by Lora Andrews
Heat flushed Caitlin’s face. She’d avoided discussing her ability at every turn yesterday, including the miraculous healing of her broken bones. “I guess I deserve that.”
“Och, now”—Deidre shoulder bumped Caitlin—“I meant no harm by my words. Just a bit of teasing between friends.” Her expression changed from regretful to serious when she glanced at the smithy. “My misgivings would ease if you’d reconsider accompanying me to the village. You could be of help.”
Oh sure, like Caitlin needed to draw any more attention to her special talents. “I’ll be fine. Really.” Besides, having Deidre hanging around any longer than necessary would totally throw off her escape plans.
“Very well. Give young Callum a hug from me.” Deidre stepped onto the worn path that would lead her to the crofters. “Doona tarry. Tend to the boy, finish your business, and hurry back to the keep. I’ll want a full account of Callum’s condition.”
If the hour went according to plan, Deidre would never get that report. Caitlin would be long gone. “Wait,” she called out.
Deidre stopped. She tucked a loose strand of her light brown hair into her cap and laughed. “Now that dinna take long. Have you changed your mind already?”
Caitlin shook her head. “No. I just...I just wanted to say thank you. For understanding. For everything.” In a short amount of time, Deidre and Mari had become important to her, and that was saying a lot for a woman who hid behind personal walls meant to protect her heart. “I appreciate everything you and Mari have done for me. I wanted you to know that.”
She choked back a mouthful of gratitude. They’d saved her life. They hadn’t turned their backs on her when they’d discovered what she was. They accepted a total stranger into their fold without judgment. Without prejudice.
And she couldn’t say goodbye.
Not even to Ewen.
God.
She hugged herself. Let life be good to him. Let life be good to them all.
“Stop that,” Deidre said, swatting her hand in the air like she was shooing a fly. “I’ve a reputation to maintain. I can’t show up at the village all teary-eyed and the like. The old hags will have my arse. Now, turn around and go on. Go settle the quittance with the blacksmith before I come to my senses and drag you with me.” She threw Caitlin a half-smile that was more frown than cheer, then stepped back onto the path with determined strides.
Caitlin watched the healer disappear into the woods. Rubbing her eyes, she forced out a breath, then set her sights on the buildings with the thatched roofs nestled outside the banks of a small loch.
I can do this. Scrambling across the field, the mantra played in her head. I can do this. I can do this.
Five feet from the building, the door opened. Faolan stepped out of the smithy.
I can—
She stopped short and met the blacksmith’s dark gaze. Deep grooves buckled across his forehead. Why couldn’t fate have given her a smiling bald guy who looked like the one pictured on her favorite lemon-scented disinfectant instead of this scowling behemoth?
A wave of heat escaped the opened door. At the same time, a cold breeze snaked up her long skirt, sending a shiver of cold racing through her. She gripped her cloak tighter and walked the last few steps to the smithy.
“Good morning.” The greeting rushed out of her mouth in a cringeworthy chirp. She patted her bag and slowed her speech. “I brought Callum more—”
He cradled a gleaming silver sword in his hands.
Not just any sword.
Her sword.
She forgot both the cold and the blacksmith’s frightening demeanor. She ran her fingertips over the polished surface. “It’s beautiful.” He’d wrapped gorgeous black leather around the hilt. Sunlight glinted off the metal, highlighting the intricate scrolling etched into the side of its double-edged blade.
Without taking his eyes off her, Faolan pivoted the sword, turning the weapon with reverence until the handle faced her.
A flutter sprung in her stomach. She lifted the bag’s strap over her head and set the heavy sack with Callum’s tonics on the ground several feet to her left. When she reached for the sword, she half expected Faolan to pull back and tell her he’d made a mistake. A weapon of that caliber had to cost a small fortune. Certainly more than a five minute walk into his son’s mind. Deidre and Mari deserved all the credit for his recovery, not her.
