by Ruth Kaufman
Ronan nodded. “That is understandable, but it would only make your work more difficult.”
“Aye.”
“How long did it take ye tae develop a cure?”
Lia blinked at him then swallowed hard. He didn’t understand and would no doubt hate her answer. Perhaps even return to hating her again. She ducked her head, wondering if she should lie to him.
“Lass?” he asked.
“I am sorry, Ronan,” she whispered as she met his gaze. “There is no cure for this illness.”
The color drained from his face, and the spark vanished from his gray eyes. He swallowed hard and she watched fear replace his shock. His hands shook and he dropped his small eating dagger.
Lia moved quickly before her words could truly sink in. She wrapped her fingers around his hand and held it tightly. “Ronan, listen to me.”
He stared at her hand and nodded once.
“There is no cure, but this illness can be managed.”
“Managed?” His voice was hoarse but his gaze returned to look at her.
“Aidan told me of your blackouts as a child, but they were rare, so rare that people did not fear the Demon Laird. You call them blackouts, but Sueta calls them passive fits. Ronan, don’t you see? You learned to manage this on your own without any help.”
He blinked at her then frowned. “Passive fits?”
“Aye. The ones you suffer now, where you fall to the floor, your limbs no longer under your control—Sueta calls them active fits. But Aidan told me those only began after you freed yourself. He thought it was due to your head wound, and I believe he is right.”
“I told ye, brother,” Aidan said, watching Ronan closely.
“Sueta believes, and I agree, that the fits are two different manifestations of the same illness. I have treated children and adults that demonstrated both, some more extreme than yours. But it is important that you realize this will be a process—I won’t be able to stop it overnight.”
“But I still may suffer the fits?”
“You might, but my purpose will be to lessen them in frequency and severity. You can still live a normal life.”
“A normal life as the Demon Laird?” he growled and tried to pull his hand from hers.
“Brother,” Aidan said in gentle rebuke.
Lia refused to release his hand. “You did not think of yourself as the Demon Laird before, even though you suffered from this illness. Why not?”
He scowled. “The blackouts were verra rare; people did not realize what was happening.”
“Then we teach them. Once they learn this is not demonic, they will no longer fear you. My goal is to make these fits fewer in number than what they were before your wounding.”
Ronan thought for a long moment, staring at her hand. She squeezed his fingers reassuringly.
“How—?” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat.
“There will be medicants I will create for you, and you must take them every day. Sueta also found great success with changing the diet.”
He curled his lip. “Will ye have me as King Nebuchadnezzar, eating grass in the field?”
“Nay,” she said firmly. “’Tis not as dire as that.”
He sighed miserably. His gaze returned to her and he studied her a long moment. “If we fail, the Church will demand I step down as laird, probably insist I enter the hospice at best, excommunicated or killed for possession at worst.”
“We will not fail.”
Again he studied her a long moment. She swallowed hard against the fear she still saw within him, but she thought she also saw a spark of hope.
Finally, he drew a deep breath into his lungs and said, “I saw ye give everything tae save a dying lad ye barely kenned.” His fingers tightened on hers, and he drew her hand to his lips, kissing it softly. “If anyone can do this, ye can lassie.”
She smiled then sighed heavily.
“What is it?”
“I fear you will be vexed with me.”
“Why?”
“For the next several days, you will have a Sassenach for a shadow.”
“Lia, forgive me for being so terrible toward ye.” He hesitated. “Wait. What do ye mean ‘shadow’?”
“I will follow you wherever you go, observe your behavior, document these fits when and how they happen. I fear you will soon be weary of me.”
He blinked at her then arched an eyebrow. “As long as ye dinna stalk me from the shadows.” He paused and his grin turned wicked. “That is my duty.”
Lia rolled her eyes at him. “Sweet Mary have mercy, you’re determined to scare a thousand days from my life.”
He chuckled softly and Lia was glad to hear it.
They fell silent and continued to eat. Lia knew he needed to absorb all the information she had given him, come to terms with the fact that there was no cure. She hoped he believed her when she said he could still lead a normal life.
She looked up and frowned at the door. The water she asked Alba to boil should have been ready by now.
“What’s wrong?” Aidan asked.
“I asked Alba to bring hot water to the solar. No doubt I will have to fetch it myself.”
“I can fetch it,” Aidan offered.
She shook her head. “My goal was to have Alba return to routines similar to those before Ronan’s wounding. Gradual exposure will make her realize she has nothing to fear from him. But that too will be a process.” Lia finished her meal and set the bowl on the tray.
A soft knock sounded and Lia’s lips tugged upward. “If that is Alba, that would indeed be a good sign.”
Aidan rose to answer the door.
“Nay,” Lia said, stopping him. “Ronan needs to answer the door.”
Ronan swallowed hard. “Are ye certain, lassie?”
“I am.”
He rose, crossed the room, and opened the door.
Alba stared up at him, her pale features growing white. “W-where is the healer?”
“I am right here, Alba,” she said stepping into view. Aidan moved with her.
Alba relaxed only slightly, then her gaze returned to Ronan and she recoiled again. She held up the kettle of water, the handle wrapped in a cloth so she would not burn her hand.
