Surrounded by children, Sorcha found herself doing the most unexpected thing; she was picking herbs, like a woman possessed. As cold and forbidding as the island must be in winter, it was an apothecary’s delight. Already, she’d spotted yarrow, milk thistle and feverfew.
Butterflies flitted past. Bees buzzed along the blooms. Gannets and seagulls flew across a bright sky, filled with puffy white clouds and that strange bright star weaving in and out between them.
Down by the shore, the dark cliffs were covered with puffins, black-billed gulls and kittiwakes.
Sure enough, as they’d promised, the kids led Sorcha to a wealthy garden of ruagaire deamhan.
Though it was quite early yet for the star-shaped blossoms, they nevertheless blanketed the hillside. The raggedy petals and upright stems were so thick as to be woody and some were taller than the children.
To be sure, Sorcha plucked a leaf and held it up to the sunlight to see if it had perforations. And lo and behold, there they were.
More and more, Sorcha was convincing herself it must be Una who’d sent Alec to Lochinver to collect her. This is no ordinary field. Nor is this an ordinary isle. But, of course, if Una, herself, was the Cailleach… she would be older than time. She would be the blue-faced mother of winter. “Be the Maiden, Mother and Crone,” she used to say. “Be the Horned God, the Wild Spirit of the Forest!” It gave new meaning to her ancient toast.
So, now, considering the chances these people had found her without help—not likely—Sorcha crushed the ruagaire deamhan blossom between her fingers, releasing its purple juice.
The herb could be given as a tea or a tincture, and, to be certain, there was more than enough to do both.
Engaging the younglings to help her pick all the flowers, she showed them how to snip them precisely as Una had taught her, so to keep their hands free of dye, and nevertheless, by the time they were through, the kids all had bright red hands and Sorcha had a skirt full of blossoms, and deep purple stains all over her pale blue, borrowed gown. Even so, they laughed and ran about, with a flurry of waves, whilst Sorcha watched and laughed.
Later, once they had returned to the keep, Sorcha took a lesson from her sister Lìli, and found and laid claim to a workbench. It was the first thing Lìli did upon arriving in Dubhtolargg, so, it stood to reason Sorcha could do the same. Why not? If they meant for her to help, she needed a good place to cut and grind the herbs. The least they could do after waylaying her was grant her a table.
And, then, because Una did not raise her, or any of her sisters, to be timid, Sorcha also demanded the return of her grimoire and keek stane. Not only did that book contain the histories of her clan, but it was filled with priceless potions, all transcribed by Una. And that, Sorcha realized, was yet another clue, for Una had claimed she, herself, investigated each-and-every concoction, but there were hundreds in that book. It should have taken a dozen lifetimes to note so much. For sure, Una and Cailleach must be one and the same—sneaky auld wretch!
But that was a matter to be addressed with Una herself. And much to Sorcha’s delight, without any argument, Alec provided her back the keek stane and her grimoire, as well a workshop all to herself. He gave her the room they’d once used as a kitchen, before they’d moved it away from the tower. And this she learned from Bessie as Bessie showed her where to procure utensils—in a small room aside the newly separated kitchen.
So now, the first thing that must be done: dry the flowers. Too much moisture could rot her tincture. The batch Sorcha meant to use as a tea, she placed in baskets. All the rest she spread about the stone floors, closest to the windows, so the sun might enter and warm them. Before she could do aught more with them, she needed the blossoms to rest about two days, and then after, she would gather them up again to create her medicinals.
All the while she worked, she hummed. Because, despite the situation she found herself in, she was deliriously pleased with her new arrangement, temporary though it might be. Her sister Lìli didn’t have a workroom so grand. Her sister’s table was stuffed in a corner of her bedchamber. And Una’s, for all the years she’d practiced her simples, had been tucked away in a dark, dank grotto beneath their mountain, with a mist so cold it pained the bones. However, for Sorcha, they’d placed her table in the center of a great room—as though they valued her contributions.
