“Something from birds. Did you see what the old woman was cutting up?” Dux said, and Sir Hamish glanced at Ada.
“The old woman has a pouch on her belt,” Hoolet said, and deftly cut the strings with her dirk.
Sir Hamish opened the bag. “It’s a rock,” he said. “Some kind of crystal.” A harsh, nauseating smell filled the room, and blue smoke rose from the stone. Hamish dropped it onto the table. The wood beneath the rock sizzled and charred. Ada used a spoon to poke it onto the floor. It sat in the sunlight, smoking.
“It’s blue,” Dux said. “Like the mark on Laire’s neck.”
Ada peered at it. “It’s like a stone from a kidney. I’ve seen those, but they’re white. They hurt inside a body, but once they’re out they don’t burn or smoke. What’s the pouch made of?”
Hamish examined it carefully. “Feathers,” he said, then gasped. “Nay, it’s a whole bird, turned inside out. He touched the soft feathers and drew his hand back. Red welts covered his fingers. “Poison.”
“But it doesn’t burn the bird’s body,” Dux said.
Ada frowned. “Not a bird from these parts. The feathers are bright yellow.”
“I’ve heard of birds that are too poisonous to touch. Perhaps the stone comes from the belly of such a creature.”
“Can we destroy it?” Dux asked.
“I don’t know,” Sir Hamish said.
Ada sniffed the smoking crystal and then the potion. “It smells the same,” she said.
“Then we have our poison.” Hamish said. “We only need an antidote.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Isobel found her way to the roof and stood on the edge of the parapet looking up at the sky. She spread the wings of her nightdress and let the wind hold her as she leaned over the edge. How marvelous it would feel to fly, to leap from the hard stone and feel nothing but sky beneath her. She remembered how Papa had carried her on his shoulder around and around the top of this tower . . .
She frowned. Papa . . . ah, yes—that’s where she’d been going.
She reached the scarred oak doors that sealed off the laird’s great chamber and tugged on the iron ring latches. Inside, Papa lay in the center of his great bed, fast asleep. The shutters were closed tight, and the room was very cold.
“Papa?” Isobel’s long-unused voice was as rusty as a crow’s harsh caw.
She went across and touched his hand, poked his shoulder. “Papa?”
His eyes opened slowly. For a moment, she thought it wasn’t Papa after all. He looked different—thin, his beard springing from his chin in long gray wisps, his keen eyes foggy with sleep. “Isobel?” he said, his voice rough.
She smiled. “Aye, Papa. It’s time to get up.”
“Well, sealgair? Which lass will you choose?”
They’d left the door ajar, and Wee Kipper dropped to the floor and peeked through the crack. A beautiful woman in a red gown paced the room. “Will you choose the child you stole from me or the woman you love? You do love her, don’t you? Why else would you betray me?” Bibiana crossed and stroked her finger along Laire’s cheek, and Wee Kipper’s eyes flared. Laire looked sick, her mouth all red and cut, the way his mam’s had been when the soldiers hit her. She looked scared, too, the way his mother had been. Wee Kipper frowned.
“Fool—You loved your wife, Iain, and you wanted her to love you. You fall in love too easily, and you lose every time,” the red lady said. No one else was talking.
Iain. Then the laird was there as well, just out of Wee Kipper’s sight. He’d protect Laire . . . But the man who’d brought the wee scrap of blue cloth to Lindsay House was standing behind Laire, holding a knife. He laughed, looked happy that Laire was afraid. Wee Kipper remembered the soldier who’d watched as his men butchered his father, and his little sisters. He’d laughed as their cott burned and when the men took hold of his mother . . . Wee Kipper flinched, remembering her screams.
Someone was watching him. Wee Kipper looked up. A small girl was crouched on the floor beside Laire, holding a doll wrapped in a tattered blue coat. She was staring at Wee Kipper, her blue eyes as wide as saucers. He stared back, told her without words that he was only a mouse and she had nothing to fear. He slipped through the narrow crack in the door and right under the edge of the long red curtain that covered the wall behind Laird Iain. He peeked out under the chair, between the laird’s ankles, and saw the girl was still watching him. Everyone else was looking at the red lady. Wee Kipper put a finger to his lips and beckoned to the wee girl.
