“Heartache can keep us from doing many healthy things,” she explained, ladling water into a much smaller cauldron and putting it over the fire. “It can affect our appetite, our sleep, even our ability to tell things from dream and reality at times.” She paused, reaching for a large crock from the wooden counter. Morgana scooped out what looked to be a bright yellow butter and added it to the cauldron. “Like I said before, this won’t cure your heartache, but it may relieve some of the symptoms.”
I bet ye could cure me heartache more than ye think.
He vividly remembered how beautiful she had looked in her maroon dress the first time they had met, but she looked even fairer in this blue one. It was nowhere near the shade of her eyes, but it was still beautiful. The fabric was thinner, accenting her figure more. Never before had he seen a dress designed with the corset in the front, but he loved the style and how it accentuated her hips.
A comfortable silence stretched between them as he watched her finish her process. When she finished, she poured a smooth, sweet smelling salve into a small earthen crock, and directed him to sit down again. Curious, he obeyed and watched as she dabbed her fingers into it and began to swirl it in her hands.
“Warm it with your hands first,” she murmured in instruction. Gently her fingertips came down to his temples, rubbing the salve in gently. Pleasure bloomed there almost immediately. The massage alone was enough to make his shoulders drop away from his ears. Then after a couple more moments he began to feel the effects of the herbs dissolving into his bloodstream. A soft, lightheaded feeling came over him, and he leaned his head back further into her touch.
“What is this?” he asked, feeling drowsy and content. Behind him he heard Morgana laugh softly.
“Don’t worry, I only used a little so the effects will last only a few moments longer.” Her fingers continued their healing massage, her nails scraping gently through his hair and over his scalp. Relaxation seeped deeply into him, and for a moment he struggled to stay awake.
Morgana continued her massage slowly and thoroughly, working her hands down neck and over his shoulders to massage the aching muscles there. As if she’d known him intimately, she slipped her fingers underneath his shirt and worked at his tension.
“You have so much pain here,” she whispered, her fingers working magic over his knots. “This must be where you carry all your burdens.”
“I had nay idea,” he replied honestly. His voice sounded oddly thick, as if he weren’t quite awake.
Morgana continued working her magic over his tense muscles for another minute before she pulled away and asked how he felt. When she did, Gregor immediately wanted her to come back. Then, just like she promised, the effects of the salve began to fade. He wanted both sensations back immediately.
“Better,” was the only word he could fathom. She smiled at him warmly, and he fought the urge to pull her into his lap to kiss her.
“Good. Rub a bean-sized dollop of that into your temples gently every night,” she told him, pushing the crock toward him. “Right before bed, yes? If you put this on and then try to do things it won’t go well. Let me know if it helps.”
The words it does nearly flew out of his mouth immediately, but he kept them back with his teeth. Instead, he told her that he would do just that, and thanked her for the medicine. He didn’t want to leave, but the throbbing in his groin was becoming too much to bear, and he was worried if they touched again he wouldn’t refrain from kissing her. There was no denying to himself now. Whether he liked it or not, he was responding to her strongly.
Gregor pulled a few coins from his pocket, and put them on the table. She tried to tell him it wasn’t necessary but he insisted. She had made him this bit of comfort and she deserved to be paid for it. He liked the way she blushed when he told her so, and she let him leave the coins. He wanted to thank her again, but before he knew it he was talking about the chickens.
“Our mill has some of the best feed in three villages for the chickens,” he told her, heading toward the door. “Give em’ that and I promise ye they’ll be laying’ ye the richest eggs. That bag I brought will last ye a week or two.”
“Thank you again,” she replied, her voice teasing his ears once more. Just then Gregor imagined that voice right up against his ear, whispering his name in ecstasy.
He murmured his welcome, and hurriedly let himself out. Outside he walked rigidly to where he had tethered Hermes, but when he got there he couldn’t bring himself to mount him just yet. His manhood was in agony with how hard he was, and it throbbed mercilessly at the waistband of his trousers.
It had been years since he had felt sexual desire. Years. Now it was coursing through him like a mighty river. He had thought his passion had died with Isabel, but now he understood that nothing could be further from the truth. Groaning in agitation, Gregor adjusted himself, and stiffly picked up Hermes’ reins.
He swore under his breath, annoyed with how all over the place his mind was, and began to lead Hermes back through the wood. As he walked, he thought about the way he just left the cottage and winced outwardly.
“Why did I talk about the chickens?” he bemoaned, continuing his walk. He was thankful that the exercise was easing the strain in his nether regions, allowing blood to return to his other head. Beside him, Hermes neighed playfully.
“Aye, I kent ye were on me side,” Gregor shot back, affectionately scratching at the stallion’s ears. “Traitor.”
He sighed, stopped, and turned back to look at Morgana’s cottage once more. There was still a lot more he realized he didn’t know about her, but what she had shared with him had made him thirsty for more. He still couldn’t shake the feeling she was running from something. And if so, what was it?
