by Ruth Kaufman
In the dark corners of his mind, he heard le March’s laughter echo. Ronan squeezed his eyes closed, suddenly feeling as if his sanity hung by a thread. He forced his thoughts away from the nightmare, but they only turned back to the Sassenach.
She was surprisingly tall with rich, deep auburn hair that fell about her shoulders in thick waves. It was an absolute shame that such a beautiful lass with sparkling hazel eyes was English.
Ronan caught his thoughts and growled a curse. Surely his sanity had cracked. She was gangly and much too tall, coming to the bottom of his chin. Her shoulders were too broad and her arms too strong. But even as the thought hit him, he knew why. No doubt she had to be strong to carry the burden of the sick and wounded.
A knock sounded on his door.
“Who is it?” he snarled, squeezing his eyes closed. His fingers rubbed his temples. Nay, please no’ another headache. Please.
Aidan opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it firmly behind him. “What in the hell did ye do?”
“What did I do?” Ronan asked, his rage flaring so hot he saw red for a moment. “How could ye allow a Sassenach tae set foot in our home?”
“She is a healer.”
“She is English,” Ronan lurched to his feet. He took a step toward the wine bottle on the table and staggered.
Aidan lunged to his side and caught Ronan’s arm before he fell. “Easy, Ronan,” he said, his anger fading. “Sit, I will get the wine.”
Ronan was suddenly too weary to argue. He sat and rested his head in his hand, trying to ignore how badly it shook. “She leaves on the morrow.”
“Ronan—”
He glared at Aidan as his brother handed him the cup.
Aidan clenched his teeth and drew a deep breath. “All right, I dinna want ye vexed by this. I will send her away in the morning.”
Ronan nodded, only slightly mollified.
Aidan refused to look at him while he poured his own cup of wine and sat at the table. “I have some good news.”
Ronan studied him for a moment. He knew when his brother was trying to cheer him, but he decided to go along with it. “I can certainly use some.”
“The crops are doing well this year. After this approaching harvest, we shouldna have tae purchase grain.”
Ronan felt himself relaxing a bit. “Last year’s harvest is barely enough tae keep those in the castle fed. This is good news. Ye’d think I was buyin’ the king’s own grain for what the MacLaren charged for it.”
“Aye, but harvests were short all through the land last year. We were lucky tae purchase it at all.” Aidan took another drink from his cup but still refused to look at his brother.
“What is it ye arena tellin’ me?” Ronan growled.
“My birds . . . I dinna like the songs they be singing.”
Ronan stiffened, his anger over the Sassenach immediately fading and a new worry surging forward. Aidan had turned his childhood talent at eavesdropping into an art and had also developed an uncanny knack for identifying people with gifts similar to his own. Aidan’s birds were individuals in other clans who reported happenings and rumors to him, and Ronan made certain they were paid well.
“What songs be they?”
“Rumblings from Clan Campbell.”
Ronan clenched his fists.
“It seems the MacGrigor land the Bruce’s father gave Campbell years ago be not enough. Now he wants all of it.”
Although very young at the time, Ronan clearly remembered his da’s fury at what Robert Bruce had done. Black rage settled in the pit of Ronan’s belly, seething with coiled power.
“Ronan, I am hesitant tae tell ye. Laird Campbell has also heard the rumors of the Demon Laird. I worry he may think now is the time tae increase his holdings by once again stealing ours.”
Ronan’s fist slammed into the table. “Do ye ken his plan?”
“Brother—”
“Do ye ken his plan?”
“Nay, Ronan, ’tis only a chorus of a song we’ve heard before.”
Ronan locked Aidan in his gaze. “Ye tell me the moment ye hear a verse.”
Aidan looked at him a long moment, swallowed hard, and nodded.