“Be at ease, lass,” Ronan said softly. “The healer has assured me I willna grow fangs.”
Apparently, she did not understand his jest. She shook violently. He cautiously took the kettle from her, as if he feared moving too quickly.
“Now, now,” Lia said, her tone gently reapproving. “I fear Alba is not ready for your teasing yet, Ronan.” She took the kettle from him.
Alba’s foot slid back, and then she bolted for the stairs.
Ronan sighed softly and closed the door.
“Now there be a sight,” Aidan said, his blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “A lassie running from my brother; usually all he has tae do is smile at them and they trip o’er themselves tae come running tae him.”
“Brother,” Ronan growled.
Lia watched him, fighting back her own smile. If Aidan’s personality was any indication of the one Ronan had buried . . . no wonder the two had been considered hellions in their youth. Aidan appeared as if he would speak again, but he stopped and looked at Lia. “Lass, will ye be needin’ my help?”
“Nay, Aidan, I just need to change Ronan’s bandages.”
“Verra well, I need tae attend business below stairs.” He paused and thought for a moment. “Lia, has Ronan told ye of my birds?”
“He mentioned them.”
“Then ye realize I excel in the discovery of information. Perchance it would help if I begin tae spread the word that the MacGrigor has an illness, one that can be treated, and it is not possession.”
Ronan looked at his brother, startled, then his expression turned hopeful.
Lia nodded. “I like this idea, Aidan. The more we counter fear with truth, the better it shall be for all involved.”
Ronan nodded in agreement but then frowned.
“Aidan, make certain the word stays within the castle.”
“But what of our allies, Ronan? They be the ones I’m most concerned about.”
“Aye, and normally I would agree. But the blighted grain . . . there is something I am no’ seeing, but I canna define it yet.”
Aidan studied him a long moment then turned to Lia. “Ye see, lassie? This is why he makes a good laird and I wouldna. He has a sense for the things I would ne’er spot.”
Ronan ducked his head, his cheeks darkening. “Be off with ye,” he growled.
Aidan grinned and darted out the door.
Lia laughed softly as Ronan closed the door behind his brother. He gave her somewhat of a sheepish glance.
“My brother makes mountains out of molehills.”
She laughed again and pointed at a stool near the table. “Sit. Those wounds have festered too long and will only delay your healing.”
He nodded but his step seemed slow.
Lia reached for a bandage as he sat.
Ronan flinched away from her.
She stared at him, worried. “Ronan?”
“Forgive me, lass,” he said softly and ducked his head.
“It will take time for you to grow accustomed to me.”
He shook his head, his steel-gray eyes growing bleak.
“What’s wrong?”
“I . . . damnation . . . I ne’er thought myself a vain man, but it seems that I am.”
“What mean you?” she asked, slowly reaching to untie one of his bandages. This time he did not flinch away, but as she unwrapped the cloth, she fought her own urge to flinch. Slowly, she removed the second and then the third bandage.
His body was gloriously perfect, powerful muscle corded under smooth skin. No wonder he had found the strength to free himself and recover from his wounds. But as she studied the injuries, she realized he still had terribly dark bruises deep underneath his skin. Scars from a whip crisscrossed his back, and burn marks from a hot iron marred his perfect form.
Ronan lowered his head even more and squeezed his eyes closed. “I fear I am quite hideous now. Another reason why people fear the Demon Laird.”
Her throat tightened and tears burned in her eyes. “Nay,” she murmured, reaching out to stroke her fingers through his black hair. His chest also bore scars and half-healed wounds. The ones around his throat bothered her the most.
But he still stared at the floor, his expression bleak.
Lia bit her lip, wanting to say something, anything to ease his melancholy. “These wounds are still healing. I have some oil that will help lessen the scarring.”
He still did not move.
She drew a deep breath into her lungs. “You will heal, Ronan. Soon, all you will have to do is smile and the lassies will be tripping over themselves again, just as Aidan said.” Sweet Mary, that sounded awful. The blush rose on her cheeks.
He glanced at her, startled, as if trying to determine if she jested with him. Then a slow smile curved his lips upward. “Even ye?”
Her blush burned brighter. Lia swallowed hard and quickly turned, sorting through her medicants, hoping she could forget her embarrassing words and collect herself.
Ronan watched Lia turn her back to him, needlessly ordering various bottles and pouches. His smile grew into a broad grin. Perhaps there was hope for him, but he couldn’t resist his mirth at seeing Lia suddenly so flustered. He knew she had meant to reassure him, but the soft blush on her cheeks had given away so much more.
Was it possible? Even with all the scars, could she still see something more?
He found her beauty undeniable, even though she did not seem to acknowledge it in herself.
He waited for what seemed like an eternity for her to turn around, but she did not, still struggling with her embarrassment.
“Lia,” he said gently.
She drew a deep breath into her lungs and turned around. “Aye?”
“Thank ye.”
She tilted her head curiously.
Ronan was willing to let the matter pass rather than tease her as he normally would have. Instead, he looked at her medicants. “What are ye planning?”