Chapter 7
A Small English Coastal Village
The village hadn’t been happy with the way the maiden’s bodies had been arranged in the tree, but it had to be done. Proper warning needed to be given about what would happen to those who aided witches. Angry villagers had stormed his camp, but with the intimidation of his loyal guards, they soon left to mourn their losses in the safety of their homes.
Now it was nearly four months later and they still hadn’t left the last village he’d tracked Morgana to. Like the witch she was, she had vanished into the forest without so much as a footprint left behind of her or her beast. How she always did he never knew, but once he finally caught her–well, he already an entire list of dark methods he would use to find out just exactly how.
Fordun had been bent over his table, studying his notes from his previous hunts when his lead guard, Bartholomew, asked permission to enter.
“What is it?” he asked sharply, sparing no time.
“Sir, the men think they’ve found something,” Bartholomew answered quickly.
Excitement raced through Fordun, and he turned quickly to look at his lead. “Good man,” he praised, clapping the much taller man on the shoulder. “Show me.”
Bartholomew left the tent and returned only a short time later with another guard holding a small scrap of maroon fabric in his gloved hands. Fordun picked it up and felt the fabric with his fingertips. When he finished, he brought it up to his nose and inhaled deeply. The cloth smelled like earth, rain, and there, covered beneath it, was a scent that he could pick out anywhere. Morgana’s scent had become an addiction to him. It was a wild, sweet scent of hyacinths and lilies. Pure springtime. It was a shame such a beautiful aroma belonged to such an evil girl.
“Excellent, excellent,” he whispered, looking up at the guards. They had been studying him curiously, but the moment he raised his eyes they were at attention once more.
“Where was this found?” He asked.
The guard gave him the location and he looked at the guard incredulously. How could it have been possible that she had travelled that far south so fast? Even with a horse she would have had to travel night and day without rest. And then, after thousands of miles without leaving naught but a trace, how d
oes a bit of her dress suddenly just end up across his man’s path?
Witchcraft. The word burned like a brand into his head, and he drew in a sharp breath.
“Begin packing up camp immediately,” he instructed, pocketing the fabric. “We leave at first light. Get from the village what we need. If they won’t sell it, take it.”
“Tily?” Morgana called, her knuckles rapping against the old woman’s door. It was past noon that Thursday and Tily had yet to come by the cottage for some reason or other. It was odd, since she had found a reason to do so ever since Morgana moved in. First she had waited an hour, then two. After that she couldn’t sit still anymore so she went out to her gardens to work, hoping that at any given time she would look up and see Tily making her way toward her through the fields.
By lunch time she had a sick feeling rolling around her stomach. Something was wrong. She couldn’t wait anymore. Quickly she had packed a basket with some general first-aid herbs and made her way across the field, instructing Zeus to stay at the cottage. Morgana waited, but after hearing nothing she knocked again. This time, she heard a faint moan come from inside, and she let herself in.
A foul odor affronted Morgana as she opened the door, and she quickly scanned the room for Tily. She found her in her bed, looking small and pale. Beside her bed sat a wooden bucket full of sick, and the sheets on the bed itself were soiled. Tily herself was drawing in low, shallow breaths, and could barely keep her eyes open.
“Oh, Tily,” Morgana gasped, going to her side. Immediately she began to clean the old woman’s bed up, removing the soiled sheets and putting on fresh ones. When she finished, she helped Tily to sit up so she could wash her up, then changed her into a clean nightgown. As she worked quickly to remove any filth and stench, Morgana took stock of her friend’s symptoms.
Tily had a high fever and chills. She could barely speak or open her eyes, and her belly was extended. Along with the other evidence that she had just cleaned up, Morgana quickly realized it was something she had faced before–colic of the belly.
“Don’t you worry, dearest,” Morgana assured calmly, going about setting up her apothecary table. “I know just the thing. We’re going to get you fixed up in no time. This will ease your pain until I make the medicine.” From her basket she pulled out a small flask and dropped some of amber liquid between Tily’s lips. It was essence of mandrake, a strong pain killer.
A few moments later, Tily’s body relaxed, and she fell into a deep sleep. The valerian oil would ease her body enough to at least allow her to get some much-needed rest while Morgana set herself to work, searching through Tily’s kitchen until she found biggest cauldron she had. When she found it she hung it above the fireplace before stacking the wood up high for a hotter fire.
Morgana threw out the water in Tily’s wash bucket and walked outside to Tily’s water barrel. She made the trip three times until the cauldron was filled to the brim, then stacked the fire some more. She needed to get the water to a boil so she could begin the cleansing process, then she could make her medicines. As she waited for the boil, she pulled what she needed from her basket and ran as quickly as she could back to her cottage for the rest.
In her garden Morgana’s fingers tore at the chamomilla leaves, fenugreek. Inside, where she found Zeus dutifully guarding the door, she grabbed her last crock of honey and a few other special items she’d need. Before leaving again she took a piece of parchment and scribbled “Tily’s” on it with her feather pen, and pinned it to her door.