At home, she’d felt taken for granted. Because Sorcha was always the dependable one. She watched her nieces and nephews. She ran everyone’s errands. She fetched the water. She made sure everyone’s clothes were clean. While her sister Lìli cared for their sick, Sorcha only followed her about, helping when she could.
Truth to tell, Sorcha came away from the morning with a new sense of purpose—not simply a desire to reunite with Una. Mayhap, with a bit of luck, she could help these folks and then still find Una?
Forsooth, she felt sorry for Caden Mac Swein. How must the man feel to have felled his own brother? To spy him headless? To know it was because of his own actions? The thought alone made Sorcha long to pluck out her own eyes. But no sooner had she banished the troubling image, when she was reminded of her own trials.
In her mind’s eye, she saw again the image of Padruig looming over Aidan’s sire, blood splattered through his long beard and red stains on his sword. He’d swiped the sword on her mother’s skirt beforehand, and then Sorcha watched in horror as he’d defiled her lady mother.
Most cruelly, those were the last visions her keek stane revealed to her. What treachery! What wickedness! And Sorcha was blood to that man. Every time she considered this, her own blood ran cold through her veins.
In truth, Sorcha had never been the sort to lament her circumstances. She had been taught to make the most of every happenstance, because tomorrow was never certain. Case in point, merely a sennight past, Sorcha had believed herself a valuable member of her clan. Now, look how swiftly it turned out to be a lie!
Harried by her thoughts, Sorcha took a break from her labors and walked outside to reexamine the star. Like a beacon, it hovered over the isle … as though it meant to guide her to this very place. “I know it’s you,” she whispered. “I know it’s you, Una. Show me what to do … ”
But the star didn’t reply. It hung stubbornly in the sky, shining down over the isle, silent and watchful, like a god’s eye.
“Halò, my lady,” said a little girl, waving at Sorcha with her bright-pink hands, and Sorcha waved back. Two little lads ran scurrying by, laughing as they passed.
It was only then Sorcha realized how many tots were running about … far more than grown men and women to care for them. It gave Sorcha a moment’s pause, realizing how vulnerable these people must be.
Then again, it made her think about her own clan, also much diminished in its own way, and she felt an instant kinship with these folks. So, then, until she had the chance to reunite with her mentor, these people had a need for her, and she intended to make use of her time here, beginning with that sad lump of a laird.
Sorcha forgave these people their presumptions and rudeness, empathizing with their plight. And, once again taking charge, she marched straight out the door, over to the stable to release Liusaidh. And, by the by, while she was there, she set Diabhal free as well. Puir horse! Where in creation were these animals supposed to flee? Like Sorcha, they were trapped here, and neither had wings to fly—no matter what the children believed.
Faerie horse—pah! The next thing she knew, they would be claiming Liusaidh was a unicorn. By the end of the afternoon, both horses were lying about beneath an old rowan tree, and Sorcha was prepared, at long last, to climb the stairs and face Caden Mac Swein.
Chapter Nine
Just when he feared the worst—that she was gone, Sorcha burst in as Caden was loitering in his bath, waiting for Moira to return—a good long time. So long, in fact, that while he sat unattended, he realized how accustomed he was to his household’s attentions. How much time had they wasted caring for him? How much of their care had he taken for g
ranted? In his abject misery, Caden had thought to save his people from themselves, but who would save them from him? The last thing anyone needed was to placate his tempers or cater to his needs. He was a man grown, far more capable than most—far more capable than any who lay six feet below.
Far more capable than Davie.
He realized he had been behaving like a spoilt child, one who had the luxury to sulk, when, in fact, none of his people had any luxuries at all.
“So, it seems I am summoned to help ye,” she announced, haughty as you please.
Startled from his reverie, Caden yelped like a boy, splashing water into his face, and, for the first time in his life, he felt a moment’s chagrin. For land’s sake, he could have been doing anything in here. Anything! Didn’t she ken how to knock? He cursed his lack of sight that he could see naught beyond his thoughts—his ears as well, for they clearly had failed him. What, in God’s name, might she have done if she’d walked in to find him strangling his goose? He covered his chagrin with exasperation. “Unless ye ha’e the power to raise the dead,” he advised her, “ye canna help me.”
