Healer (17 page)

“She’s naught but a weeping female with no more powers than that dead wolf,” Caden admonished them. “Seize her.”

The men moved in, but still no one dared touch her. No one but the huntsman from Gwynedd. Yet as he reached for her, she stiffened, lifting a face to him smeared with the blood of the beast she’d nuzzled in her agony. Caden didn’t know if it was the sight of such beauty despoiled by savagery or the way she curled her lip at him, wolf-like, that made the man pause.

“Touch me, and I’ll draw blood,” she growled lowly. Gone was the broken demeanor, and in its place was something else entirely. The sinewy way she moved her body, crouching, shifting back on her haunches, it was unworldly. “One bite or a scratch from me, and men will be hunting you for your pelt come nightfall.”

Heming glanced at Caden, unnerved by the threat. “I say kill her, dead as the wolf.” Stepping back, he slipped his bow off his shoulder.

What game did she play? For surely she could do no harm to them. Certainly she couldn’t turn them into wolves as she suggested.

“She plays at your fear,” Caden said. “And you’re the fool for believing her.”

“Her mother was a witch,” someone in the company reminded him.

“Aye, and
she’s
a witch who killed my brother. See, she wears the O’Byrne ring.” Pure gold it was.

The woman leapt to her feet, hands poised claw-like as she turned, glaring at Caden. “Nay,” she said. “One of you killed him, as sure as you killed Faol. And there’s the horse to prove it.” She jerked her finger at Ballach. “Speckled as the day I last saw it.”

“God in Heaven,” Gillis said, crossing himself. “She turned Ronan into a wolf.”

The possibility staggered Caden for a moment.

“And I’ll do the same to you, if you so much as touch me,” she warned Heming.

The man took another step back, preparing his bow. “Give me the word, milord, and I’ll put an arrow between her eyes.”

This was nonsense. “You may be crazy, woman, but you’ve no more power than I,” Caden retorted.

“Better to kill her and be sure,” Heming told him. He nocked an arrow, eager.

Too eager,
a small voice told Caden.“Hold, huntsman. I’d have her alive.”

Caden made to grab her arm, but the wench was as fast as she was cunning. With a twist, she bolted toward the waterfall. Caden pursued her, determined to show his men there was nothing to fear, but slight as she was, she seemed to work her way through the trees like the wind, while he caught the slap of the brush and branches in her wake.

“Shall I loose the hound, milord?” Gillis called after him.

“Nay—” Caden broke off with a curse, spitting out a mouthful of leaves. Suddenly the left side of his head exploded in pain. Once his vision cleared, he saw her loose another stone. Instinctively he raised his hand and deflected it, though its sting shot from his wrist up his arm like a lighting bolt. His arm grew numb as the prickling burn ebbed.

Caden leaned into a tree, heaving a sigh of relief. His arm was heavy, painful to lift, but he still could feel the rough bark against his skin. Sure, he’d struck his elbow and felt the same sensations. No witchcraft like that which had left his father’s axe arm useless for life.

Still, she
was
as canny and dangerous as her wolf.

He flexed his fingers, satisfied he was unharmed. “Surround the pool,” he shouted to the others, who scrambled after him. “Don’t let her escape, but I’ll be the one to take her.”

Although from the anxiety drawing their faces, he needn’t worry about someone taking his prize. Gaze narrowing in determination, Caden brushed away the blood her first stone had drawn from his temple and strode at his leisure to close the distance between them. There was nowhere else for her to go now, but into the pool at the base of the waterfall.

Which she did. And straight into the cascading white water pouring down the cliffside, where she vanished.

Oaths and cries of astonishment echoed among the men who saw the roaring water curtain swallow her.

“By my faith, she’s vanished.”

“Turned to water like a fairy.”

“’Tis just as well. No good can come of this.”

Caden was stunned as well, but more from surprise than fear.
Clever girl, this one.

Drawing his sword, Caden plunged into the pool, disrupting the plant growth that still swayed and quivered in her wake. Had she been supernatural, her path wouldn’t have been marked. The water was a sharp breath short of freezing, seeping into his boots, soaking them. She’d pay well for this … and the hound her wolf killed. After he presented her to Tarlach and showed the old man that his fears were for naught.

Standing before the fall, Caden poked his sword into the wet curtain. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was there. He’d held flesh and blood in his hand earlier, nothing more. But the blade touched nothing but the water pouring over it. He extended the sword even deeper, until the fall threatened to consume him as well. He felt space behind it. Space enough to hide a woman.