“Come on Zeus,” Morgana called quickly, running down the steps. “We’ve got to help Tily.”
Chapter 8
Two Days Later
“Och, I’m fine,” Tily retorted, swatting Morgana’s hand away. “I daenae need any more of yer medicine, lass. Now give me some ale.”
“Not a chance,” Morgana quipped back, shoving the mug of medicinal tea into Tily’s hands. “Not for another week at least. You need to let your body heal.”
“It be healed enough to not drink this awful stuff anymore.” Tily muttered the reply bitterly even as she brought the mug to her lips. It was right awful tasting stuff, but it had saved her life.
Morgana giggled at the old woman and shook her head at her fondly before turning back to her dough. The last two days had been a rough journey for Tily. The tonic she had made had been doing its job, but it was still going to be another four or five days before she could let her friend even think of leaving bed. She had decided it was best to stay with her until she was back on her feet.
“Tell me something, lass,” Tily chattered, “who’s been taking care of yer patients while ye been nursing me back to health?”
Morgana’s hands stopped kneading the dough. Tily had a point. Not a single visitor had stopped by in the last two days for her medicines. From what she could remember, a young lass Bridgette O’Flannery had supposed to be by with her new crocks of honey and the widower Creary was to have stopped by for an oil for his earaches. Surely her note would have let people know where to go.
“How do you feel?” Morgana asked, throwing a towel over the dough to rise. She turned to Tily once more, her arms folded in front of her. “Do you need some time on your own?” She raised an eyebrow playfully and the old woman cackled.
“I thought ye’d never ask,” she retorted, her brown eyes full of affectionate sarcasm. “Go, I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Morgana promised. She filled a pitcher with tea tonic she had brewed and sat it on the small table by Tily’s bed along with a plate of buttered brown bread. “I’m just going to see if anyone has stopped by the cottage.”
Although Morgana told herself everything was fine, she couldn’t help but walk briskly through the fields once more. Something was pulling at her gut again, telling her all was not well. When she reached the cottage she searched the porch for a crate of honey and notes of any kind, but she found none.
A feeling of unease settled in her gut as she looked back toward Tily’s house in the fading sunlight. Not sure what to make of it, Morgana went inside to check on her things. When she found them to be right where she left them she went out to her herb gardens and began to tend to them, hoping that working with her herbs would calm her like it normally did.
The soil was warm and welcomed her fingers instantly, and Morgana relaxed a little. Only a few minutes passed by before she began to hear the faint rush of hooves in the distance. With her hands still working at weeds, she lifted her head to see the Laird of Henwen galloping rather quickly toward her. Excitement laced through as she saw him. It had been nearly a week since he’d last stopped by with the chickens, and she was eager to know if the salve she had made him had helped.
As he got closer, Morgana could see something was wrong. His chiseled features were set into a hard frown and his hands were choked up on his reins very tight. Beneath him, the beast he called Hermes was breathing heavily, obviously tired from a very fast ride. Morgana’s first thought was Fordun. He had found her. Her heart began to beat in double time as she started to think of an escape plan. Would Gregor help her? Would he turn her in? Would he–
“Morgana,” he greeted, pulling Hermes to a stop only a few feet before her. He hopped down from the beast’s back in one fluid motion, drawing her eyes to the man’s rather impressive backside. Despite the impending feeling of danger, Morgana felt a sliver of lust shoot into her loins.
“Laird Henwen,” she murmured, curtsying timidly. Despite her English upbringing, Morgana had noticed that her accent was shifting to that of the region. “What’s the matter?”
“We need yer help.” The words came out like a plea, and Morgana knew right away that whatever was wrong had nothing to do with witch-hunters or religious fanatics, and she held back a sigh of relief.
“And I’ve asked ye to call me Gregor. Now please, ye have to come. Nearly everyone is sick.”
Gregor’s voice was full of concern as he told her about what was going on the village. Th
e symptoms he explained matched up with Tily’s perfectly, and she knew what she had to do to help. She told him to get to a new water source immediately, but he already had guards going out with wagons of barrels to get fresh water.
“Tell them to come to me and I’ll give them the medicine they need,” she promised, turning to go back inside. “Bringing them on wagon is best.”
Gregor shook his head, took a step closer, and touched her shoulder. It was a soft touch, but she could feel the urgency in his fingertips.
“Nay, lass. I need ye to come in with me. Now. This is a real emergency we have.”
Morgana felt every inch of herself pull away from the idea. After everything that had happened, she knew better than to go into villages. Though she found it petty and somewhat vulgar, there was always a man that liked to think he could help himself to her. And of course, because she was an unattached woman looking the way she looked, his vile lust was her own doing. Therefore, it was always easier for everyone if she stayed out of sight and away from people.
Lusting for the Highlander: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 6