Aishlinn studied him closely for a moment, her curiosity piqued. “What do you mean, none of our own?”
Angus pushed the trinket box toward Aishlinn. “‘Tis nothin’ to worry over. Let’s just say that Horace and his brothers finally got what they were deservin’ of.”
“What does that mean?” She may very well have hated her step-brothers for all they had done to her over the years, and she may at one time have wished them all to go to the devil. But that didn’t mean she would want any real harm to come to them.
“I dunna want ye to worry over it, Aishlinn.” His voice was firm, his jaw set. Not knowing if Horace and his brothers lived still, Angus did not see the need to share what may or may not have happened.
Aishlinn ran her fingers over the top of the pewter trinket box for a few moments. She was afraid to open it for fear the things she knew should be in it may have been lost. She eyed her father closely. They may have only known each other for less than a year, but she had learned early on that once Angus McKenna’s mind was made up, there was no changing it.
“Are ye goin’ to look inside the box, Aishlinn?” he asked her, his voice low and filled with compassion.
She wasn’t sure if she wanted to or not. Aye, the box itself was a beautiful piece of pewter craftsmanship. The lid was intricately carved, depicting a woman holding a babe in swaddling clothes. Laiden’s stepfather, a man Aishlinn had never met, had died before she was born. He had given the box to her mother when she was five and ten.
The box, along with its contents, was a secret, her mother had explained. ’Twas a secret for just the two of them and Aishlinn had managed, after all these years, to keep her word.
The not knowing was unbearable. Taking a deep breath, Aishlinn closed her eyes and carefully lifted the lid.
Angus watched her closely, his lips pursed together as he waited. The joy alight in her eyes and on her face was indescribable. Aye, he thought to himself. It was worth this.
She bit at her bottom lip as tears began to blur her vision. She sat motionless for a time, as a combination of relief and bittersweet memories washed over her. Delicately, she touched each item as she fought to maintain some semblance of control.
They were silly things, nothing of any true value to anyone but Aishlinn.
There was a lock of Laiden’s hair braided with a lock of Aishlinn’s. She took it out and held it to her lips as her stomach tightened ever so slightly. No amount of gold or silver in the world would ever be as valuable as these strands of hair tied together with a tiny piece of string.
Aishlinn knew the tiny locks no longer held the scent of her mother. Instead, they smelled of time passed and faded memories. But for a brief moment, she allowed herself to believe that she could detect just the slightest hint of lilac, her mother’s favorite flower.
After a few moments, she carefully placed the locks of hair on the table before pulling out a small bundle of dried flowers. Tiny violets, bluebells, and a sprig of lilac, once vibrant with color and life, had turned brown with the passing of time. Aishlinn had picked those flowers the spring after her mother died and had placed them inside the box. Just a little girl at the time, it made her feel more grown up and less afraid knowing she was now in charge of keeping the secret box safe.
Brock didn’t know about the box, Laiden had explained. When Aishlinn had asked her mother why, Laiden told her that men sometimes didn’t understand matters of the heart and often times considered such things to be frivolous. Aishlinn had since learned that not all men were cold-hearted like her stepfather and stepbrothers.
Duncan had proven to her that men could be kind and gentle. While they might not understand why a woman thinks or feels the way she does over some things, men like Duncan appreciated the finer complexities of the opposite sex. Aishlinn’s feelings and happiness were all that mattered to him.
A tiny silver band was the next memento to be brought out. Aishlinn held the ring between her index finger and thumb for a few moments, wondering again why her mother held it in such high regard as to place it inside the box. She did not know the story behind the ring; she only knew that her mother treasured it.
Aishlinn placed the ring next to the locks of hair and flowers. There was one last item, one that she had forgotten about, that lay in the bottom of the box. She had never known the importance of that bit of fabric, until she saw it now. Now, she knew why it was here, inside the pewter box of secrets.
It was a tiny swatch of MacDougall plaid.
