Souls to Heal

by Tilly Wallace

  Tonight, the kitchen was gaily decorated. Alice and Ianthe had strewn green boughs draped with red ribbons about the room. The fresh scent of pine permeated the room and reminded him of nights spent hunting in the forest.

  A large duck that liked to attack people’s legs had disappeared from the yard and was now roasting in the oven. Quinn muttered something about hot revenge and Ewan swallowed his laughter. The duck had made the fatal error of pecking Quinn’s derriere when he bent over a horse’s hoof.

  Wine flowed and even Alice giggled as she enjoyed her second glass. The meal was simple but delicious, made all the better by the company. Then there was a pudding with brandy for desert.

  Ianthe glowed as she raised her glass. “To the merriest Christmas I have experienced in some years. Not only is Quinn home, however temporarily, but we have good friends and good company.”

  The tapped their glasses and toasted each other. Full stomachs and good brandy had edged everyone’s mood to contentment. Quinn produced a sprig of mistletoe from the pocket of his waistcoat and waved it at Ianthe.

  The vibrant woman laughed and batted him away. “Since when have you ever needed to wave shrubbery at me to steal a kiss?”

  “You’re right.” Holding the sprig behind him, he cupped the nape of Ianthe’s neck and drew her to him for a short but passionate kiss. Then he turned to Alice and held the greenery over her head. “Next.”

  She suppressed a laugh behind her hand, then leaned over and kissed Quinn’s cheek, as a sister would do to a brother.

  “See?” Quinn smirked at Ewan. “I am irresistible to women.”

  Alice stole the mistletoe from his hand and stepped towards Ewan. She held it over his head and laughter danced in her eyes. She leaned forward until their breath mingled, hers sweetened by the wine. Her warm body pressed against his arm.

  “Your turn,” she whispered.

  Desire lit through his body as his gaze fixated on her red lips. How would he ever stop at a single kiss? The heat that flowed through his body demanded so much more. The wolf strained, desperate for a true taste of her to ease its parched throat. Then Ewan pushed his chair back so hard it squeaked over the tiles.

  “That would be a mistake, Alice.” He strode from the room, his pulse pounding in his ears as he stepped out into the cold night. His breath frosted on the air as he paced, dragging his bad leg through the snow.

  The alcohol and the good mood of the evening had simply heightened his feelings. But Lord, he wanted her so badly. A flash of desire burned hot and he thought for a moment that it might ignite the silver in his veins as though it were oil and scorch him to nothing.

  7

  Alice

  * * *

  The plant in Alice’s hand seemed to wilt under her sad gaze. An extra glass of wine created a potent brew inside her. It made her deepest, darkest desires simmer to the surface. She longed to kiss Ewan and see if his lips were as cool as his regard. He was as broken as her, and in a foolish moment she’d wondered if their shattered pieces would fit together.

  She had offered up a piece of herself and now she wanted to crawl under a rock and hide. Ewan rejected her and stormed from the house, out into the frigid winter’s night. She was a fool to think he would ever be tempted to kiss her, even under the mistletoe.

  Ianthe’s hand dropped over hers. “We have all consumed a little too much wine, and I am sure Ewan did not mean to offend, but rather sought to protect you. He would not want to take advantage after all you have endured.”

  “Yes, of course,” Alice whispered. Ianthe meant well, but the words cut—she was too broken to be kissed under the festive greenery. She laid the sprig on the table. “If you will excuse me, I think I will retire for the night.”

  With Eilidh at her heels, she ascended the stairs to her bedroom. The upstairs floor held three bedrooms. Ianthe and Quinn occupied the largest at the front of the house, Ewan stayed in the second largest at one end of the short corridor, and Alice’s room was at the other end. She had taken the smallest room, and even that space seemed too big after the closet where Hoth used to confine her.

  She didn’t bother to light a candle; moonlight streamed across the floor and lit her way. Soon, she crawled under the blankets and pulled them up around her neck. Eilidh turned three times before settling at her waist, her head resting on Alice’s hip.

  The two glasses of wine had bubbled through her veins and washed aside the broken exterior to reveal a piece of the old Alice. A vestige of the young woman who had flirted and danced with men and had them all vying to kiss her. That woman wanted to kiss Ewan. The older, sadder version of Alice also ached to kiss Ewan and to find the touch so long denied her. But he had pushed her away.

  A single tear travelled down her cheek before sleep claimed her.

  For the next few days, Alice avoided Ewan. She rose early and dressed warmly against the cold. Then she roamed the countryside for hours, only returning at suppertime to warm her bones. In the safe room in her mind, she hid away the tears and shame at her failed attempt to kiss Ewan.

  Alice was adept at hiding things. For the woman who hid her soul, hiding a little pain was easy. She would ensure Ewan never knew how his rebuff cut her, and not the tiniest glimmer escaped from the room where she hid her feelings. She craved his companionship and didn’t want one foolish moment to jeopardise their camaraderie. Outwardly, their friendship picked up where they had left it off. Bit-by-bit, they resumed their old routine.

