Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (30 page)

“But you said you fought.”

“Allied with other lairds, a few miles east of here, in the Lowlands.”

As they passed through the village, she heard hushed whispers from a group of people standing before a small tavern. They stared at her and her escort warily.

“Ye see,” a voice whispered harshly, “I told ye they were sent tae fetch a healer.”

“The MacGrigor be cursed.”

“He made a deal with the devil tae escape the English.”

“Be silent,” another said, crossing himself, “lest ye call the Demon Laird’s attention here. Old man Liam died in the night; it is said the curse caused him tae fall ill.”

Demon Laird?
Lia wondered, her gut coiling. This was the second time she had heard the name. She chided herself. She should not believe in such superstitious nonsense. She glanced at Connell and Robert.

They looked at each other a long moment and said nothing, but Lia clearly saw the concern in their expressions.

She could not stop the dread that rose within her. What truly awaited her in MacGrigor’s keep?

HHH

Ronan staggered from his bed and caught himself on the bedpost before he toppled over. Sweat beaded on his brow and trickled down his face. He had to get out of here. His solar had become nothing more than another prison. But he did not dare call on the servants for assistance. They were terrified of him. His heart twisted in pain and he slumped against the bedpost. What did it matter? All of his fighting to survive, and for what? The terror of his people? How could they fear him so terribly after all he had done to prove that he could lead the clan as well as his father had?

He squeezed his eyes closed, bitter resentment rising within him.

Nay!
his heart cried. His people did not deserve his anger. Their reaction was completely natural. It was the English who had done this to him; it was the English who deserved his hatred. By God, he would live. He would survive this and would not rest until they paid in blood.

He staggered to his chest and managed to haul on his trews. Not bothering with a tunic, he grabbed his cloak and threw it over his shoulders. Lurching to the door, he stepped out, grateful it was night and he could escape his solar for a brief time without anyone the wiser.

HHH

They crested a rise and Connell stopped his mount. Despite the late afternoon, the mist still hung thick in the air. Summer in the highlands, they had told her. Lia inhaled deeply. Such a pleasant scent, the heather around her. Smoke from hearth fires was also heavy. A beautiful village, its buildings made of wattle and daub, lay before her. She could tell it was a prosperous community, untouched yet by the war. But the streets were surprisingly empty and the market quiet. The few who did remain on the street hurried about their business with their heads down, stealing only furtive glances at her as Connell and Robert led her through the streets.

“There we be, lassie,” Connell said and pointed at a massive stone keep that appeared before them in the distance.

She swallowed hard, wondering why trepidation rose so powerfully within her.

They rode down the main street of the village. One woman stepped out of a building and stopped short when she saw them. Lia surmised by her clothing that she was a servant, but the weave of the cloth she wore was of fine make. Yet Lia’s eyes narrowed. The woman’s apron was stained with dirt and blood. It took only an instant for Lia to realize the woman tended to the sick.

The woman appeared to take a breath to call out to them but seemed to think better of it and bit it back.

Lia was about to ask Connell to stop when he barked a sharp order and startled her.

“Ho, there!”

Only then did Lia realize the castle was preparing to close the gates for the night. Already? The sun had not yet set and church bells had not rung for Compline.

The guard on the battlement called Connell’s name and waved. Two more, standing beside the closing gates, struggled to stop their swing, bidding greeting to both Connell and Robert. The two men urged their horses into a trot. Lia followed, no longer needing a lead for her own horse. They rode through the gates and Lia stared up at the giant keep. She had never seen a castle this closely before.

The gates closed behind her as she dismounted. Connell offered his arm and Lia summoned her courage. He gave her the lead walking up the narrow stairs into the keep. Upon entering, she looked around and shivered, waiting for Connell and Robert to join her.

“Are all castles this dark?” she asked, her voice a bare whisper.

Connell looked around, a worried frown marring his brow. “Nay,” he said, his voice matching hers. “’Twas not like this when we left.”

“It’s cold,” she murmured, shivering.

“It can get a wee bit dark and drafty,” Robert said. “But usually in winter, and it never be like this in summer.”