Aishlinn held it up and looked at her father. Angus McKenna -- a tall, braw, courageous, warrior, the leader of more than four hundred clan members -- sat with tears streaming down his face.
Laiden had kept her promise. She never forgot.
Ten
Nora stayed by Elise’s side the remainder of the evening. John argued his desire to stay with her as well, but Nora refused to allow it. She wanted him to stay as far away from Elise as possible so that he wouldn’t come down with same ailment. It was only after Daniel and David promised to give him a tour of the castle and the battlements on the morrow that he agreed. Reluctantly, he let Daniel and David take him to the gathering room for the evening meal.
Wee William appeared soon after with a tray filled with all manner of succulent foods. “Ye must eat, to keep yer strength up, Nora.”
He put the tray down on the end of the bed and grabbed a chair to sit next to Nora. “I was no’ sure what ye’d like, so I brought a bit of everything.”
Nora hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the aroma of the food hit her nostrils. Her mouth watered instantly and her stomach growled at the sight of the meats, breads, fruits and vegetables.
Wee William balanced the tray on his knees while Nora grabbed a chicken leg and began devouring it. “Thank you, William!” she said in between bites. “This is delicious!”
Wee William chuckled, simply enjoying the passionate way in which she was eating. She had a chicken leg in one hand and a hunk of bread in the other and was quickly devouring both. Her lips and fingers were covered in grease and she ate without restraint.
He and his men had eaten in similar fashion earlier, for it had been weeks since any of them had eaten a decent meal. He liked the fact that she wasn’t pretending not to be hungry, nor was she hell bent on being ladylike. She was famished and wasn’t about to pretend otherwise.
In between bites of lamb and potatoes, she thanked him again. “I will forever be in your debt, William,” she told him before shoving another bite of potatoes into her mouth. “What you’ve done for me, for John and Elise,” she stopped long enough to take a drink of ale to wash down her food. “I do not know of anyone else who would have done what you have done.”
Wee William smiled, fascinated with the passion she was bestowing upon her dinner. “’Twas nothing, lass.” He wondered what other things she might attack with similar passion.
“Nay! It was very much something, William!” She took another gulp of ale and quickly followed up with attacking the leeks. “I don’t think you understand.”
He remained quiet, enjoying the passionate way she attacked her food. After she finished the leeks, she began to slow down, taking more time to enjoy the actual taste of the food. When she took her first bite of the sweet cake, she closed her eyes slowly and moaned with delight. “Oh, that is soooo good!” She let each word out slowly, and had the very pleased look of a woman experiencing something decadent, nearly sinful. He swallowed hard and breathed in through his nose.
Wee William’s mind filled with an image of her repeating those words again, but after a long, languid kiss. Perhaps tucked under a warm fur in their bed in their cottage while a fire burned low in the corner. He’d start with slow, purposeful kisses on her lips, then mayhap take a journey down that enchanting, curvaceous body of hers, letting his lips and his tongue guide the way, while his fingers trailed happily along. Mayhap he would feed her sweet cakes and berries while he delighted in the carnal pleasures that her body could offer.
> “William, did you hear me?” Nora’s voice broke through his daydream. He startled and sat up a bit taller.
Thank God the tray is on me lap. “No, I’m sorry, me mind was—” he couldn’t very well tell her where his mind was. She’d knock him off his chair. “I was thinking of what I must do on the morrow, lass. I apologize. What were ye sayin’?”
Again, he was only half listening. He was making plans to talk to Angus about getting a little plot of land on which to build a wee cottage. What the hell is wrong with me? He had never before entertained thoughts of cottages, wives, bairns or parcels of land. Wee William was a warrior. Most women were afraid of him, simply because of his size. Mayhap his unruly hair and beard and scars had something to do with it as well. But Nora? She seemed different. She didn’t twitter on incessantly about topics in which he either had no interest or didn’t understand. She didn’t walk in the opposite direction when he approached. She talked with him, not at or about him.