The arrow was biting through the rope, but not fast enough. Iain’s fingers were clumsy, the position awkward.
“If you can’t decide, I’ll take them both,” Bibiana warned, and Iain felt a bead of sweat slither down his back. He glared at her. He’d kill her . . .
She rolled her eyes and motioned to Rafael. “So be it. Kill Laire first, then the child.”
Iain watched in horror as the Frenchman raised the knife.
Laire lifted her chin, met his eyes and held them, ready to meet her end bravely. Iain saw Laire’s reflection in the polished steel of Rafael’s blade as it descended toward her. “No!” The word tore itself from Iain’s throat. Desperately, he fought the bonds that held him captive.
Someone untied the ropes. He felt fingers brush his own, and he was free. He lunged across the room with the arrow in his hand and planted it in Rafael’s shoulder. The Frenchman screamed and swung the blade at Iain instead of Laire. Iain grabbed a candlestick and used it to parry the next blow. Laire was in danger . . . he shot a quick look at Bibiana as she screamed a curse and advanced on Laire, her hands curled to talons as she flew at her.
Iain stopped Rafael’s blade inches from her neck. Laire was dizzy, but she refused to give in to the seductive lure of the potion. She struggled, fighting the ties that held her as Bibiana reached for her. She looked for the child, but the girl was gone. Bibiana’s hands closed on Laire’s throat, her nails biting into her flesh, her hands squeezing. Laire stared up at her. Bibiana’s eyes were narrowed with fury. Her face was red and blotchy, mottled with rage. Wrinkles appeared in her forehead and her hands became claws. Laire felt horror chill her. Surely it was the potion and her own terror. She fought for breath, to twist, but she was bound, and Bibiana’s grip was as strong and cold as steel.
“This is your fault,” she raged at Laire. “You have ruined everything.”
Blue—Bibiana’s eyes were blue, like the poison ring on her neck. Bibiana was poisonous, deadly, her very body toxic.
The heavy scent of Bibiana’s perfume washed over Laire as she gasped for air. The room blurred, and she saw black spots swirling before her eyes.
Then Bibiana let go with a shriek. There was blood on her hand and Wee Kipper was beside her, holding a dirk. The wee girl was trying to untie Laire’s bonds, her fingers clumsy.
“Run, Kipper,” Laire ordered as Bibiana reached for him, but Wee Kipper lunged again with the dirk, his face fierce.
Bibiana raised her hand and hit the boy across the head, sending him flying. Then she turned to the girl with her bloody claws outstretched. But Laire felt the ropes slacken just enough to pull her hands free, and she rose between Bibiana and the girl. She was dizzy, panting, and her throat hurt, but she faced her stepmother furiously. Iain and Rafael fought on behind her. She stood over Wee Kipper’s still form, held the girl behind her, and held Bibiana’s gaze. “I will not let you hurt anyone else,” Laire said. Bibiana smiled as she reached for the dirk wee Kipper had dropped.
Bibiana pointed the knife at Laire’s heart. “You’re no match for me. You bewitched my sealgair, but you are nothing. Nothing at all. I’ll do myself what he could not. I’ll cut your heart out and feed it to your lover and your kin.”
Laire was unarmed. She was slow and dizzy, but her mind was clear. She faced the witch before her with her head high. Behind Bibiana, she saw the door open, and her father stood there. Bibiana spun in surprise.
Donal MacLeod blinked at the sc
ene in his wife’s chamber—at the children, the men fighting, at his daughter, and his wife, and the knife in her hand.
“What the devil—?” His brow furrowed. “What are ye doing, Bibi?” he asked, confused. He stepped farther into the room and stopped when he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. He started back in surprise. Was that truly him? His eyes were dull and red-rimmed. He had a beard that must have taken months to grow to such a length. He’d lost weight, and his nightshirt hung on his skinny frame like a flag on a pole.
He crossed and ripped the velvet covering away from the window. Light flooded the room, and he peered into the mirror again. Bibiana’s reflection appeared behind his own.
Donal felt the hair on the back of his neck rise at the sight of the crone wearing Bibiana’s red gown. Her face was pockmarked and wrinkled, her back humped, her hands like claws. In horror, Donal spun.
“My love,” she said, and opened her arms to him. “Whatever is the matter?” But he couldn’t let her touch him, not now. “God in heaven, what have I done?”