A single torch guttered in a wall stanchion on her right. On her left, barely visible was a stairwell disappearing into the blackness. A chill breath of air lifted the hairs on her arm and the silence that greeted her pricked the gooseflesh crawling down her spine. Her own breathing rattled in her ears, and her heartbeat thundered against her ribs. Behind her, the door to the keep boomed shut and she turned slightly to her left, dismayed to see her only means of escape blocked by a heavy oak door.

“Saints be merciful,” Robert muttered. “What has happened here?”

“I dinna ken,” Connell said. “Perhaps we should find Aidan.”

“We should take the lassie directly tae the MacGrigor.”

“Nay, something is verra wrong here.”

“At least the wench didna steal all of the gold that my brother sent with ye,” a deep voice whispered behind her.

Lia’s heart threatened to stop. She jumped and spun then blinked. In the dark stairwell, a giant of a man seemed to materialize out of the blackness, heavily cloaked, his cowl pulled low. He stepped forward into the dim light of the torch, but she could not see his face.

“MacGrigor?” Robert asked in shock. “Ye . . . ye are recovered? We feared ye would not survive long enough for us tae fetch the healer.”

“Ye fool,” MacGrigor snarled. “How dare ye bring an Englishwoman here?”

“But she is a healer.”

Lia swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “Aye,” she said, praying her voice didn’t shake. “I heard you had need of one.”

He took a second step forward, the torchlight falling on his face. Lia’s heart hesitated again but for an entirely different reason. She was a tall woman, but she felt as if she had to crane her neck to look up at him. Steel-gray eyes gazed at her, smoldering in fury. His long black hair framed his face perfectly under the cowl of his cloak. He had a broad forehead and high, prominent cheekbones. His jaw was strong and proud, although his nose appeared to have been recently broken. His lips were full and sensuous but pressed in a hard line. Underneath the volumes of fabric of his cloak, his massive shoulders and chest filled her vision.

Lia drew a deep breath, a tremor passing through her.

“As ye can see,” he whispered, his voice soft but deadly in its power, “I dinna need a healer any longer.”

She studied him closely, noting his broken nose was not the only recent injury he had received. Small white patches of newly healed flesh marred his perfect face. They would probably fade to unnoticeable scars, but Lia’s eyes narrowed, seeing darker lines of not quite healed wounds around his throat. They continued downward until they disappeared under his tunic. He leaned heavily on a cane. The clansmen had been right. The English had tortured their laird. No wonder he didn’t want her in his home.

“I understand,” she said, her voice firm with conviction. “But know this. In the matters of healing there is no nationality, no rich or poor, no noble or serf; I help everyone as I am able.”

MacGrigor studied her a moment, as if trying to divine the truthfulness of her words. “I dinna want ye in my home.”

“MacGrigor—” Connell tried.

“Be silent!” he snapped, his eyes never leaving Lia. “Ye will remain only one night. Men will take ye back in the morning.”

Her stomach clenched and tears pushed forward in her eyes, but she refused to shed them. She had nowhere to go.

“MacGrigor, nay,” Robert said. “Ye canna do that tae the lass.”

Lia blinked at him in shock and noticed MacGrigor doing the same thing.

“Have ye been so long absent ye have forgotten who I am?” MacGrigor growled.

“Nay,” Robert said, ducking his head. “The lassie canna return. If the English realize she came here, she will be hanged.”

MacGrigor’s brow furrowed. “Have they banished ye?” he snapped.

Lia’s anger pricked. Did he judge her so harshly simply because she was English? But she clamped her jaw closed. She’d not justify the comment with a response.

MacGrigor arched an eyebrow at her. He looked at her a long moment, his eyes narrowing. Then his expression changed subtly. His gaze took on a distant stare, as if those steel-gray eyes could see right through her. He glowered, and for an instant, she thought he peered into her soul, trying to determine her true purpose. The muscles in his face tightened and his mouth pressed into a harder line, tugging downward at the corners, giving him a vicious expression. He did not move; he did not blink.

A whisper of fear cut through her. She took an involuntary step backward.

His pupils dilated alarmingly.

Lia stared at him, something stirring in her memory. She had seen a similar expression before.

MacGrigor blinked rapidly and his eyes returned to normal. For a long moment, he did not move. Abruptly, he shook his head as if trying to clear it then rubbed his eyes and swayed.

Lia automatically stepped forward and gripped his shoulder. “Easy,” she whispered.