She was bonny, that he could not deny. But he knew that the moment he first laid eyes on her, even if she did have a blackened eye and bruised face.
As she talked, the candlelight bounced off her gray-blue eyes and made them sparkle like stars in the sky. He also took note of her ample bosom and the way the dress hugged her curves. She was quite striking in the gray and yellow dress and the arisaid that hugged her tiny waist. He was having a difficult time concentrating on what she was actually saying.
“So you see, William, you saved me, you saved all of us. Were it not for you, I’d probably be dead and I doubt it would be from natural causes and old age. I think Horace would have eventually killed me.”
At the mention of Horace’s name, all the pleasant images of Nora evaporated from his mind. Horace. Wee William hoped the man was burning in Hell.
“So I have much to thank you for. Most importantly, for making me a widow that night.”
Widow? Yes, she still thought she was a widow. Thankfully, no one had told her there was a possibility that that wasn’t the case. Wee William tried to reason with himself that it was better she did think Horace dead. How could he tell her otherwise? How could he, in good conscience, take that feeling of safety and hope away from her? He couldn’t. Let her think he is dead, for we do no’ really ken the truth of it.
“Do you think badly of me, William, that I do not mourn the loss of my husband?” She had stopped eating. She had one hand resting on her lap, fidgeting with her napkin, while she held Elise’s tiny hand in the other.
“Nay, lass.” He couldn’t hold that against her. How could you mourn someone who had treated you so poorly?
“I would feel worse pretending, William. To pretend that I care he is dead would be wrong, would it not?” It was one of the many things she’d been contemplating before he had arrived.
“Aye, I believe it would.”
Nora nodded her head and brushed away a strand of loose hair from Elise’s forehead. She was still burning with fever. Elise began to shiver and her eyes fluttered before opening. “Nora,” her voice was scratchy and hoarse. “I am s-so c-cold.” A coughing fit quickly began and Nora helped her to sit up, patting her on her back.
“I’ll get her another blanket,” Wee William offered. His voice was laced with concern and worry.
Nora thanked him as she grabbed a tankard of water from the table beside Elise’s bed. Once her coughing quieted, Nora encouraged her to take a drink of water.
“I don’t feel good,” Elise whispered as she shivered and fought to catch her breath.
“Ssshh, don’t talk, now. You need to rest.” Nora rubbed her little back and gave her time to settle her lungs.
“I’m glad we’re not outside anymore.” Elise said as she wiggled her toes under the covers. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“Don’t be a goose, of course I’d take care of you.”
Elise started coughing again. It was a long, dry cough that made Elise sound like a small barking dog. Nora found it quite unnerving. She did her best to mask her concern.
“I’m glad Horace is dead.” Elise coughed again. “’Cause now I get to be with you again.”
Nora could not, in good conscience, chastise Elise for speaking her mind on that topic. “Elise, please, don’t talk, it makes you cough. You need to rest.”
“But I am glad!”
“I am too,” Nora whispered. “But we shouldn’t say such things aloud and you need to rest.” Nora took a clean cloth, dipped it in the bowl of cool water, and began to wash Elise’s face and hands. Elise began to shiver again, her little teeth chattered and her breathing sounded labored. Nora set about applying a fresh poultice just as Mary and Isobel had shown her to do earlier.
She had just finished applying fresh cloths over the noxious paste when Wee William returned with not one, but two additional furs. Without a word, he spread the blankets over Elise and tucked them in under her chin.
“Thank you, Sir William,” Elise said sleepily and with a slight smile.
“Yer welcome, Princess Elise.”
“You know I’m not a princess,” Elise said with a yawn.
“And ye ken I’m no knight, lassie,” he told her with a smile and a pat on her head.
“You should be,” she said as she closed her eyes.
Wee William’s warm smile was aimed at Elise, but Nora felt it just the same. “And ye should be a princess.” He smoothed her hair away from her face before slowly standing upright. He turned his attention back to Nora.