Lia huddled under a thin wool blanket on an even thinner straw pallet, shivering violently. She supposed she should be grateful MacGrigor hadn’t ordered her thrown into the dungeon for the night. She was exhausted. She knew it would be a miracle if she was able to stand in the morning after sleeping on the cold stone floor. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to find sleep, but it eluded her, and tears trickled down her cheeks. Why had this happened?
Lia understood why MacGrigor didn’t want her in his home after what the English had done to him. Resentment grew within her. He didn’t know her but judged her simply because of her heritage, a heritage she wasn’t even sure she possessed. What right did he claim to do that? She did not judge him because he was a Scotsman. She caught her thoughts and forced down her irritation. He had suffered terribly and his distrust of the English was to be expected. Instead of proving him right, determination grew within her to prove him wrong. But how could she since he would force her to leave? What was she to do? At dawn, she would be sent back to England with nowhere to go. She bit back a sob, not wishing to acknowledge the fear coiling within her.
Once again, she would be lost and alone on the streets.
Instead, she focused her thoughts on MacGrigor and what she had witnessed this night. No wonder they called him the Demon Laird. She had treated many people with the falling-down sickness, especially after church exorcisms had failed. She couldn’t be certain MacGrigor had this illness, not until she could observe him, but something in her heart told her she wasn’t wrong. It was a shame, really. The fact that MacGrigor had not only freed himself from his brutal captors but had at least partially recovered in the time it took his men to find her and bring her to Scotland said much for his strength of soul.
He was also one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen in her life. That thought startled her, but she couldn’t rid her mind’s eye of his rugged features and intense gray eyes. Even with the faint scars he bore, he was extraordinary . . . and tall . . . she had grown so accustomed to looking most men dead in the eye that she found it unusual to have to look up at one.
If only he didn’t stare at her as if she were nothing more than a piece of offal needing to be scraped from his boot. Lia scoffed at herself. What was she doing? She was a gangly woman whose shoulders were too wide and whose arms were too bulky from moving sick and wounded . . . and she was English, no less. No wonder MacGrigor didn’t want her in his home.
It seemed like only moments later when a maid shook her awake. “Milady,” she whispered harshly.
Lia blinked open her eyes. When had she fallen asleep? “What is it?”
The young woman looked at her, her eyes wide with fear. “It . . . it is said ye ken the healing arts.”
Lia sat up, rubbing her eyes and shaking terribly with cold. “Aye,” she said and her vision finally focused. The young woman looked familiar. Then Lia placed her. “I saw you on the street when I arrived. Your apron had blood on it.”
The woman nodded and picked up a cup. “Mulled wine. Ye are chilled tae the bone.”
“Thank you,” Lia said as she wrapped her fingers around it and gratefully drank the warm liquid.
“Please, there are people in the village. We need yer help.”
Lia swallowed hard, knowing the MacGrigor did not wish her to remain. “What’s wrong?”
The woman looked around as if terrified someone would hear her, then she crossed herself. “’Tis the Demon Laird’s curse,” she whispered. “Two more died last night. Pray, milady, we need ye.”
Again the mention of a curse? What in the holy mother’s name was going on? “Where are they?”
“Come with me, please.”
Lia drained her cup, her muscles protesting every movement, then she rose and followed the maid.
“What is your
name?” Lia asked.
“Alba. Quickly, milady, please.”
“Lia, please. I am only a healer, not nobility.”
Alba looked at her, startled, then gave her a timid smile. “As ye wish.” She led Lia to a room well away from the kitchen. Lia entered and stopped short. The small room had ten people in it and was filled to capacity. Young and old, and judging by the look of their clothing, serf, farmer, and merchant. Some lay huddled on thin pallets on the floor, others sat on benches or against the walls. Their faces were pallid; many clutched at their stomachs, moaning in pain.
Lia stood in shock for a moment. “They’re all from the village?”
“Aye, they heard ye were here. There are more, but they are too weak or too frightened tae come tae ye.”
“More?”
Alba nodded, tears in her eyes. “Marta and I, we do our best, but I ken so little of healing.”
