by Ruth Kaufman
Because of that, he had only seen her for a few minutes since he had spoken to Aidan. The poor thing appeared as if she ran herself ragged, with dark circles under her eyes and her jaw set too tightly. He discovered his distrust of her easing just a bit. She had also scolded him for pushing himself so hard but seemed to understand his choice. Inwardly he cringed, she would scold him again for getting out of bed. But he couldn’t stay in his solar any longer. He couldn’t shake the sensation he had simply traded one prison for another.
His gaze fell on the Sassenach and his step hesitated. She worked frantically over a young lad with Connell beside her, watching, his terror plain on his face.
Worry gripped Ronan’s soul. Almighty, have mercy, not William. Please not William!
“Nay,” he heard her snarl under her breath. “I will not let you die.”
Her words turned his worry into alarm and he lengthened his stride.
“Milady,” Alba said, gently gripping the Sassenach’s arm.
“He was healing!” the Sassenach snapped. She held the boy’s shoulders. “William! You cannot give up now.”
William was unconscious, his body shuddering with convulsions.
Ronan’s heart leapt to his throat and he quickened his pace.
“William, nay!” Connell called to the boy, holding his hand. “Fight, laddie, ye must fight!”
The convulsion faded. Ronan was close enough to hear William’s breath rattling. It was a distinctive sound, and Ronan recognized its meaning. Sweet Jesu, nay!
“Nay!” the Sassenach’s cry turned into an agonized moan.
William breathed his last just as Ronan reached them.
“You were healing! Please! Do not die!” the Sassenach cried.
Ronan’s gut twisted, and try as he might, he could no longer find the hatred in his heart for the healer as she grieved over the death of the lad.
“Nay, William!” Connell bellowed. He looked up and locked Ronan in his gaze as tears streamed down his face.
Ronan knelt next to the healer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. With his free hand, he reached out to Connell and gripped his arm. “Connell, I—” His voice cracked and his vision blurred. He blinked to clear it.
Connell looked to William again. “Nay, laddie,” he whispered.
“William, please!” the healer cried once more, shaking his shoulders.
Without thought, Ronan’s arms encircled her and he pulled her away from the body.
Her moan turned into an agonized sob. “He was healing,” she gasped. She tried to jerk away from him and back to William. “I won’t let him die!”
“Nay,” Ronan whispered. He gently tucked her head against his throat, holding her securely. “He’s gone.”
“Ye did all ye could, lass,” Connell whispered as he covered the lad with a blanket, his hand shaking.
Alba stared at Ronan, her eyes wide, but she said nothing.
“Connell,” the healer said. “I . . . I . . . forgive me . . . ”
Connell stood, a shudder passing through him.
Ronan had never seen such grief as he saw in the man’s eyes at that moment.
“Nay, lassie,” Connell whispered. “Ye fought so hard tae save him. His sorrow over his mum was too much.” For a moment, Connell appeared as if he would say more, but he turned and abruptly strode away.
Ronan tried to pull the healer with him, but she only fought harder, forcing Ronan to hold tightly to her. He carefully dragged her back, giving Alba a pointed look.
Alba nodded and motioned to Lachlan to remove the body. He and another lad began to move, their faces pale. Although Lachlan and his companions were a few years older than the lad, Ronan had often seen William trailing after them as younglings are want to do. While some of the lads rebuked William for it, Lachlan had reached a maturity the others did not have. Many times Ronan had watched Lachlan step into the role similar to an older brother since Connell was away so much.
Ronan guided the healer across the room and stepped into one of the alcoves behind the high table where he had first shadowed her. He noted the healer had set up a pallet for herself. It appeared woefully unused. The fight fled from her and she leaned against him, sobbing. Ronan clenched his teeth against the unexpected emotion that rose within him. Her tears hot against his skin, she cried so hard she could barely breathe.