But here she stood, hoisting this beautiful weapon from its creator. She wrapped her left hand below her right, near the pommel. The sword felt solid and balanced in her grip. A strange sense of calm washed over her. Like déjà vu. Like she’d held the thing a million times before.
She stepped back and swung. The blade sliced through the air, smooth and fluid.
“Good,” Faolan said, watching her. “You’ve held a sword before.”
No, not prior to today, she hadn’t. Yet the sword felt like an extension of her arm, the weight a comfortable ache that stirred her muscles to life. Stepping forward with her right foot, she put power into her next swing.
Holy moly, Batman. How much of Valoria’s combat knowledge had she retained?
Faolan smiled, the kind of smile she’d expect to see if great whites could smile. A hair-raising, run-for-your life kind of grin that crawled across his scarred face.
“Now, let’s see what you can do.”
She should have been scared.
He took several languid steps to his right and sank into a fighting stance, then beckoned her forward with the flick of two meaty fingers. “Strike me down.”
Huh? “You’re weaponless.” She wasn’t about to—
Faolan lunged.
Crap.
She dodged and pivoted on her left leg, executing what should have been a perfect sidekick to his kneecap with the heel of her right foot. But Faolan’s left hand swung down hard, striking the back of her calf, deflecting the kick. She recovered her balance in time to regain her footing. In the process, she’d left her backside vulnerable. Instinct carried her into the next move. She didn’t think. She spun, fisted her left hand and bent her arm, then used a fraction of the spin’s momentum to drive her elbow into his sternum. A powerful blow here could cause excruciating pain and rupture the aorta. She wanted to shock him not kill him.
But the blacksmith was no bumbling fool. He rotated his torso before her blow could cause damage. Her elbow slid off his chest. He clamped one large hand over the blade in her right hand, and muscled his right shoulder into her body. The impact hurled her to the ground, knocking the wind from her lungs.
Groaning, she flipped onto her back. She might have acquired some of Valoria’s knowledge, but she lacked the woman’s skill, execution, and stamina. Ow. Blowing out a hoarse breath, she rolled to her side, swallowed another groan, then planted her palms on the ground and shoved herself upright. She stretched her back, already dreading the two-day hurt that would follow. The bones in her wrist might have healed, but the bugger throbbed, and her right shoulder ached something fierce.
Faolan retrieved her sack and picked up her sword off the ground.
“Thank you,” she said lumbering toward him, a small fire consuming her left calf. “I hope the sword isn’t damaged.”
Without saying a word, he turned and strode in the direction of the larger of the two thatched buildings she’d noted earlier. By the house’s proximity to the smithy, she’d say this is where he lived with Callum. The small lochan at the rear of the property had to be the same body of water she’d seen in her vision.
Faolan paused outside the front door with the sack and sword in his possession. “Come back on the morrow.”
What? “Tomorrow?”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Her gaze dropped to her things. He could keep the sack for all she cared, although she’d miss the cheese and fruit she’d stolen from Mari’s kitchen in preparation of her escape. The tonics were his and, according to Deidre, he’d already proven himself adept at administering Callum’s meds. But th
e sword?
Dammit. She needed that sword. She couldn’t very well trek into the wilds of medieval Scotland without a weapon to protect herself. She was crazy, yes, but she wasn’t a total loon. Besides, to reach the MacEwens, she needed to cross Loch Linnhe, and something told her Faolan could help.
“Wait, Mr.…” His last name escaped her. “Look, I’m sorry I hurt you, but you have to understand I was only defending myself. You attacked. I responded.” Like Bres, he hadn’t broken a sweat. She’d be lucky if she could hobble off his land using both feet.
Sighing at his lack of response, she rubbed the dirt from her eyes. “Would you at least allow me a visit with your son? I’d love to say hello to Callum before I go.” The boy had left his mark. “Deidre asked me to check on him as well.”
Faolan grunted what she thought was a yes, then pointed to the smithy. “After you move the kindling.”
