by Ruth Kaufman
“Aye, lassie.”
“And your trust?”
Ian thought for a long moment but finally nodded. “Ye are wise beyond yer years,” he murmured. “It be that trust that is tested now.”
“I understand, Ian,” she said and gripped his hand. “Don’t let go of that trust just yet. I will find the truth of this plague, I promise you. And when I do, I firmly believe you’ll see your faith in your laird was well placed.”
Ian looked for a long time at Seamus, who slowly nodded. His gaze returned to Lia. “Verra well, lassie. I will place my faith in ye and my laird. Now, Seamus, ye up for a game or no’?”
“Aye, Ian.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Lia said and rose. “But please, keep your voices down, and no wagering.”
“Ah, lassie, where be the fun in that?”
“No wagering.”
Ian sighed heavily. “As ye wish.”
“Thank you.” She rose and turned back to the table.
“Lia,” Connell called softly.
She turned her head, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow dart from the high table to the alcove. She started slightly and did not move, but her attention suddenly focused on the edge of her vision.
“Lia?” Connell called again.
No movement. Nothing. Damnation! It must be all of this talk of the Demon Laird and the devil. She supposed this proved she was just as human as the next person. She had to stop listening to it and keep her wits about her.
“Lia?”
This time she forced herself to turn away from the high table and cross the room. She would not look over her shoulder, she told herself firmly.
She approached Connell, but her gaze fell on William’s pallid face and her alarm grew. Beads of sweat gathered on the boy’s skin.
“I dinna ken, lass, but I fear his fever goes higher,” Connell said.
She knelt before him and touched the boy’s brow. “His fever spikes; get him back on his pallet.”
Connell started to move but William moaned in protest and clung to him even tighter. Connell looked up at her, his gaze pleading.
“Very well, I do not wish to upset him. Leave him be, as long as he is comfortable. I will fetch his medicant.”
“But ye just gave it to him only an hour ago.”
“And I will give him another. I must get his fever under control.”
Connell nodded.
Lia hurried back to the table and grabbed the cup she had made only a short time ago for William. Then her gaze fell on her sheets of vellum. Frustration rose within her. Nay, this could not be! She looked around the table and on the floor and did not see the sheet she had most recently made notes on.
“How can I find the answers to this plague if I can’t even find my notes?” she snarled under her breath. She wanted to curse, but she bit back the desire and took the medicant to William.
Ronan leaned against the stone wall of the alcove he hid in, bidding his heart to slow. The Sassenach had almost discovered him. He didn’t want to admit that his heart pounded because of a different reason. He had heard every word she exchanged with Seamus and Ian. He had heard—but understood nothing. It made no sense. If she was an English spy, why would she defend him? She should be subverting his people, turning them against him. Instead, she countered their fears with logic—logic not superstition. She did not fall to snap judgments like so many others. Was it possible? Was she truly what she voiced? A healer who did not care for nationality, rank, or status?
I heal everyone as I am able, she had said that first night.
His gaze fell on Connell and William, and he prayed the boy would survive. Connell had lost so much. But the interaction between Connell and the Sassenach fascinated Ronan. She acted as if she truly cared.
She had no idea he watched her from the shadows. Suspicion, aye, but he had seen her eyes widen in fear, her fingers as they tightened on the folds of her skirts, the pulse thundering in the vein of her throat. She was not a bard performing for him.
Ronan stiffened as she approached the high table. He clearly saw her frustration at losing another sheet of vellum. But her words . . . she bemoaned that she could not find the truth of the plague. He stared down at the vellum clutched in his fingers and guilt grew within him. What if she was simply a healer? What if his actions worked against her and prohibited her from discovering the truth? What if he was the one adding to the agony of his people?
He had to get this vellum to Aidan. Surely together they could break the cypher and determine if the Sassenach was true. He hesitated, his gaze locking on her form as she approached, taking in her pallid face. Tears welled in her eyes. Her hand shook as she placed the now empty cup on the table. She staggered slightly and caught herself on the pillar that formed part of the alcove he hid within.