“Nay, Lia,” he whispered. “Please dinna cry.” He gently soothed her, his hand stroking her silky hair. He marveled at the softness of her skin. Her height allowed him to hold her comfortably in his arms. He settled his cheek against the top of her head and closed his eyes, listening to the sobs of grief that he could not allay.
No doubt her exhaustion made her emotions much harder to defeat. He murmured soft reassurances, keeping his voice low and soothing. Slowly, he eased her down to her pallet but sat with her, his arms never relaxing their grip on her. Her sobs gradually faded to hiccupping gasps, but he did not let go. Her entire body shook violently, as if she was chilled to the very core of her being. Her gasps for air grew softer and less panicked. Ever so slowly she relaxed in his arms. Ronan knew he should release her, but he found he did not want to give her up. Her exhaustion finally took its toll, and she fell asleep in his arms.
Gently, he lowered her onto her pallet and covered her with the blanket. He wiped the tears from her cheeks, but she did not stir. He cursed himself for allowing her to work herself into such a state. He should have stepped forward earlier to help. He should have done more.
He should have never born such hatred toward a lass who did not deserve it.
Lia awoke because her stomach rumbled loudly. She blinked open her eyes and sat up in confusion. She was on her pallet? How—?
The blurred memory forced its way forward. Fighting to save William . . . but she had lost the boy. Her eyes filled with tears and she choked back a sob.
“Hey now,” a soft voice murmured.
Startled, she looked up.
MacGrigor stood at the opening of the alcove, leaning his shoulder against the archway.
Through her agony and grief, she remembered his strong arms around her, pulling her away from the dead boy. His voice whispered soft reassurances. Surely she had dreamed the whole thing.
“Lass, ye need tae eat,” he said and stepped forward. “I brought ye some broth.”
Only then did she realize he carried a bowl in his hand.
Her shock grew and she could only stare at him.
He knelt beside her and handed her the bowl. She took it, but her hands shook so terribly she almost spilled it. MacGrigor sighed and covered her hands with his, steadying the bowl and helping her bring it to her lips.
“Ye still need tae rest.”
“How . . . how long?”
“Ye slept a full night and day, but I fear ’tis not enough.”
“Nay,” she whispered, aghast. “MacGrigor, the sick—”
He held up his hand. “Lia, ye’ve called me Ronan before, dinna stop now.”
Her jaw went slack at his words. Suddenly, she realized he no longer gazed at her with hatred in his steel gray-eyes but with kindness and compassion. She rubbed her own eyes, certain she was imagining things.
“Many of the sick are doing well now that ye discovered the blighted grain,” he said softly. “Ye made enough medicants that between myself, Alba, and Marta, we managed just fine. In fact, Seamus and Ian have regained their feet and are also helping.”
She continued to stare at him with her mouth hanging open. Then she realized Ronan also had dark circles under his eyes. “You’ve been working this entire time?”
He nodded. “I should no’ have let ye push yerself so hard, lass.”
“Ronan,” she protested. “You are still healing; you should not push yourself so hard either. I don’t want your fever to return.”
His lips tugged upward giving him a wry expression. “I fear no’ only do ye need tae eat, but we need ye tae make more medicants. Unfortunately, that I canna do on
my own. But after, I promise tae rest if ye promise the same.”
She marveled at the change she saw in him and slowly nodded. She finished her broth and Ronan extended his hand, helping her to her feet. She wavered unsteadily for a moment but drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “Thank you, Ronan.”
He rewarded her with a smile that stole her breath and made her weak in the knees.
As Lia left her little alcove, she was stunned to see just how few sick remained in the hall.
Ronan caught her gaze. “Ye have worked miracles, lass. There were many we couldna help but many more who are recovering.”
Was that it? Was that the reason for the change she witnessed within him? Did he finally recognize that she spoke the truth that all who needed healing were equal in her eyes? Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely true since the devilishly handsome man before her grew by leaps and bounds in her estimation.
She blushed at her own thoughts and quickly turned her attention to making more medicants as Ronan had requested. He remained at her side as she worked, helping as he was able, handing her items and watching her intently. Occasionally, he would ask a question, but she began to grow concerned when she realized his face was rather pale.