He looked at the dark décor. Bibiana’s dressing table was filled with vanities—powders, paints, and jewels. Had he been so deceived? He picked up a box carved with strange runes and symbols and felt fury well in his breast. He threw the box as hard as he could into the mirror’s shining surface.
Points of shattered glass flew, arced, caught the light as they filled the air. Bibiana screamed a curse and rushed at him with her dagger.
Suddenly Laire was in front of him, her hand raised to stop Bibiana, but she had no weapon. She picked up a cup of potion on the dressing table and threw the contents in Bibiana’s face.
Bibiana shrieked as it hit her. It dripped over her ruined face, blinded her. She dropped the knife. She was repulsive, corrupt. How could he have thought her beautiful? She looked at him in desperation. For a moment her eyes glowed an unholy blue.
Blue smoke filled the air, rising from her hair, from her skin. The red gown smoked, turned black, shriveled. The glossy silk looked more like feathers now, black and sharp. Bibiana was staring at her hands. Shining rings—the MacLeod betrothal ring, a man’s signet—fell from her withered fingers. The last ring, a shining crystal, clung to her smallest finger, and she closed her fist around it. Bibiana opened her mouth to scream, but only a hoarse, birdlike caw emerged.
She clasped her hand to her throat, and the crystal caught the light, dazzling. Donal squinted against the sharp points of light that stabbed his eyes.
And when he looked again, Bibiana was gone, and only a sweet, bloody scent remained.
“You killed her!” Rafael screamed. He rushed toward Laire with his dagger, but Iain deflected the blade easily, sent it spinning. He planted his fist in the Frenchman’s face. Rafael fell backward. The shards of the broken mirror standing upright in the thick loops of the rug pierced his body in a dozen places, and he lay still.
“Laire!” Iain found her kneeling on the floor, holding Wee Kipper and Mairi in her arms.
The red marks of Bibiana’s hands marred Laire’s white throat, but the blue mark of the poison had faded, gone, and only a small silver scar was left.
Iain fell to his knees and pulled Laire into his arms. He breathed in the soft scent of her hair, her skin. “Are ye all right?” he asked. “The potion . . .”
She curled her hand over his heart. When she looked up, her eyes were clear. “Is it really over?”
He kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, he was gentle with her bruised mouth. “Aye,” he said.
And then he felt the unmistakable sensation of a blade against the back of his neck.
“Unhand my daughter,” Donal MacLeod growled.
“Papa—” Laire began, but her father held up a staying hand. It shook slightly, but his eyes were sharp on Iain. The Fearsome MacLeod had returned. “Oh, Papa,” she said softly, smiling through the tears in her eyes.
“I want to know what’s happened here,” he said, piercing Iain with a sharp glare. “Are ye the one who can tell me?”
“I can try,” Iain said.
“And who are these bairns?” Donal asked, pointing to Wee Kipper and Mairi. He looked at Laire. “How long was I asleep? Is he—my son?” he asked.
Iain looked at Laire. “Nay, Laird. He’s mine. And the lass as well. She’s my niece.”
Ada appeared in the doorway. “It smells of brimstone in here.” Her eyes fell on Laire and she crossed to examine the cuts and bruises on her face. “She’ll need some salve,” she said to Uncle Hamish, who stood behind her. “I’ll show ye how to make it.”
“Hamish!” Donal cried, seeing his brother-in-law. “What brings ye to Glen Iolair?”
Hamish looked at Laire, his eyes misty with tears. “A very brave lass. She saved your life, Donal. She came all the way to Edinburgh on her own.”
Laire felt her cheeks heating under her father’s shocked scrutiny. “My sisters—”
Ada grinned. “They’re just waking up. They’ll be confused for a few days. They have no idea a whole winter has passed, and they’ve slept like dormice under the snow . . .”
Dux, Hoolet, and Bear entered the room, grinned at Laire and Iain and stroked Wee Kipper’s hair.
Donal set the dirk aside and sat down, rubbing his forehead. Bewildered, he looked at the shattered glass, the red-velvet walls, the dead Frenchman, and the crowd of strangers. “I must confess I don’t understand any of this,” he said. He looked at Iain. “Who are ye?” he asked.
