothing I could do. We knew all of Ceara's symptoms and it did us no good. There was nothing she could tell us that could help us to help her."
His brow lowered. “AH right. Let us just pretend that your father cannot heal. The same situation."
"I cannot imagine such a thing."
He gave her a tight smile of strained patience. "Try. It’s called pretending. You don't know how to imagine or pretend? I know you were a little girl once—I saw you."
Deidra rolled her eyes. "Why would I want to pretend? What foolishness. This is my life. There is no point in pretending it’s not."
He shook his head at her, as if she were some odd creature he'd never encountered before.
She let out an exasperated breath. "Oh, very well. If such a thing was to happen, and my father had no healing magic, I still would not speak to the dog."
"But it’s your father’s beloved dog! He will mourn it dreadfully. It would cause him deep, deep unhappiness. And you have the power to prevent that, to bring him joy."
It was a simplistic argument and she shook her head at him, disappointed he thought she would cave to sentimentality. "Everything dies. That is a fact of life. Even my father can't keep a person alive forever. Magic can't subvert God's will. It is around us, always. It is the spider that traps and eats the fly, the kine that eats the grass—and you then butcher and eat the kine. That is life. It is not for me to meddle with and change. I am a witch. I would be changing the natural course of events. If the dog is meant to die, it will die. Anything else would be the devils work."
He didn't even blink. Duke had calmed somewhat and now kept pace with them, stopping occasionally to sniff at things on the ground.
"I never thought to hear such a speech from a member of the MacKay clan. Do you also believe that it is good and right to burn a witch? God's work?"
"No, I never said that."
"So you believe that your father and Rose do God's work."
She hesitated,
then nodded.
"But you hold yourself to a different standard."
"Because I am not the same as my father and Rose. They do good work. They heal the sick. That is Christ's gift."
He shifted in his saddle, his forehead creasing with discomfort. "What about the MacDonells? Isobel can see into people's minds. Gillian speaks with the dead."
"That's different. Gillian speaks to lost souls and directs them to the light. Isobel's visions bring families together and help others to find objects lost to them."
"But the dead are dead and the lost are lost. Isn't that God's will as well?"
"You speak nonsense!”' Deidra said, cross with him. He confused her and made her belly uneasy. His arguments were too logical. She knew she was right.
Why else did Luthias Forsyth plague her so and yet leave the rest of her family alone? He believed he did God’s work and had deemed her evil.
Stephen looked skyward and rubbed the underside of his chin thoughtfully. "I seem to remember a Bible passage—Numbers, is it? In which an angel speaks to a donkey and it speaks back. So the conclusion I would draw from that is that angels are the ones who speak to beasts, not mere humans and certainly not demons."
"When beasts speak, they are possessed by devils." Saying it out loud, it sounded absurd. She didn't believe Countess was a demon. Intelligent, mayhap, but not maleficent.
"Huh." Stephen gripped the saddle horn with both gloved hands but said nothing else.
As the silence drew out, Deidra's shoulders drew up tight. She didn't like talking about the animals. It made her uncomfortable. It brought Luthias Forsyth near, as if just speaking of it conjured him and now he was on her heels, following her. Reminding her that one slip, one single misstep, and he would be there to catch her.
Stephen's silence felt like a judgment, but how he judged her was a mystery. He didn't agree with her, but why? It pressed at her chest, the wanting to know. She slid him side glances, hoping to see some sign of his thoughts in his eyes or expression.
He pondered something as he gazed off in the distance, his eyes as pale blue as a clear Highland sky. His body rocked gently in time with Countess's walk. Deidra saw him then as he truly was—a man, whole and strong, not bacach.