And space enough for him to enter. Using the sword as a probe, he forced his way through the downpour pounding on his broad shoulders, eyes shut until the water eased away to naught but a mist. Caden blinked away the water, his gaze settling on the woman pressed against the stone wall at her back.

“My father’s been waiting years to meet you”—his lips curled with sarcasm—“Milady
Wolf
.
”

Even with her soaked gown plastered against her body, she was a handsome woman. Slight compared to Rhianon, but handsome nonetheless. Had she thrown herself at his mercy, Caden may have felt more charitable toward her, but his soaked clothes and bleeding temple, not to mention one dead and costly hound, had done little to improve his humor.

Terror seized her face as he started toward her. Good, he wanted her to be afraid of him. She should be. Her white fingers splayed against the wall as if drawing strength from it. Or perhaps she was grappling for a weapon for her incredible aim. She began to waver, as if trying to decide whether to make another run for it, or stay and face her fate.

“You can’t escape,” he told her. “Your days of haunting the hills are done … wolf-woman.”

She shrank away from his approach, but something in her gaze triggered an alarm.

Too late. His boot slid out from under him on a slick patch of pond growth, sending him into a groin-tearing split. But for the buckling of his knee, which slammed onto the hard rock beneath, it might have been weeks before he could walk with a normal gait.

“By all the gods, I’ll—” His minced oath broke off.

She was gone, out into the sunlight.

Swearing to diminish the torture of overextended muscle, Caden regained his footing and followed. The brilliant light and water temporarily blinded him, but he could hear the shouts of his men as they tried to stop her. To warn her. But from what?

It wasn’t until his gaze adjusted to the light that he saw them gathered at the crag holding the pond nestled in its belly.

No.

Heart sinking to his stomach, Caden slogged through the water and peered over its hedge of rock. Below was another shelf of ragged rock. And splayed upon it was the raven-haired nymph, still as death.

Heming’s voice penetrated the disbelief numbing Caden’s brain. “I tried to stop her, sir, but she wrestled free of my grasp and sooner than be captured, jumped.”

“Fetch her body then,” Caden said woodenly. He’d wanted to frighten her as she’d done so many, but not kill her. From the moment she’d looked into his eyes, pleading for the life of her wolf, he’d seen something special.

He shrugged off the pall of guilt smothering him. Regardless, Tarlach would have to acknowledge him for accomplishing what neither the chieftain nor his idolized eldest son could. It was going to be a good night at Glenarden.

Chapter Fifteen

It was well past nun day when Ronan reached the plateau overlooking the river where Glenarden’s keep rose in regal fashion, banners flying over its stockade. He’d passed through acres of freshly plowed farmland sowed with peas, beans, and corn. Seen carefully chosen lumber cut and stacked at the edge of Glenarden’s thick forest—some for sale and some for further construction within the walls of the stockade. It appeared that Caden had slid into Ronan’s role well—a surprise given his younger brother’s usual indifference to such matters.

It was partly pleasing. Ronan wanted Caden to be a capable administrator. But someone had tried to kill Ronan. Was he a chance horse thief or the hireling of an usurper? Regardless, Ronan now wore the simple garb of a farmer, borrowed from a trusted servant who’d been out in one of the fields. If someone at Glenarden wanted him dead, better Ronan slip in unnoticed to observe the changes that had taken place … and to speak to his father.

Slipping through the hall was easier than he’d anticipated. It teemed with servants preparing for the Pascal celebration—tomorrow, if his sense of time was right. Brother Martin had said he was invited to officiate.

“You!” Lady Rhianon pointed an imperious finger at Ronan. Clad in apron and kerchief, she jerked it toward a heaping barrow of fresh hay. “Help spread the new threshing. I should hate to choke on dust still floating in the air during supper.”

Wondering how the old steward Vychan had accepted her takeover, Ronan bowed his head in acknowledgment and walked to the barrow. ’Twould be quite a setback for the imperious Rhianon when Brenna became mistress, especially now that his wife was with child. Brenna had told Ronan the morning after their wedding night that she had conceived. And knowing his new wife as he did, he believed her.

With an armload of threshing, he worked his way toward the back of the hall, where Tarlach’s bedchamber had been made of an anteroom. The door was closed. After spreading the hay along the wall, Ronan stepped into the chamber. It was dark … and musty. The housekeeping outside had clearly been overlooked in here.