Damnation, he had not meant for her to get so close.
“Please, God,” she whispered, her voice tremulous. “Please let William survive this. He’s just a boy. Connell was so kind to me. He should not suffer this.” She leaned heavily against the stone next to Ronan’s shoulder. He could smell the fragrance she wore.
His heart hesitated. He recognized the scent. Heather. She was not nobility; she did not have exotic oils from faraway places. Instead, she did what most lassies of her age and breeding did, used a pressed oil of heather. Ronan could not stop himself as he inhaled deeply. On her, the scent was enchanting.
She squeaked in alarm and vaulted sideways. “Who’s there?”
“Milady?” Connell and Lachlan said at the same time. Connell gently placed William on his pallet and Lachlan moved from his sentry point against the wall. Two braw lads followed his step.
“I know you’re there,” the Sassenach snapped. “Come out this moment.”
Ronan’s heart raced. He knew he would be discovered in an instant. But his first thought was that he not terrify his own people. Instead of trying to slip away, he drew a deep breath into his lungs and moved only partially from the alcove, remaining in shadow.
“Be at ease, Sassenach” he said, but even he noticed how his voice rumbled through the hall. “’Tis only the MacGrigor.”
His heart raced even harder when he heard the distinctive snick of a dagger leaving its scabbard. Ronan looked up and saw Connell striding forward, weapon in hand.
“Lassie, what vexes ye?”
Ronan then looked to his left. Lachlan also held a blade along with his young friends. Ronan’s gaze traveled even farther, and he saw Seamus and Ian help each other to their feet. They were unsteady, ready to topple any moment, but they would stand for the Sassenach before him.
She stared at him a moment, her face growing pale, but she swallowed hard and her shoulders straightened. To Ronan’s shock, she spun, exposing her back to him.
“Connell, hold!” she said and held up her hand. Dear God she was a fool. For the barest instant, she expected to feel a dagger plunge into her back. But one heartbeat passed, a second, and she found the breath returning to her lungs.
The Demon Laird stood behind her, but those in the hall could not see him clearly. To them, he was a part of the shadows.
They were only reacting to her fear. It was that fear she needed to control. Even though his voice had echoed around her like an ominous thunderstorm, they had not heard it.
“Lassie,” Connell said, his eyes narrowing, “pray, dinna move.”
She recognized the words from when the villager stumbled over them on the trail. Connell’s gaze examined the darkness behind her but did not focus. She marveled at the fact he did not see the giant looming behind her.
Her thoughts scrambled. This was the closest MacGrigor had ever gotten to her since she met him that first night. She worried if she announced his presence, he would vanish again.
“Connell,” she said gently. “Peace, I’m just jumping at shadows, it seems.”
“Lassie?” His gaze searched hers for a moment then returned to scrutinize the blackness behind her. “Are
ye certain?”
“I am.”
“Very well, but ye need only call my name.”
“I thank you, Connell. See to William, please.”
“Aye.” He shot a glare at Lachlan and then at Ian and Seamus—all of them retreated. Connell nodded once then slammed his dagger back into its sheath.
She turned back around. “MacGrigor?” she whispered.
Silence.
The giant form had vanished. She searched the shadows but did not see him. Her shoulders slumped. Her one chance to reach him had been forfeited.
“I am still here,” a deep voice rumbled through the darkness.
She sucked in her breath and snapped her head up but forced herself to keep her feet firmly planted.
“Ye control my people better than I.” His voice sounded strangely tight and forced.
“Control them?” Her voice rose and she forced herself to calm. “Nay, I only help them.”
“Ye brought this plague with ye,” he snapped.
“Ask Connell or Robert if they agree with that.”
“Nay, Connell is devoted to ye.”
“Let me guess, I’ve ensorcelled him somehow.”