Lia finally pulled her wits about her. “The chests I brought. I need someone to fetch them.”
“As ye will, milady.” Alba looked to two older boys; they sprinted off.
Lia watched them go and a puzzled frown creased her brow. “Are you a servant in the castle, Alba?”
“Aye. But I help Marta when she has need of me.”
“Who in the castle is ill?”
“No one, milady.”
The two boys returned with Lia’s chests.
“Careful,” Lia said stepping forward. “Alba, I need a table for these.”
“Of course.” She quickly began to clear one off, and the boys placed the chests on it.
“Thank you. All right, Alba, tell the cook to put a large pot of water on to boil, and we need the cleanest cloths we can find. I don’t care what they are, but they must be clean.”
“Aye,” Alba hurried away and Lia quickly rolled the sleeves of her chemise up and bound them with ties to keep them out of the way.
She turned to her first patient, a young lad of about ten, fit and strong. He had blond hair, and his blue eyes were dull with pain. “What is your name?” Lia asked, smiling reassuringly.
“William. Connell is my da.”
“Connell?” she asked, now seeing the resemblance. “He is the one who fetched me.”
William gave her a weak smile, sweat rolling down his face.
Lia felt his forehead and cringed against his high fever. “Your stomach hurts?”
“Aye, I fear I canna keep any food down.”
“How long?”
“Two days.”
“Even soup?”
“Even water willna stay in my gut, milady.”
“Have you told your father?”
The boy shook his head. “I havena seen him yet. His duties at the castle keep him away much of the time.”
Lia looked back at the two boys who had retrieved her chests. “Fetch Connell, please. I wish to speak with him.”
One lad nodded, but before he darted away, Lia stopped him. “Wait, do you have friends who are not ill?’
“Aye,” the boy said.
“Mayhap they would be willing to help fetch and carry? I fear with this many people I will be running you boys ragged.”
“They are clansmen,” the boy said. “If they arena kin tae a MacGrigor, then they be married or allied tae one. I will bring my friends. They will help.”
“Thank you.”
While Lia waited for Connell, she moved on to the next patient. He was an older man but still very much in his prime, and just like William, he had a high fever, aching stomach, and could not keep food down. The more Lia spoke to people, the more worried she became. There were only two who complained of different ailments; the rest were all the same.
Connell appeared in the door, looking around the room in concern with Robert only a step behind. He spotted William and immediately went to his side, crouching before him.
“William? What is wrong?”
“Forgive me, Da. Mum said she didna wish tae worry ye.”
Lia stepped up next to him. “Your mother, is she sick too?”
“Aye,” William replied grimacing. “But she be too afraid tae come tae the castle.”
“What be this, lass?” Connell asked her as he looked around the room, his eyes wide. “Some sort of plague?”
“I do not yet know,” Lia replied. “But Alba said there are many more in the village who are sick. With William being your son, I thought you should know.”
“Thank ye, lassie. My wife bides her time at her small shop in the village, selling wool and dyed threads. My duties here at the castle keep me away far too much. I will fetch her here.”
Lia bit her lip. Had Connell so quickly forgotten the MacGrigor’s order?
As Connell strode off, his worry plain on his face, Robert fell in step beside him. “Connell, I spoke with Aidan this morn.” They disappeared through the door, and Lia could no longer hear his words.
She needed to fetch her journal and begin making notes on the people she helped. With so many already here, and knowing more would be coming, if she didn’t start now, she’d never keep them all straight.
She turned to her medicant chests and nearly ran into a massive form standing behind her. She squeaked and jumped backward, fearing MacGrigor would order her to leave forthwith. But the giant man standing before her was not MacGrigor, even though he looked remarkably like him. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. No injuries, no heavy cowl covering his face. In fact, he was a couple of inches shorter than MacGrigor, his eyes a deeper blue, and his long, dark hair a shade lighter, tied with a strip of leather at the back of his head. But his body was just as strong and his features almost as handsome.