“Ronan, are you sure you’re all right?”
He nodded, but his jaw was clenched too tightly for her liking.
Lia wasn’t sure why, but a warning shiver skittered down her spine. She dropped the mortar and pestle onto the table.
“Come with me,” she whispered and grabbed his arm.
“Lass?” he asked, but he slurred the word as if he were drunk.
She tugged his arm over her shoulders and walked rapidly for the stairs.
Ronan moved with her, but his step was suddenly unsteady. She did not wish to rush him, but her anxiety jumped tenfold. They had just reached the base of the stairs when a sudden and terrifying change came over him. The planes of his face hardened brutally as his muscles grew rigid. His mouth twisted into a scowl and his eyes widened. Lia recognized the expression as the same as the night she first arrived. She cursed softly when Ronan ground to a halt, his muscles locked.
She sucked in her breath and watched him closely. She feared the servants in the great hall would be able to see him, but she did not dare look away from him.
Her worst fears came true as his eyes rolled back in his head. Although she mocked herself for being too tall and too strong, she was suddenly grateful for those very traits as the fit took Ronan full force. His muscles convulsed and he pitched forward. She managed to place her body in between him and the steps. She wasn’t able to stop his fall, but she was able to control it, and she eased him down so he did not strike his head on the stairs.
His limbs twisted violently upon themselves. She knew better than to try to restrain him. Instead she simply concentrated on keeping him from hurting himself or inadvertently striking her. He choked as froth formed on his lips. Lia carefully turned him on his side so he would not gag.
Alba screamed and Lia looked up to see her and two other servants staring at their laird in horror.
“The demon!” Alba cried.
“Alba, cease!” Lia snarled, for the first time infuriated with the girl. “This is not demonic. Fetch his brother, quickly.”
Terrified, Alba and the two servants sprinted away and out of the keep. Lia had no idea where Aidan was. She only hoped he was in the general direction Alba and the others had run.
Panic raged within him as his awareness slowly returned, but Ronan could not move. For a span of a few heartbeats, he was a prisoner once again, a prisoner in his own body. Confusion and fear muddied his thinking. Was he still in the hands of the English? Was the time at home only a hallucination brought upon him by the torture he suffered?
Gentle fingers caressed his face and stroked through his hair, helping to calm him. He heard a soft voice whispering reassurances, soothing his torment. His blurred vision slowly pulled itself together, and he focused on a beautiful face. Her hazel eyes filled with tears, but she smiled at him.
Ronan blinked rapidly but still could not move. Lia’s fingers continued their wonderful journey over his skin and through his hair.
“Peace, Ronan,” she murmured, her voice soft and gentle. “You are safe.”
He stared at her. How could a Sassenach healer show him such compassion?
“You are home. You are safe.”
For a moment, he closed his eyes, savoring the comfort she offered. Her voice sounded in a gentle cadence, low and soothing, her fingers never stopped stroking through his hair.
“Be at peace, Ronan. This will pass.”
He swallowed hard, battling to regain control of his body.
“Nay. Do not fight so hard. It will pass on its own.” Her voice never wavered. He felt his body relaxing under her touch, and with that, his control returned.
“Now ye ken the Demon Laird,” Ronan whispered, his limbs finally obeying him.
Lia gathered him in her arms as he struggled to sit up. She pulled him close and he buried his face against her throat, struggling to catch his breath. She felt his heart slamming against his ribs and held him tightly.
“Nay,” she whispered, her lips brushing his ear. “You have an illness . . . this is not possession.”
He breathed a ragged sigh. His arms wrapped around her firmly, but she felt the weakness within him.
“We need to get you upstairs. I know you need to sleep.”
“How do ye ken this, lass?” Already his voice sounded terribly weary. “I didna eat any blighted grain.”
“I have seen this before and it has nothing to do with grain.”
His arms tightened around her.
A shadow moved at the door. Lia looked up, but her fingers continued to stroke Ronan’s silky hair.