Or rather, she could help him, but Caden was not a man given to lechery, and nevertheless, his libido had returned with a vengeance for, even now, he found himself sporting wood. Sinking further into the tub, vexed by the woman’s intrusion, he was nevertheless relieved she had returned. And yet, in truth, she behaved more as though she were his minny, and he’d lived twenty years without a mother. It was too late to adopt one now.
“Dinna pity yoursel’, Caden Mac Swein. Ye’ve two good legs, and two good hands, and ye ought to be more thankful!”
It was no more than Caden had already come to terms with himself, but put so precisely—by an audacious wench—an outlander at that—his sense of guilt intensified and his self-pity was reprehensible.
Then, again, had she lost a brother by her own hand? Could she bear to see herself as others saw her? A burden and a strain—undesirable and unforgivable?
Oblivious to his self-recrimination, the girl marched over to wiggle her fingers in Caden’s water, and then stood by his side, and Caden felt more than saw her. To be sure, he realized how much his senses had improved, because he could sense her shape beside him, long and lean.
But how could he know a thing like this?
“Your water is mucky,” she said. “’Tis aboot time ye thought to bathe. Where are your clothes?” Each question was phrased with the same cadence and arrogance as any man in charge, and for a moment, Caden longed to defy her. Not even as a child had anyone spoken to him so truculently. Though, in truth, his toes were turning blue, and he loathed to imagine how much his todger had shrunk by now. “In the antechamber,” he grumbled. “In my coffer.” And he waved her away, grateful when she obeyed. Belatedly, he placed his hands over his nether regions, anticipating her return.
It wasn’t so much that he was embarrassed, but he wasn’t comfortable baring himself when he couldn’t even see her reaction. And why do I need to see her reaction?
Alec liked to joke that he had a baby’s arm hanging betwixt his legs, and Caden had never been the least bit shy about nudity. But, truth to tell, he wasn’t sure which of the two scenarios troubled him most: the possibility that Sorcha was young and lovely, or the likelihood that she was old and hackit. For some reason, either way, he was uncharacteristically bashful over the thought of baring his cock. He heard her rummage about in the anterior chamber and then she marched back in, ordering him out of the bath. “You’re a pawky wench!” he complained.
But the bloody woman remained undaunted. “And if ye believe it, ye wadna wish to meet my sisters.”
As ucht Dé! Caden loathed the thought. Could there possibly be another woman in her mold? Bossy and overbold? He was unaccustomed to women with such mettle.
Feeling not the least bit merciful, he removed his hand from his scrote, determined to make the lass blush like a skelped arse. By God, he was not so deficient in that area, and if his arms and legs were thick, his cock was no less blessed. Smirking, he stood, precisely as she asked him to. Water cascaded over his form, and nevertheless, she made no sound, no gasp, no reaction at all—a fact that brought a sting of warmth to Caden’s cheeks—and, nay, not the cheeks of his arse. The tiny hairs on his bottom prickled in distress.
“Out,” she demanded, and Caden stood for a long, awkward moment, uncertain what to do. In truth, he was afeared to move, lest he tumble out of the bath and straight onto his face, and then embarrass himself even more. As it was, it had been so long since he’d bathed that he had misjudged the height of the tub while climbing in, and now, the thought of seeming like a bumbling fool—right in front of her—left him cross.
Didn’t she realize he needed help?
And nevertheless, he wasn’t about to ask for it.
Feeling the air in front of him, acutely aware of his nakedness in a manner he wasn’t accustomed to, Caden found the lip of the tub, and the cauld-hearted wench stood by all the while, silent as he stumbled about. He lifted one leg over and out, quite likely exposing his bung, which pleased him not at all. And then, just when he was about to snap, she wrapped a warm towel about him, startling him with the soft, snug length.
By God, had she warmed it by the brazier?
Betimes, he had done so for himself, but never once had he ever commanded anyone else to do it for him. It was a tiny luxury no one had time for. And nevertheless, the girl had been considerate enough to think of it. And by the by, her arms were warm as well… and the feel of them wrapped about him so unexpectedly brought an uncomfortable burn to his eyes. Like a wee boy, he nuzzled his face against the warm cloth, playing it off as though he were merely getting himself dry.