She sat there, looking at up at him as if she wanted to say something, but hesitated. Instead, gave him an affectionate, warm smile and looked back to Elise. Sometimes words weren’t necessary.
Nora stayed by Elise’s side all night, dozing between the little girl’s coughing fits and spiking fevers. She was relieved and thankful to learn that the room had its own privy and therefore she would not be gone too long from Elise’s side.
By the time dawn arrived, Nora’s shoulders, back and bottom ached from sitting on the stool for so many hours. Elise would wake for only a few minutes at a time. None of the herbs that Isobel had prescribed seemed to be doing anything to help break the fever.
By noon, her cough had turned from dry and hoarse to wet and phlegmy and things had only grown worse from there. John was brought into the room with a fever of his own later that day. Nora’s worst fears were coming true; both children were very ill.
A small bed was set next to the larger bed and Elise was moved to that. Nora planted herself between the two beds and did her best to take care of them.
John’s fever and cough seemed to be following the same path as Elise’s. It started with the high fever and that was followed later by the dry hoarse cough. He too, slept for hours at a time.
It didn’t seem possible, but Elise’s cough had worsened and soon she was vomiting due to the coughing fits being so severe. Her fever raged on and she began hallucinating at sometime past the midnight hour. She cried out for someone to get the fish off her feet. Had it been merely a dream, one might have found some humor in it. But as it was, a heavy pall had fallen over the room.
And so it went for the next several days. Poultices were applied to their chests and they were encouraged to drink the herbal teas. Fevers raged and broke, but for only an hour or two at a time. John’s cough changed into the same rattled state as his sister’s.
Nora rarely left their sides, and then only to see to the most necessary of her own needs. Isobel and Mary made frequent appearances to bring more herbs and concoctions that they hoped would help the children. She dozed off and on when she was able, sometimes resting her head on the large bed.
In less than a week, both children were so ill with raging fevers and unrelenting coughs, that they were seldom truly awake or aware of their surroundings. Dark circles had formed under their eyes and their skin had taken on a gray pallor that shook Nora to her bones. They were dying and there was naught she could do to help them.
Nora’s only sense of
comfort was that no one else had yet fallen ill. It was all she could do to not blame herself a hundred times a day for Elise and John’s current state. If anyone else had become ill because they were here, she would not have been able to live with herself.
On the morning of the eighth day, the priest was called to their room. Though she was exhausted and tired beyond anything she had ever experienced, Nora became enraged.
“Who called you?” she demanded as she wiped a cold cloth across John’s forehead.
“Lass,” the young man began in a soothing tone. “I’m no’ here to give last rites. I’m here to offer prayer.”
Nora studied him closely for a moment. The man couldn’t be more than five and twenty. He was tall, broad in the shoulder, and built much like the other Highlander men she had encountered. His light blonde hair was cut close to his scalp and his brown eyes had a peaceful countenance to them. He wore the course brown robes of a priest, but they stretched over his muscles. Had she been in a better mood she might have laughed at how odd he appeared. It looked as though he had stolen the robes and was trying to disguise himself.
“I’m Father Michael,” he said as he stood at the foot of John’s bed. He hadn’t taken his eyes from Nora.
Nora wanted nothing to do with the priest at the moment. Priests who appeared when people were ill were bad luck in her mind. It meant death was near. Priests simply pushed the sick toward the inevitable. She bit her tongue to keep from lashing out that he could take his prayers and leave.
“How fare they today?” he asked kindly.
“The same as yesterday and the day before,” Nora bit as she rinsed the cloth in the basin. You cannot have them, not yet.
“That is good then,” he said quietly.
Nora’s brow knotted confusion. “What do you mean that is good then?”
Father Michael tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe and smiled. “No change is better than turnin’ fer the worst, wouldn’t ye agree?” He offered another smile that went unrewarded.
Wee William's Woman, Book Three of the Clan MacDougall Series Page 14