  After they celebrated the arrival of 1814, Sarah and Perkins loaded up the cart with the first blush of dawn and headed into the village. Dirty laundry needed to be done, whatever the season. They used the services of a laundrywoman, and it was time to drop off one load of washing and collect another. Then the older couple would purchase supplies and check for any post.

  Today, Alice stayed close to the house as sleet threatened to fall and it pained her to see Eilidh shivering. She would endure confinement to the house to keep her beloved terrier warm. The departure of Sarah and Perkins did provide an exchange that lightened her heart and brought a tentative smile to her face. Ewan handed over his cravats with explicit instructions about starch and ironing. You would have thought he handed over a priceless jewel to be delivered to royalty the way he fussed over pieces of silk and cotton. He was oddly out of place on the farm; he should have been gracing a magnificent parlour.

  Now that the days of January advanced, she wondered how long before Ewan and Quinn left to continue their mission. Not that a man like Ewan would ever last long stuck in the country. He would soon grow bored with the quiet life and need to seek the noise and adulation of society.

  Alice would miss him. He saw all her broken bits, and even if he would never desire her, at least he didn’t regard her with pity. He had an understanding of her struggles that came from similar experience.

  More than that, his touch warmed her body. She relished the few moments when he stood behind her, his chest pressed to her back as he corrected her stance while throwing a knife and his hand wrapped around hers. Or the quiet intimacy that sprang between them during their mornings when she worked on his arm and his breath whispered across her face. Her fractured soul roused from its long winter, and it grew hungry for more of Ewan.

  Each day she worked on building the room in her mind where she hid when fear or anguish overwhelmed her. The wolf version of Eilidh guarded that room from demons, and it allowed Alice to keep a calm outer demeanour like Ewan. But more and more, she placed Ewan in that room to hold her when horror threw itself against the walls. In the quiet dark of her bedroom, Alice imagined him doing far more than holding her.

  After they saw off Sarah and Perkins, their usual routine was stymied by the weather as a steady, cold fall of sleet arrived. Quinn and Ianthe ran through the freezing slush to the barn to tend to the horses, leaving Alice and Ewan to find some way to occupy their time.

  First they sat in the kitchen as Alice massaged his misaligned arm. She closed her eyes a
s she worked, letting her mage-gift guide her fingers to where they were most needed. Afterwards, they crossed to the parlour. Ewan settled with a book, his damaged leg resting on an ottoman. Eilidh lay at his feet, her gaze on the swaying flames in the fireplace.

  Alice roamed the room. She had never been a reader, as it wasn’t a skill wasted on young village girls. Knowledge was handed down orally and books were for fancy folk. She arrived in London almost illiterate, knowing only the basics of the alphabet, a few common words, and how to write her name. Then, once she was free of Bedlam, Aunt Maggie had taken it upon herself to teach her to read, all the while muttering darkly about men suppressing education for smart young girls.

  Alice reached up to a shelf of the bookcase, took down her prized possession, and carried it over to the large armchair in front of the fire. She kicked off her shoes and curled up with her feet tucked up under her skirts. Terrible breach of etiquette, but as Ewan had once murmured against her hair, creatures like them were exempt from the many rules of society.

  She laid the book across her lap and ran a hand over the cover. It was a large botanical book that Ianthe had found for her when she first arrived at the farm. The pages contained gorgeous watercolours of plants, so lifelike she had to resist smelling the flowers or stroking downy leaves.

  Alice’s fractured mind found it easier to concentrate on the accompanying words when the topic interested her. She memorised the paintings of herbs, flowers, and shrubs with medicinal and healing properties. The text described how the plants could be prepared and lists of ailments they were said to remedy. She absorbed as much knowledge of the subject as she could cram in her damaged head, and at night let it filter to her mage blood.

  Alice wanted to expand her gift and see if with practice, she could improve its usage much like Ewan improved his hand flexion. Her finding skill coupled with herbal lore would allow her to pinpoint the right combination of plants to help someone.

  As engrossed as Alice was in her book, she couldn’t help stealing glances at Ewan. In many ways he was like a wraith, wrapped in shadows that veiled his presence. Raven hair shone in the flickering light like polished obsidian. His long, lean body perfectly filled his exquisitely cut clothing, and an air of quiet menace accompanied his movements, despite his injuries.

  She would expire from lack of air while memorising his form, as she forgot to breathe. He glanced up from the small book in his hands and a brief smile graced his full lips. That piercing stare cut through her, and too late she realised he had asked a question while she was contemplating the square line of his jaw.

  She dropped her gaze to stare at the peppermint plant with its soft furry leaves. “You must think me foolish to read a book with more pictures than words.”

  He closed his book and held it in his good hand. “I never judge the intelligence of a person by their choice of reading material. The fact you show such delight in the book tells me you have an enquiring mind.”

  She stroked the stem of the painted herb. “Ianthe found this volume for me. I want to learn more about botany and its application.”

  “A noble pursuit. Botany can contribute much to science and medicine.” He tried to clench his right hand, but the fingers only curled a fraction before he released them again.

  Alice wrapped her hand around the spine of the large book. Others might scoff at her interest in flowers, seeds and roots, but not Captain Shaw. She would never be a doctor or a scholar, but study would enable her to ease the pain of others.