He recoiled violently. “Dinna touch me, Sassenach!”

Lia should have been terrified of him, but she wasn’t. She focused on his actions completely, correlating what she had just witnessed to what she had learned under Sueta’s tutelage.

“You are wrong,” she said softly. “You have great need of a healer.”

He curled his lip at her. “Ye will leave in the morning.”

He turned on his heel and disappeared back up the stairs.

R
onan returned to his solar, slamming the door shut behind him, and staggered into a chair. He barely caught himself, his vision blurring. His body shook uncontrollably and pain roared within him. He dropped his cane and struggled to adjust himself in the chair before he toppled from it. His breath rattled and he fought to get his limbs to obey him.

God’s wounds! Why had Aidan brought a Sassenach here?

Ronan still battled to catch his breath. He had to regain control of himself. He had been mortified he had suffered another blackout and the Sassenach had witnessed it.

You have great need of a healer.

He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter.

In the dark corners of his mind, he heard le March’s laughter echo. Ronan squeezed his eyes closed, suddenly feeling as if his sanity hung by a thread. He forced his thoughts away from the nightmare, but they only turned back to the Sassenach.

She was surprisingly tall with rich, deep auburn hair that fell about her shoulders in thick waves. It was an absolute shame that such a beautiful lass with sparkling hazel eyes was English.

Ronan caught his thoughts and growled a curse. Surely his sanity had cracked. She was gangly and much too tall, coming to the bottom of his chin. Her shoulders were too broad and her arms too strong. But even as the thought hit him, he knew why. No doubt she had to be strong to carry the burden of the sick and wounded.

A knock sounded on his door.

“Who is it?” he snarled, squeezing his eyes closed. His fingers rubbed his temples.
Nay, please no’ another headache. Please.

Aidan opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it firmly behind him. “What in the hell did ye do?”

“What did I do?” Ronan asked, his rage flaring so hot he saw red for a moment. “How could ye allow a Sassenach tae set foot in our home?”

“She is a healer.”

“She is English,” Ronan lurched to his feet. He took a step toward the wine bottle on the table and staggered.

Aidan lunged to his side and caught Ronan’s arm before he fell. “Easy, Ronan,” he said, his anger fading. “Sit, I will get the wine.”

Ronan was suddenly too weary to argue. He sat and rested his head in his hand, trying to ignore how badly it shook. “She leaves on the morrow.”

“Ronan—”

He glared at Aidan as his brother handed him the cup.

Aidan clenched his teeth and drew a deep breath. “All right, I dinna want ye vexed by this. I will send her away in the morning.”

Ronan nodded, only slightly mollified.

Aidan refused to look at him while he poured his own cup of wine and sat at the table. “I have some good news.”

Ronan studied him for a moment. He knew when his brother was trying to cheer him, but he decided to go along with it. “I can certainly use some.”

“The crops are doing well this year. After this approaching harvest, we shouldna have tae purchase grain.”

Ronan felt himself relaxing a bit. “Last year’s harvest is barely enough tae keep those in the castle fed. This is good news. Ye’d think I was buyin’ the king’s own grain for what the MacLaren charged for it.”

“Aye, but harvests were short all through the land last year. We were lucky tae purchase it at all.” Aidan took another drink from his cup but still refused to look at his brother.

“What is it ye arena tellin’ me?” Ronan growled.

“My birds . . . I dinna like the songs they are singing.”

Ronan stiffened, his anger over the Sassenach immediately fading and a new worry surging forward. Aidan had turned his childhood talent at eavesdropping into an art and had also developed an uncanny knack for identifying people with gifts similar to his own. Aidan’s birds were individuals in other clans who reported happenings and rumors to him, and Ronan made certain they were paid well.

“What songs be they?”

“Rumblings from Clan Campbell.”

Ronan clenched his fists.

“It seems the MacGrigor land the Bruce’s father gave Campbell years ago be not enough. Now he wants all of it.”

Although very young at the time, Ronan clearly remembered his da’s fury at what Robert Bruce had done. Black rage settled in the pit of Ronan’s belly, seething with coiled power.

“Ronan, I am hesitant tae tell ye. Laird Campbell has also heard the rumors of the Demon Laird. I worry he may think now is the time tae increase his holdings by once again stealing ours.”