“Forgive me,” he said softly. “I didna mean tae startle ye.”
She blinked in surprise. Definitely not MacGrigor. “Who—”
His lips tugged upward in a gentle smile. “I am Aidan, the MacGrigor’s younger brother. It was I who sent Connell and Robert for ye, fearing for my brother’s life.” He took her hand and bowed over it.
His actions stunned her so much that she simply gaped at him.
He straightened, his smile growing. “I am very different from my brother.”
“I . . . I see that.”
Unfortunately, his smile vanished. “Robert told me what happened last night. Please, lass, ye must forgive my brother. He suffered through a terrible ordeal.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Nay. Call me Aidan, please.”
“Aidan, I know your brother wants me to leave this morn but . . . ” She gestured to those in the tiny room.
“Aye. Your skills will be sorely taxed this day. And worry not, I will not allow my brother tae send ye away. Ye sacrificed everything tae come here and help him. I willna allow him tae throw ye into the street.”
“That would be most appreciated.”
He winked at her. “If, after today, my brother does not see reason, I’ll make him see it.”
She swallowed hard, wondering if she dared hope.
“Now, lassie, tell me everything ye need. I will see tae it that no one dares defy ye in the matters of healing.”
She looked around the room trying to determine where to begin, but before she could speak, Aidan stepped forward and frowned.
“This willna do. Ye need more room, lassie.” He paused, thinking for a moment. “But all we have is the great hall.”
Lia lifted her hands helplessly.
“I will see tae it,” Aidan said and turned on his heel.
A moment later, the young lad she had sent for Connell reappeared with five more sturdy lads in tow. She smiled at them in relief. “Thank you for helping.”
“Ye be welcome, milady,” the first boy said. “What can we do?”
“What is your name?”
“Lachlan.” He gave her a timid smile, but it quickly vanished. “Milady, I fear word of yer willingness tae help is spreading like wildfire through the village. The people are defeating their fear of the Demon Laird tae come see ye.”
/>
“How many?”
“Eight were approaching the bailey when I entered and four more a few lengths behind.”
Lia felt the blood drain from her face and she swallowed hard. “Bedding and pallets,” she said, but her voice lacked strength.
“Milady?”
“Boys, fetch anything and everything that can be used as a blanket or bedding. MacGrigor the younger gave me leave to use the great hall. I shall tend to the sick there.” She paused, thinking a moment. “The castle washer-women, are they well?”
“Aye, milady,” Lachlan said.
“Then, Lachlan, please convey my apologies to them in advance, for I need everything we can get our hands on to bed these people down, and I need it to be clean.”
“At once, milady,” Lachlan replied. He spoke briefly to the other boys, and all five scattered in different directions, sprinting through the castle.
Lia straightened her shoulders as she finally stepped into familiar territory and looked around the room. If there was one thing she knew she could do, it was save lives.
The soft sound of a woman crying in pain caught Ronan’s attention. He had just hauled himself out of bed, shaking off his nightmares, and pulled on his clothes. Pain battered him with every move, but the voice made him forget his hurt. He looked around, trying to determine where it was coming from. He limped to the archer loophole that overlooked the bailey and peered down.
Connell carried a young woman in his arms. She clutched at his tunic and buried her face against his chest, sobbing. Robert hovered worriedly behind him. It took only a moment for Ronan to realize that the woman was Connell’s wife. What the devil was going on?
As Connell bought his wife into the keep, Ronan’s attention returned to the bailey. What he saw twisted his gut. Connell’s wife wasn’t the only one ill. Many rested against the walls of the bailey and keep, unable to find the strength to go another step. So many begged for help, in obvious distress, and Ronan recognized each and every one. They were all from the village—his people—and they were suffering. Why? What was the cause of this? The soft sounds tore at his heart. He should be down there helping them, managing his keep in a time of crisis instead of leaving it to his brother.