  “Might I ask what you are reading?” she asked.

  “Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect by Robert Burns. It was my mother’s favourite. She used to read from this every night.” He rubbed the cover with his thumb.

  “Do you see much of her?” Alice found it curious that he spent Christmas in Northamptonshire instead of returning to the care of his family.

  “No. I lost her when I was ten. I stole this volume from the pocket of her robe as men removed her body.” A sigh heaved through his chest and then he returned the book to the inner pocket of his jacket, the one over his heart.

  “Did you not want to return to your home and extended family?” Alice had left the village where she grew up when her mother died. She could have stayed, but adventure in London beckoned and she had nothing to tie her to the place apart from a few distant relatives. There was no ancestral home; their cottage had been rented. New tenants were moving their pigs into the sty before Alice had finished packing her meagre belongings.

  Ewan lifted his leg off the ottoman and placed it on the floor. “No. My older brother has sons and I am superfluous to requirements. He made it clear some years ago that I was not to darken his doorstep again.”

  Alice always imagined that siblings would stay close throughout their lives. Why would one brother turn away another? Perhaps things were different for the aristocracy. In the village, large families meant more hands to help bring in the harvest or to herd the livestock. Aristocrats might see each other as competition for the coin generated by their estates.

  His gaze lingered on her face. “Why don’t you tell me what is really bothering you?”

  Did she dare? Taking her cue from him, she closed her book and laid her hands flat on the cover, drawing strength from the ornate calligraphy of the title. “You are nobility while I am a mere village girl. We shouldn’t even be sitting in the same parlour, but Ianthe insists on treating me as her equal.”

  “You and I have both whored to put coins in our pockets. We are not so different.” He rose by pushing off from the arm of the chair and took a moment to test his leg before walking to the fire and adding another piece of wood. Eilidh’s tail wagged once then dropped back.

  How could he not see the chasm that stretched between them? He was what her mother would have called quality, whereas her sort was bred to labour in the fields or homes of their betters. Ianthe should have employed her as a domestic to cook and clean, but she opened her home and treated Alice as a friend.

  “This is not real, here.” She waved her hand and stirred the air around her head. “You and Ianthe treat me as though I am like you, but this is a dream full of magic and Unnatural beings. Out there, normal society will see me for what I really am.”

  There was the truth that hurt in her chest. Try as she might to emulate them, she would never be accepted by others of their class. Better to stick to the things she knew. Life as a village wise woman would not be too intolerable. The contentment found in helping others soothed the jagged edges of her torn pieces.

  “Are you forgetting our agreement?” His voice was quiet, a soft whisper against the patter of rain on the window.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “No. You will teach me to protect myself. But the time nears for you to continue your journey, and I must follow my own path.”

  Alice would never know why his presence tugged at her or why her mage blood pointed to him when she pondered what was missing in her life.

  Ewan leaned one arm on the mantel. “You overestimate society. They are shallow creatures who cannot see past what is before their eyes. I could teach you to be whatever you want to be, Alice. You are naturally an elegant creature. It would take only a little more polish, and the ton would accept you as one of their own and never know the difference. If that is what you truly want.”

  If that is what you truly want.

  She didn’t want to be accepted for herself, but for him. In her most foolish dreams she imagined standing at his side, but by day she counted her defects and why she would never be good enough. If she were something else, a woman of quality, perhaps then he might take her in his arms and kiss her.

  He teased, saying society would ever accept her. While the demimonde applauded beauty and intelligence no matter their origin, true society was quite a different thing. No noble woman would ever look her way or acknowledge her existence. Breeding would always come through. You practically needed your lineage documented and to hand it over for entrée into most s
alons.

  “You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,” she whispered as she stared at her rough hands and split nails.

  Ewan narrowed his gaze, about to say something, when the door burst open and a beaming Quinn and flushed looking Ianthe walked in.

  “Who’s ready for some tea?” Ianthe asked, tucking a stray curl of hair back into the knot at the base of her neck.

  Quinn reached up and pulled hay from his riotous hair.

  “Tea would be lovely. I’ll help.” Alice nodded to Ewan and left the parlour.

  Later that day, the afternoon light faded as evening approached. Alice held a cup of tea in her hands as she stood at the kitchen window and thought of the year that waited before them.

  As her mind stretched after its long containment, she used the knowledge her mother taught her. She would plant more herbs in the potager to grow her supply of remedies. There were other ways she could use her gift. The trace of power allowed her to find things, but what if she could summon them instead of simply pointing to where they resided?

  A swinging light at the bottom of the road drew her attention, and for a moment, her heart paused. But this wasn’t more strange men, and she recognised the shape as it drew nearer in the growing gloom.

  “Sarah and Perkins are back,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Excellent timing, supper will be ready soon.” Ianthe peered in the oven at the joint of meat and then pushed the door closed with a cloth.

  Ewan looked up from his book and placed a marker at his page while Quinn rose and gestured for him to stay put.

  “I’ll help them unload. You stay here and brew them some fresh tea. I’m sure they’ll be half frozen,” Quinn said. He grabbed a jacket and headed out of the door.