Ronan couldn’t see a thing. If not for a small lamp on a table and his knowledge of where Tarlach’s bed lay, he’d have been lost indeed. By the time he reached it, his eyes had adjusted more to the dim light. He could make out his father’s sleeping form, curled on its side.

And it was after midday. Usually by this time, Tarlach would have ridden over the fields with him.

Alarmed, Ronan touched Tarlach’s shoulder and shook it gently. “Father, the day is half wasted.”

“Get away.” Tarlach shook off Ronan’s hand. “Leave me die in peace.”

“Are you ill?” Ronan found his forehead beneath a tangled shock of hair. Save Tarlach’s blinking eyes, his face was all but covered in it.

With a low growl, Tarlach rolled to his back, the gnarled fist of his good arm drawn. “By the Devil’s own breath, I’ll have you—”

“Father, it’s Ronan.” Ronan tugged off the hat so that the dim flame on the bedside table illuminated his face.

Tarlach’s fierceness gave way to a sob. Half fear and half hope, it gurgled in his throat. He shrank into the coverlets.

“I’m no ghost.” Ronan reached for his trembling hand and squeezed it. “See? Flesh and bone, same as you.”

The old man tugged Ronan’s hand to his mouth, kissing it over and over, his groans wrenched from his shuddering chest. He rocked like a child. A drooling, distraught child.

It shook Ronan to the core that the angry, wounded bear Ronan had left behind at Witch’s End was reduced to this. The squalor and stench. The behavior. Had Tarlach gone totally mad?

Ronan had been prepared to face the bear. Not this.

He pulled Tarlach upright with the hand his father would not let go. At least his strength survived in that good arm. It felt awkward for Ronan to put his arm around the old man’s sob-racked shoulders, but he did so anyway. Ronan hated Tarlach’s obsession, but not the man who’d made him his pride and joy.

God, help me. I know not how to deal with this Tarlach.

Ronan heard no answer. Perhaps one had to know God longer than he for prompt replies. Helpless, he simply held Tarlach in his arms until the tears and sobs were exhausted.

Had Caden done this? As soon as Ronan thought it, he minded that the door had not been barred.

Vychan.
He was the one who could explain.

Tenderly, Ronan eased away from Tarlach, though he had to pry away the old man’s crooked fingers from his hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised his father. “I’m only going to send for Vychan. I am not going anywhere.”

Once free, Ronan donned the hat again and, opening the door, caught the attention of a passing servant. He changed his voice as best he could.

“Milord calls for Vychan. See to it, woman. Tarlach’s in a mood.”

The maid gave Ronan a hard look before acknowledging with a disdainful sniff. Clearly the hall staff thought themselves superior to the ones who worked the fields to fill all their bellies.

Behind him, Tarlach pulled himself upright with a rope affixed to a beam for such purpose and swung his bare legs over the edge of the leather-strapped bed. The effort cost him his breath. He held onto the rope as though he might fall back if he let it go. “Where … have you … been?”

“It’s a long story, Father. For now, just know that I am returned, hale and hearty.”

Hale and hearty enough. The wounds still let him know they were there if he twisted the wrong way or strained overmuch. But his strength had come back. He handled the sword he’d left behind with the field hand well enough.

“Are you well enough to get up and dress?”

Tarlach smiled. At least Ronan thought he did behind that matted bush of a beard. “I am now.”

After a short knock, Vychan let himself into the room. “Milord, you’re up,” he exclaimed, both surprised and pleased, by the sound of it.

“I want a celebration, Vychan. The biggest we’ve ever had.”

“Milady Rhianon is working on that as we speak, milord. But she will be pleased to know you are up and attending.”

Tarlach snorted. “Not the Pascal.
There’s
the reason.” He gestured to the shadows behind the door where Ronan stood.

From the look on Vychan’s thin face, Ronan knew the loyal steward had nothing to do with the attack. Pure joy lit upon it. “My lord Ronan!” And then the man grew speechless, a rare occasion in any circumstance, for Vychan always had an opinion.

“Vychan, it is good to see you again, my friend.” Ronan grasped his arm firmly. Thin, but wiry like the rest of him. “Now tell me, what has happened to my father, that he lies listless in bed after midday?”

“Your loss, milord. We thought you dead, murdered by the Gowrys.”