Aidan sprinted toward her, his long stride closing the distance rapidly. “Is he all right?”
“Aye,” Lia said softly. “I just need your help getting him upstairs. We need to get him into bed.”
Aidan blinked at her in surprise and hope sparked in his blue eyes. “Aye, lass.”
Although Ronan knew he needed to sleep, he did not wish to give her up. Lia had not run from him like everyone else. She did not fear the Demon Laird.
You have an illness . . .
She had spoken the words he had most needed to hear. An illness could be defeated. This was no longer a superstitious fear, no longer in the realm of God and the Church, he was once again simply a flesh-and-blood man.
Aidan hauled his arm over his shoulders and pulled Ronan to his feet. Ronan’s arm tightened around Lia as she stepped to support him on the other side. The woman from an enemy nation had suddenly become his best and only hope. Ronan thanked the saints for her.
He battled to maintain his wits, even though the desire to sleep became overwhelming with each step to his solar. By the time they got him to his bed, reality blurred, but he continued to fight with all of his might. His attention locked on Lia’s soft voice as she spoke with his brother, though he could not understand her words. They settled him into bed, and he managed to latch on to Lia’s hand as she pulled away.
“Nay,” he said, his voice a bare whisper.
“’Tis all right, Ronan,” she murmured, her fingers once again gently stroking his face and hair. “Rest now.”
“Ye promised.” He tugged on her hand, even though the effort was akin to moving a mountain.
“I know. I will rest too.”
“Nay,” he replied and tugged again. “Beside me.”
She took the chair at his bedside. Ronan ground his teeth in frustration, but his body would no longer obey him and his eyelids grew too heavy. He closed his eyes and once again felt her fingers gently stroking through his hair as the soft sound of her humming carried him to a place of solace.
Lia fought back her own tears as she stared at Ronan’s hand still clinging to her own. Damnation, she was still weary, and it made it so much more difficult to control
her emotions. She rubbed her eyes with her free hand, noting it shook terribly. He had reached out to her for help but only as a drowning man would latch onto a rope. He wouldn’t care if the devil’s own sister held the other end, only that it was there and would save him from the agony, the pain and terror of his nightmares, the horrific memories of what he had survived, the fear and rejection of the clan who had once loved him.
She again found herself admiring the graceful planes of his handsome face. She recalled the stories his people had told her of the laird he once was. He had so much to live for. Now she realized, in part, how he had found the courage to do the impossible and escape from his captors, escape and survive. But the hope had been stolen from him. He faced a battle unlike any other, the battle not only for survival but for his own heart and mind.
She had seen men fall for lesser reasons.
Aidan watched an odd change come over the healer and it worried him. He stepped forward and crouched next to her chair. “Lassie,” he said softly. “Pray, what be wrong?”
Her eyes, liquid with tears, locked him in her gaze. “I cannot abide the pain he is suffering. Aidan, I understand so much more now.”
Hope blossomed within Aidan. Ronan had treated Lia with only contempt and mistrust, but despite that, she battled on. Ronan’s plight had impacted her powerfully. Now Aidan witnessed Lia’s courage and dedication.
“I do not understand why his people did not fear him before,” she said.
“Before?” he asked in confusion.
“Before the English persecuted him. They should have been terrified of the Demon Laird because of his fits.”
Suddenly Aidan understood and shook his head. “Lassie, he has only suffered the worst of the fits since he returned tae us.”
“Worst?”
“Aye. As a child, Ronan had blackouts. He told me ye witnessed at least one. His body locks and his visage reflects death. He doesna fall, but he canna move nor speak.”
She frowned at him. “Those are passive . . . wait . . . Aidan, I have a feeling we are speaking of two different things.”
“He has had them since his youth, but they were verra rare and we hoped he had outgrown them. Since reaching the age of majority, he only suffered three.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “Lia, I am no healer, but I firmly believe the fits he suffers now are due, at least in part, tae the head wound he received.”