Kindling? As in small sticks and twigs used to start a fire?
She scanned the area. Dirt and more grass. A copse of trees began about one hundred or so feet from the two thatched structures. The smithy was to her right. He’d stacked a six-foot-tall pile of tree-trunk-sized logs against one side of the building. That wasn’t kindling.
He pointed to the wood and then gestured to an area alongside his house.
“You want me to—”
She tracked the path between the two points. Twenty-five feet minimum. Each log had to weigh at least twenty pounds.
She’d be here all day.
“You want me to move all that wood by myself?” Was he nuts?
Faolan squinted at the sky then placed his hand over the door handle. “Best you start now before the rain.”
Caitlin gaped as the door swung closed.
* * *
“Oh, thank the stars,” she huffed, setting the last piece down with a clunk. “Finally.”
Wiping her sweaty palms against her damp skirt, Caitlin stepped back to assess her work. The huge logs were stacked in tidy, four-foot-high rows against the side of the house. She shoved back the strands of hair sticking to her face. If it weren’t for her anal-retentive tendencies, she would have finished an hour ago.
At least the rain had held out.
In hindsight, the delay was a blessing. At some point along the repetitive back and forth trek between the smithy and the house, her mind settled. Her thoughts untangled themselves from being outraged at the blacksmith to slowly realizing this senseless, suck-the-life-out-of-every-muscle chore was a test.
One she couldn’t fail because it was her first real trial in pursuit of Bres. Giving up the sword would invalidate everything Ewen and her friends had sacrificed to get her to this point. She couldn’t let that happen. Find an artifact and a way back—that was her plan. The sword would help her carry out that goal.
Yet Valoria’s words kept ringing in her head. We underestimated his power. We cannot win. There is only one option left us.
Fine. Do it. Whatever it is, we have to stop him. Caitlin had meant every word.
The rite comes with a great cost. To you.
She rubbed her eyes. She’d let denial rule her life for far too long. Someone had to stop Bres before he reached the ritual site in Arran. Maybe that was the sacrifice Valoria had alluded to. Maybe there was no “going back home” for her.
“Come inside.”
Caitlin jumped.
Faolan waited at the door without sparing a glance to the task she’d labored to complete. When she approached, he stepped aside to let her cross. She entered a large, clean room with a hearth on one side and a table on the opposite end.
“Wash your hands,” he ordered, indicating the bowl and pitcher set on the table.
She did as she was told then used the cloth he’d placed beside the bowl to dry off the excess water.
“Sit.” He hooked a hand through the opening in the chair’s back, dragged the legs across the stone floor, and then lowered himself into the seat beside the one intended for her.
Glancing over her shoulder, she quickly scanned the room for the sword but saw no sign of it or her bag. A large opening divided this room from another she assumed was a bedroom since she didn’t see Callum either.
“Hands.”
“Are you going to explain to me what this is all about?” Eyeing the jar he held, she lowered herself into the chair and flipped her palms out. She’d managed to avoid any serious scrapes or splinters, but the blisters would make gripping anything uncomfortable.
Faolan uncorked the jar and scooped out an oatmeal-colored substance. He carefully spread it over the blisters on her fingers and the small scrape near her thumb. For such a large man, he was surprisingly gentle.
And freakishly quiet.
When he finished applying the cream, he wrapped thin strips of linen around the upper part of each palm. “You are weak.”
No kidding. “Hand strength isn’t exactly one of my strong points.”
“I do not speak of your limbs. You feel mercy. Charity has no place in battle.”
True, but in the absence of compassion, what was left? What stopped a person from becoming a monster like Bres?
Caitlin placed her hands in her lap. “If I hadn’t shown mercy, your son might be without a father right now.” Granted, Faolan was never in any real danger from her, even if her muscles hadn’t given out, but the argument was valid.
The blacksmith re-corked the jar and moved across the room, setting the salve into a basket on the floor. “Keep the wrap undisturbed until nightfall.”