Up close, Sorcha smelled of … sunshine… and something else… something not immediately discernible. And then, too, as she held the towel about his body, he discovered she was not so small. In fact, she was not as tall as Caden was, but nearly. He longed to put his hands out and trace the lines of her face, to see if her skin was as soft as her scent.
She wiggled her breasts against his chest as she dried him—high and firm and round—and his physical reaction was immediate. Self-consciously, he moved out of her embrace, uncertain how to feel about his “wee commander” rising to salute a matronly old woman.
There was simply no way a young lass could put so much thought into the intricate pleasures of a bath. She must be old and experienced. More’s the pity. And yet…
“Careful now,” she said, and tried her best to wrest the towel free.
Caden fought her. “Nay, woman.” He jerked it away. “I can dry myself.”
“Verra well,” she said, relenting. She stepped away, and her scent faded. Caden felt the loss acutely—like the absence of a limb.
He heard her leave the room, her footsteps light and quick, and he took the opportunity to pick his way across the chamber, back to his bed, where he sat, tugging up the damp towel and wrapping it securely about his hefty shoulders. Shoulders that were covered in scars. Did she note them? Was she disgusted by the sight of him? Was this why she didn’t seem to be the least affected by him? How many scars did he have now after that battle on the hill? Many more than Davie would ever have the chance to earn.
Right yourself, he commanded himself. Be a mon! He was a burden to everyone. God’s teeth, he could no longer even manage his own bath—not alone.
And neither did she seem to consider him braw—more like an eegit, without the bloody sense of a cow.
And yet, she did say she thought him braw … that first day. The recollection pleased him.
Feeling entirely ambivalent and confused, Caden was still seated when Sorcha returned with his tunic in hand. He smelled his own scent on the cloth, but couldn’t tell which tunic she had chosen. Green did not flatter him at all. The blue tunic was entirely too threadbare. The red one was faded. But, of course, he hadn’t all that many to choose from, and why should he care? He was no Sassenach, with coffers full of silks. R
ònaigh’s weavers were few and wool was scarce. Most of what he had to wear he’d obtained as gifts or from his junkets to the Isle of Skye.
Only once, when Caden was a wee boy, he’d joined his sire in the hinterlands of Scotia, where his da complained the lord was a tailard—a devil-tailed Sassenach. And why? Merely because the laird’s wife was sent in to bathe him—an insult to be sure. Not only because it implied his father stunk, but, rather, bathing a laird was an Englishman’s custom, to which, no self-respecting Scotswoman would ever yield to. The women of their clan had far more important matters to attend—like raising bairns and tending the kitchens—and nevertheless, Caden sat, allowing Sorcha to move him into whatever position she so pleased—like a bluidy infant.
He grunted his displeasure.
“There,” she said, with a smile in her voice. “Ye clean up well, Caden Mac Swein.”
Caden felt another stirring at his groin. By damn, was that going to happen every time she spoke to him? It was discomfiting, to say the least.
“Thank ye,” he said, a bit resentfully, and he was grateful once his tunic was finally on, so he could pull it down to his knees. “I should say, ye’re no’ bound to serve me, lass. There have been no thralls on this isle since days of yore.”
“Never mind,” she said, too sweetly. “I made a bargain and I will keep my word. One way or another, Caden Mac Swein, I will do my best to aid you, and, come May Day three weeks hence, I will be gone.”
Gone? Gone?
Where the hell does she intend to go?
They were in the middle of the North Sea.
It had been too long since he’d been this close to a lass who smelled so nice. “I know my name, woman. Ye dinna have to say it every time. Where are my boots?” he snapped.
Without a word, Sorcha pushed him back on his bed, and then she knelt, maneuvering his feet into his shoes, and Caden had the untoward thought of her lips somewhere they ought not be. His cock stirred again, though he steadfastly ignored it. “What bargain?”
Maiden from the Mist (Guardians of the Stone Book 4) Page 9