“Iain Lindsay, Laird of Craigmyle,” Iain said. “I wish to wed your daughter.”
Donal looked up. “With two bairns of your own to raise?”
“There are seven, Papa.”
“Seven?” he gaped at her. “How long did ye say I slept? Are any of these your own, lass?”
Laire blushed. “No, Papa.” He took note of the way her hand was clasped in Iain’s and sighed.
“I suppose ye love him, this Lindsay?”
She nodded, smiling.
“And do you love my daughter? Not just as someone to raise your bairns, but as the other half of your own soul, and more?
“Aye,” Iain said.
Donal looked around the room once more. “Not that I’m a good judge of true love, I fear.”
Laire took his hand. “It’s all right, Papa. I know. I feel it here in my heart. May I have your blessing to marry Iain?”
He smiled wanly. “Aye lass, but not just yet. I want to get to know this man. I won’t give my trust so easily now. Can ye wait a year?”
She shook her head.
“A month?”
“No, Papa,” she said.
“A fortnight is my final offer,” Donal MacLeod said.
Laire smiled and kissed her father’s cheek. Then she kissed the man she loved, exactly like he was the other half of her soul, and more.
In the kitchen, a raven perched on the unconscious woman on the floor and pecked her until she woke. Terza stared at the bird for a moment. “Not again,” she muttered, righting herself and probing the bump on her forehead.
The bird cawed and ruffled its wings. It flew onto Terza’s shoulder and perched there. “The ring?” The bird lifted one foot to show the crystal clutched in her talons.
Terza patted the shimmering black feathers. “Then we shall go, and start again.”
And with that, she was out the door and down the track, skipping into the wood with a sprightly grace for such an ancient beldame.
EPILOGUE
A fortnight later, Laire MacLeod married Iain Lindsay on the banks of Loch Iolair. The bride wore early spring flowers in her hair, and the groom wore his Lindsay plaid, which they used, along with the bride’s own MacLeod plaid, to bind their hands together and plight their troth.
Beside them stood their families, old and new—all of Laire’s sisters, her father, and her beloved uncle. Iain’s half brother had arrived from Craigmyle, and he held the hand of his wee daughter, who still wore the tattered blue coat over her pretty new gown. Hoolet
and Dux and Bear stood with the wee ones beside the bride and groom.
And when the vows were said, and Iain took Laire into his arms to kiss his wife for the first time, she leaned up to whisper into his ear. Iain blinked at her.
“When?” he asked in dumb amazement.
Laire smiled. “About seven months from now, I believe.”
And he scooped her into his arms and kissed her, and she kissed him back.
Only whisky and water were served that day, but the groom raised a toast to his bonny wife. “To my bride, the fairest and bravest lass of all!”
High above the happy celebration, a raven circled in the clear blue sky, watching the scene below with baleful eyes.
In the wood, a young hunter—a sealgair—raised her bow, and let her arrow fly. The bird felt the missile pierce her black heart. With a cry she opened her talons as she plummeted toward the loch, and the crystal ring fell free. It sparkled in the sunlight for a moment, then sank into the cold depths of the loch, gone forever.
Author’s Note
I found the history of medical education in Scotland a fascinating part of my research for this book—so much so that I took the liberty of changing the dates a wee bit so I could include more of it here.
Our story takes place around 1809. Although University of Edinburgh has taught medicine since the early sixteenth century, and the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons was founded in 1681, it wasn’t until 1726 that Archibald Campbell, the Duke of Argyll, sponsored the formal founding of the Faculty of Medicine, modeled on the great medical schools at the Universities of Bologna, Padua, and Leiden.
The establishment of The Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, for which my character Sir Hamish is helping to raise funds for in this story, was indeed opened in 1729 after extensive fundraising efforts by Edinburgh politician George Drummond and Dr. Alexander Monro, the university’s first professor of anatomy, appointed in 1720.
The Royal Botanic Garden of Edinburgh was created in 1670 by Dr. Robert Sibbald and Dr. Andrew Balfour for the study of medicinal plants, and was originally located at St. Anne’s Yards next to the Palace of Holyroodhouse. The gardens became the base for the study of pharmacology, and, my writer’s heart hopes, a real cure for poison just might have been found there . . .
The Lady and the Highlander Page 26