“First I must make a drawing salve for the wounds that are festering. That’s why I had Alba bring up the hot water. After the poultice, on the wounds that are closed, I can apply this.” She held up a small ceramic cask with a cork in it.
He took it, unstoppered the cork, and sniffed the contents. He quickly recoiled, gagging. “Mary have mercy, it smells like rotten fish.”
“That’s because it is,” she said.
He stared at her horrified.
She laughed softly. “’Tis merely fish oil. It does wonders for the skin. But aye, because of the smell you will probably only want to use it at night before you go to bed.”
He returned the cork and handed it back to her. “And I shall have cats loitering outside my door come the morrow.”
Again she laughed and Ronan found the sound very pleasing to listen to. He watched her curiously as she pulled out a large shallow wooden bowl. She poured a small amount of water into it and began to measure a variety of herbs, making certain the water soaked everything.
Ronan sat silently, watching her. He noticed how a lock of her hair fell across the side of her neck and down the front to her throat. For some strange reason, he had an urge to take the lock between his fingers and trace its path down her throat with his lips. He rose and stepped closer to her. She glanced up at him, startled.
An unexpected desire roared through him as he watched the vein in her neck pulse under her skin.
“I-is something amiss?” she asked, her voice suddenly tremulous.
“Nay,” he said. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her as her throat muscles worked and she swallowed hard. He wanted nothing more than to kiss that soft skin.
“Ronan, please,” she murmured. “I must mix this while the water is still hot.”
He sighed and stepped away.
She mixed the herbs then mashed them until a thick paste formed. Ronan was surprised to note this concoction smelled clean and fresh. He saw her placing small amounts on the back of her hand every so often.
She noted his gaze and held out her hand to him. “I do this to judge both the consistency and the temperature. It needs to be hot but not so much that it will burn your skin.”
He nodded. “Is there anything I can do tae help?”
“Aye,” she said and directed him to hand her various herbs.
She finally completed the poultice and used a flat wooden stick to smear it on the wounds on his back and chest. He gritted his teeth against the initial pain but noticed that the poultice quickly became soothing and helped ease the soreness and itching of the more stubborn wounds.
He sat on a stool while she placed bandages over the poultice. Her fingers worked with gentle surety, and he lowered his head. He should not be savoring her attentions so much.
“You are weary,” she said, pushing his hair over his shoulder so she could rub the foul-smelling oil onto his skin.
“Aye. Sometimes I wonder if my stamina will ever return.”
“It will,” she said and pressed a mug into his hand. “Willow bark,” she said.
He drank it down; at least the willow bark was pleasant to the taste.
“Now your leg.”
“My leg?” he said, surprised. It was sore but he had not broken it as he originally feared.
“It pains you.”
“And probably always will.”
She shook her head harshly and knelt beside the stool. “It is too newly healed for you to be on it so much.” She gently gripped his foot and examined his ankle. “There is too much swelling here, Ronan. If you do not stay off of it for a time more, then it will always pain you.”
He sighed softly. “I canna abide being cooped up in one room for so long, lass.”
“I know, but when you sit you need to prop it up. That will help keep the swelling at bay. When it pains you, take linen
s doused in cold water and cover it.” She paused and studied it again. “At least it was not broken, but it is terribly bruised.”
“Aye, when my mount collapsed, its body pinned me tae the ground.”
She looked up at him and Ronan again marveled at the compassion he sensed within her. She reached up and gently traced her fingers through a lock of his hair, pushing it away from his face. His skin tingled with her touch, and his heart lurched and began to race.
“Worry not, you will heal.”
He caught her hand in his own and gently pressed a kiss to her fingers. “Lass, I must again beg yer forgiveness for being so awful toward ye.”
“Ronan—”
“Despite my actions, ye have demonstrated only kindness and compassion,” he continued. “But ye also gave me the greatest medicant of all.”
“What is that?” she asked in confusion.
“Hope.”
Ronan’s eyes flew open, his heart slamming against his ribs. Le March’s laughter echoed in his ears, but it faded as his vision focused. A shaft of sunlight streamed through the loophole of his own solar. Sunrise. He released a pent-up breath, his entire body quivering. Sweat dampened his hair and rolled down his face, but slowly, his body uncoiled. As the remnants of the nightmare faded, Ronan’s thoughts locked on one memory, the only thing he truly had as a weapon against the horror. Lia’s voice whispering softly, her fingers lightly tracing over his skin and through his hair.
You are home, Ronan. You are safe.
Finally, he was able to draw a deep breath, and his heart ceased its hammering. He sat up slowly, fighting back dizziness. He still felt infernally weak. But he had to admit the poultices Lia had applied to his wounds had done wonders for the pain. He inhaled and curled his lip. Unfortunately, he reeked of rotten fish.
Ronan crawled out of bed and pulled on his trews. He was forced to grab for the bedpost as dizziness assailed him again. He squeezed his eyes closed and gulped in a breath. It would pass. It always did.
Slowly blinking open his eyes and trying to focus again, he rubbed his jaw, feeling the rough stubble. He needed a shave. Ronan held out his hand, watching it critically as it trembled. He wondered if a manservant would be courageous enough to assist him. Aidan would, but he would probably take Ronan’s face off in the process.