Stunned, Ronan spun to face his father. “You did this to yourself, when Glenarden needed you more than ever?”

“Your brother was more than eager to take over Glenarden,” Tarlach mumbled.

“Not to mention her ladyship,” Vychan added, mouth twisted awry.

“As they should have … under Father’s approval,” Ronan told them.

“Don’t lecture me, boy. My old heart has been broken,” Tarlach huffed. “And it may take some time for me to gather the pieces. So help me get dressed. I’ve a celebration to plan.”

“Father, I would rather no one know just yet.”

“But why, milord?” Vychan asked.

“Because someone attacked me and left me for dead. Someone whom, I think, rode with us at the Witch’s End.”

For a moment, Ronan thought Tarlach would sink back on the bed. But as the words penetrated, his jaw took on a familiar set. “Would you recognize him?”

Ronan’s shoulders dropped. “I was wounded by arrows before he openly attacked me. ’Twas his sword I watched, not his face. But for the interference of a cave hermit, he might have finished me. But the hermit’s dog and keen skill with a bow scared off the villain.”

Ronan purposely left out Brenna’s identity for the time being—and Faol’s. He still wasn’t sure of Tarlach’s state of mind.

“You can’t hide in here forever, Son.”

“Aye, he’s right about that,” Vychan chimed in.

True. Even if Ronan could stand the stench, he couldn’t remain undetected for long.

“Then let us keep a sharp eye out for any who seem overly astonished or upset at my resurrection from the dead,” he agreed at last. “Meanwhile, Vychan …”

“Milord?” the steward replied.

“Have this pigsty cleaned and aired. And a new mattress. And send a man to see Father bathed and shaven properly.”

“I’ll see to your father myself.”

“Do the two of you think I’m deaf?” Tarlach demanded from his bedside. As if to prove himself, he used the rope to pull himself to his feet, but his knees nearly buckled in spite of its support.

The old man had not lost his fight after all.

“Nay, Father, just weaker of body from lazing about and,” he added, waving his hand across his nose, “stronger of bouquet.”

“I’ll have my mustache.”

“I’ll personally see to it that you do, milord,” Vychan assured him.

“And tell that woman we’ll sup outside the hall tonight, for there’ll be no room for all who will want to see my son again.”

“I’ll have the bonfires lit,” Vychan said, “and help milady set up the guest table at the top of the steps for milord’s family and guests.” The steward seized Ronan’s hand, shaking it again and again. “This is a joyous day, to be sure. I’ll have your room restored to you as well.”

“Perhaps after the Pascal guests have left. I’m not oaf enough to displace Lady Rhianon without warning.”

By then, Ronan would have prepared his family and gone to fetch Brenna. Just the thought of his wife filled him to a completeness he’d never known. As she’d breathed new life into him, Ronan had no doubt that she would do the same to Glenarden.

Somewhere between This World and the Other World lies a place where the spirit may continue its journey forward or go back. Brenna did not want to go back to where danger and treachery awaited her and the tiny life within her womb. She could not see the child’s spirit, but held it with her own. The joy was tenable, lifting her into a light so brilliant, she could not see. Yet she knew.

She knew Ealga was there, embracing her and the babe. And there was her mother and father … without form, but surrounding her with all that they were. Their love renewed her, vanquishing her pain and fear. Then gently, firmly, they pushed her back toward the bruised and broken body waiting in This World.

“You must return, child.”

That voice. She knew it well. Not that of anyone she’d ever known on This Side, but the still, small voice that had been her companion for as long as she remembered. It was the voice of her Shepherd.

“Where have you been?” she shouted at Him. “Why did you let this happen to me and my baby?”

“I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.”

“And Faol? He did nothing wrong but love me.”

“A gift for a season lives forever in your mind. As for you and your child, you will be safe, for I have plans that you should prosper … and make my people prosper.”

“No.”

Never had she spoken so to the Shepherd, but it was too much. More than she could bear.

But the grasp of This World would not relent, no matter how many times Brenna’s consciousness recoiled from the sharp pain jabbing at her head. Nausea roiled from her belly to her throat. Every joint screamed. And then the agony let her go once more to drift, beyond physical sensation. But this time there was no loving embrace of light, only pain-free darkness. Her soul sank into it. She was back in This World to stay … at least for a season. And it didn’t feel as if her Shepherd had returned with her.