The voice remained silent for a long moment. Lia struggled to rein in her emotions before she truly lost him; she was weary and had not slept in three days.
“I was going to say that is an extraordinary feat,” the voice said. “Connell does not give his faith easily.”
“Will you please step from the shadows?”
“Will my own men run me through?”
Lia’s hand covered her face and she rubbed her eyes. She didn’t have the wherewithal to deal with this right now.
“I try your patience,” the voice said, suddenly next to her.
Lia nearly vaulted sideways, but then she realized she didn’t have the energy. She simply looked up at him and her breath fled her lungs.
The striking rogue stood before her, his massive body only inches from hers. His steel-gray eyes locked on hers. Saints be merciful, he was beautiful. A part of her was angry that he’d toy with her like this, but she found her lips curving upward.
“Your mother must have had the patience of Job.”
For the barest instant, she saw his gray eyes spark and a ghost of a smile on his lips. But in a blink it was gone, and she saw only aloof calm in its wake. Yet her heart rejoiced. There was a sense of humor under the façade.
Then she understood. That’s all it was, a façade, a way to protect himself from the pain he had suffered. She had seen something similar in others she had treated but not to this degree. Finding the man under the armor would be like prying a crab from its shell. But she knew she could do it, she just needed the right tools. She grinned up at him as she realized he was not something to fear . . . he was a challenge.
“I always worry when a female smiles like that.”
Her grin grew.
“Holy hell, Aidan, what have ye gotten me into?” he muttered.
She heard the rustle of vellum and looked down. Her eyes widened as she spotted the sheet clutched in his fingers.
“My notes,” she cried and snatched them away. Then she looked up, realization dawning. “I did not lose these. You took them. Why?”
MacGrigor’s body bowed and his fists clenched. He took a breath as if to rebuke her, but then he lowered his head. “Ye write in cypher. I thought the English sent ye to spy on us.”
She blinked at him once, twice. Then humiliation rose within her as she realized why he thought she wrote in cypher. In a sense, that’s exactly what it was, but it was one only she and Sueta knew. “I can’t read,” she whispered, her face burning in embarrassment, and turned away from him.
“What?” he growled.
She pretended as if she had not heard him and returned the vellum to her small stack.
“If ye canna read,” he snarled, “what is all this?” His hand shot out and he sent the precious pages of her journal flying across the table and onto the floor.
“Nay!” Lia cried, lunging after them.
“What are they?” he snarled, catching her arm.
“Lia!” Connell barked.
MacGrigor’s head snapped around and he glared at Connell, who stood with his hand on his dagger.
“MacGrigor?” he asked in shock. “What mean ye?”
MacGrigor’s gaze turned flat. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps ye’ve been turning them against me all along.”
Only then did Lia realize that every able man in the great hall had risen in defense of her until they saw that the man they faced was their own laird.
“Please,” she said softly, focusing on Connell, knowing the others would follow his lead. “Please, ’tis only a misunderstanding.” But as she spoke, she looked at MacGrigor’s hand locked on her arm.
“MacGrigor, release her,” Connell said in a tone she had never heard from him.
“Connell,” MacGrigor snapped. “She is an English spy.” He grabbed the precious sheets from her journal. “She writes cyphers so we canna divine her purpose.” He threw the papers, scattering them across the table and floor.
“Nay,” Lia moaned. The sheets were so fragile. Years of knowledge! Please don’t let them be destroyed. Please!
Connell watched the sheets flutter to the flagstones at his feet. He looked at MacGrigor, his face pale. “That be the life of my son ye be throwin’ about.”
“It is nothing but a report to her lord. She just admitted she canna read.”
“What is reading but memorized scribbles on vellum?” Lia snapped. “Sueta did not have time to teach me, but she insisted I keep a journal of healing. This was the best I could do. It does not make sense to you, but it makes sense to me.”
“Aye, and to yer employer. How much is le March paying ye?”
“Who?”