“And what of my quittance?” Had she lost it? Had he deemed her unworthy and changed his mind? “What can I do to win it back?”
“There is no winning.” He bent and took a log from the small stack near the hearth then placed it onto the fire beneath a small kettle hanging from the interior.
“I can wash clothes.” She looked around the room. It was pretty darn clean. “Or scrub floors. I’m not afraid of hard work.” Or sounding desperate. “I’m about to embark on a journey to find my ancestors. Alone. Without the sword, I’m vulnerable. Please reconsider.”
He snorted. “Even armed, you are vulnerable, female.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
She bit the inside of her mouth. With the sword in her hot little hands, the odds of reaching her twenty-ninth birthday in three months were higher, but that knowledge wouldn’t persuade this scarred giant into giving her back the sword.
Swiftly, she rose from her seat and scurried to join him at the hearth. A large stone mantle hung over the header. Symbols ran across the face of the fireplace and down the sides. She’d seen similar markings—in Kilfinan, outside the secret chamber hidden beneath MacEwen Castle. Additional symbols were hand carved into the wall above the hearth. Angular lines, some forming archaic looking letters, while others appeared more rune-like.
“Did you carve these symbols yourself?”
A whimper sounded from the adjoining room.
Callum.
Before Faolan could answer her question, the front door opened.
The strange woman from the keep—what was her name? Mary? Margaret?—stepped over the threshold. She froze when she caught sight of Caitlin. “You.”
Ugh...fate really hates me.
Caitlin smiled. “Hello. Nice to see you again.”
Margaret lifted her chin and assessed her through squinted eyes. “’Twas you that saved my grandson?”
Well, shiver me timbers and call me Nancy. Margaret was Callum’s grandmother?
Caitlin dragged her eyes to Faolan. He was the man whose crazy wife had a habit of disappearing from Ardgour? Caitlin’s mouth fell open. Laoghaire was his wife?
Well that could explain some of yesterday’s animosity with the MacLeans.
“Has he roused?” Margaret asked the blacksmith. “I’ve brought his favorite. My honey and egg loaf.” She squeezed the basket looped over her arm closer to her body.
Faolan nodded and gestured to the other room.
On the other side of the opening, the little boy sat on his bed with two small wooden toys in his hands. His blue eyes lit up when he saw his grandmother, and then a shy smile puckered his lips when he caught sight of Caitlin entering the room.
Grinning from ear to ear, Caitlin waved hello. Something about this boy touched her heart.
Margaret sat on the bed. “I brought you a special treat, my love. Look inside, why don’t ye?”
Callum stuck his small hand inside the basket. His eyes went wide.
“Go on, take one. I baked these especially for you.”
Eagerly, he grabbed a square piece of a corn-muffin-colored cake, and then shoved it in his mouth.
Caitlin laughed. “Hungry, huh?”
The boy nodded, pushing the remainder of the treat into his mouth with the flat of his palm.
“Tell your healer, I owe her a debt of gratitude,” Margaret said. She still had that spinster vibe that made Caitlin want to look away, but seeing the love she clearly held for her grandson softened Caitlin’s reaction. “I am beholden to the lot of you for saving my boy.”
“You owe us nothing. Deidre and Mari would be the first to say so. It was the least any of us could do.” After their earlier conversation, she hoped her words hit their mark with Faolan, but if they had, the blacksmith showed no sign. He stood at the opening of the room, watching the interaction like a protective father.
Caitlin threaded her hands into the crooks of her elbows. “Oh, by the way, Deidre said to continue with the potions.” She looked at Faolan. “She told me you know what to look for if his recovery should stall.”
The blacksmith nodded.
“Good. She wants you to limit his activity. She added a sleeping herb to the mixture to help with that.” Callum’s giggles distracted Caitlin from Faolan’s scowl.
“More?” Margaret asked her grandson when he peered into the basket. “Go on, laddie, eat your fill, my boy.”