“MacGrigor, stop this,” Connell barked. “My son’s life hangs in the balance.”
“How do ye ken she didna kill yer brother . . . yer wife?”
Connell’s throat worked as he swallowed. “Because I saw how hard she fought to save them.”
Lia bowed her head, fighting against tears.
“Ye werena here, MacGrigor, ye didna see what I saw. Ye judge what ye dinna ken. Just like others have judged ye.”
MacGrigor flinched and released her arm.
Lia scrambled after the sheets of her journal.
MacGrigor turned as if to leave.
“So ye run now?” Connell growled.
MacGrigor hesitated and glanced over his shoulder. “Mind yer place, I am still yer laird.”
“Who are ye?” Connell snapped.
“What?” The word wasn’t a question, it was a warning.
“Who are ye?” Connell’s voice cracked. He drew a steadying breath into his lungs. “The MacGrigor I ken didna stand by and watch. He removed his tunic and shouldered the heavy burden with the next man. He didna mind the dirt. He didna shy away from blood or sweat. When the floods came, he stood up to his knees in mud and carried four sandbags at a time when other men could heft only two. When the fire nearly burned down the village, I saw a man rip away tinder as it ignited and suffer burns on his hands. I watched a laird work harder, longer, and carry more than anyone else. I saw a man fight for what he held dear, he didna run from it, he didna quail. And when all was said and done, he laughed with us, he cried with us, and he raised a mug with those who had stood by his side.” Connell drew a deep breath. “That is the laird I serve, that is the man I call friend.”
Lia paused in picking up her sheets of vellum and studied MacGrigor. He remained with his back to Connell, his head bowed and his eyes squeezed shut.
Lia summoned her courage. She straightened her shoulders and drew a deep breath. Stepping forward, she placed a handful of vellum on the table and returned to the laird’s side.
“MacGrigor,” she said softly. “I know you doubt me because I am English, but listen to truth.” She gently gripped his arm and turned him around.
“Look,” she whispered, gesturing to those in the great hall. “There is Abby, over there. She is a scullery maid in a tavern. Joseph, in the corner, fancies Abby and tries to curry her favor with his tall hunting tales, but his words sound of youthful bravado. Michael, he also fancies Abby. But Abby is not certain if she should court either of them. Gertrude is next to her; everyone calls her Gertie. She is as old as the hills, but she has twelve grandchildren and is so very proud of each and every one of them. I am still struggling to remember all of their names.”
“Even I canna remember all of their names,” MacGrigor murmured.
But Lia didn’t stop there. She continued to tell him the names of every person in the hall along with all she knew about them. When she finished, she gazed at him a long moment. “Why would I bother learning about them if I meant to kill them?”
MacGrigor said nothing, simply studying her as intently as she looked at him.
“I am here to help them . . . and you.”
His intense eyes continued to search hers, the internal battle he fought with himself plain in his expression.
Lia tried once more. “On my journey here, Connell told me of the man I was coming to help. This man had been loved and respected by all. Known to be quick of wit, his laugh warm, his rule fair, slow to anger but not one to be trifled with when his temper ignited. He cared about his people and his people recognized that and admired him for it. But since my arrival, I have seen that trust strained, people terrified of what they do not understand.”
“The lassie who fell down the stairs . . . I saw the fear in her eyes . . . now they think I attacked her.”
“But the MacGrigor would never harm a soul unless they threatened someone he loves. And he loves his people; he has tried to defend them, to protect them from this war.”
“If the English sense weakness in me, Longshanks will destroy my clan. I have tried so hard to keep them out o’ the fighting so none would die needlessly, but I failed.”
“Connell also told me the words of a wise man who once said that when kings argue, it’s the common man who ends up doing the bleeding.”
MacGrigor looked at her, his eyes wide. Then he looked at Connell.
Connell nodded, his lips curving upward ever so slightly. “Do ye remember tellin’ me that before this last battle, MacGrigor?”