Ronan’s fist slammed into the table. “Do ye ken his plan?”

“Brother—”

“Do ye ken his plan?”

“Nay, Ronan, ’tis only a chorus of a song we’ve heard before.”

Ronan locked Aidan in his gaze. “Ye tell me the moment ye hear a verse.”

Aidan looked at him a long moment, swallowed hard, and nodded.

HHH

Lia huddled under a thin wool blanket on an even thinner straw pallet, shivering violently. She supposed she should be grateful MacGrigor hadn’t ordered her thrown into the dungeon for the night. She was exhausted. She knew it would be a miracle if she was able to stand in the morning after sleeping on the cold stone floor. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to find sleep, but it eluded her, and tears trickled down her cheeks. Why had this happened?

Lia understood why MacGrigor didn’t want her in his home after what the English had done to him. Resentment grew within her. He didn’t know her but judged her simply because of her heritage, a heritage she wasn’t even sure she possessed. What right did he claim to do that? She did not judge him because he was a Scotsman. She caught her thoughts and forced down her irritation. He had suffered terribly and his distrust of the English was to be expected. Instead of proving him right, determination grew within her to prove him wrong. But how could she since he would force her to leave? What was she to do? At dawn, she would be sent back to England with nowhere to go. She bit back a sob, not wishing to acknowledge the fear coiling within her.

Once again, she would be lost and alone on the streets.

Instead, she focused her thoughts on MacGrigor and what she had witnessed this night. No wonder they called him the Demon Laird. She had treated many people with the falling-down sickness, especially after church exorcisms had failed. She couldn’t be certain MacGrigor had this illness, not until she could observe him, but something in her heart told her she wasn’t wrong. It was a shame, really. The fact that MacGrigor had not only freed himself from his brutal captors but had at least partially recovered in the time it took his men to find her and bring her to Scotland said much for his strength of soul.

He was also one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen in her life. That thought startled her, but she couldn’t rid her mind’s eye of his rugged features and intense gray eyes. Even with the faint scars he bore, he was extraordinary . . . and tall . . . she had grown so accustomed to looking most men dead in the eye that she found it unusual to have to look up at one.

If only he didn’t stare at her as if she were nothing more than a piece of offal needing to be scraped from his boot. Lia scoffed at herself. What was she doing? She was a gangly woman whose shoulders were too wide and whose arms were too bulky from moving sick and wounded . . . and she was English, no less. No wonder MacGrigor didn’t want her in his home.

HHH

It seemed like only moments later when a maid shook her awake. “Milady,” she whispered harshly.

Lia blinked open her eyes. When had she fallen asleep? “What is it?”

The young woman looked at her, her eyes wide with fear. “It . . . it is said ye ken the healing arts.”

Lia sat up, rubbing her eyes and shaking terribly with cold. “Aye,” she said and her vision finally focused. The young woman looked familiar. Then Lia placed her. “I saw you on the street when I arrived. Your apron had blood on it.”

The woman nodded and picked up a cup. “Mulled wine. Ye are chilled tae the bone.”

“Thank you,” Lia said as she wrapped her fingers around it and gratefully drank the warm liquid.

“Please, there are people in the village. We need yer help.”

Lia swallowed hard, knowing the MacGrigor did not wish her to remain. “What’s wrong?”

The woman looked around as if terrified someone would hear her, then she crossed herself. “’Tis the Demon Laird’s curse,” she whispered. “Two more died last night. Pray, milady, we need ye.”

Again the mention of a curse? What in the holy mother’s name was going on? “Where are they?”

“Come with me, please.”

Lia drained her cup, her muscles protesting every movement, then she rose and followed the maid.

“What is your name?” Lia asked.

“Alba. Quickly, milady, please.”

“Lia, please. I am only a healer, not nobility.”

Alba looked at her, startled, then gave her a timid smile. “As ye wish.” She led Lia to a room well away from the kitchen. Lia entered and stopped short. The small room had ten people in it and was filled to capacity. Young and old, and judging by the look of their clothing, serf, farmer, and merchant. Some lay huddled on thin pallets on the floor, others sat on benches or against the walls. Their faces were pallid; many clutched at their stomachs, moaning in pain.

Lia stood in shock for a moment. “They’re all from the village?”

“Aye, they heard ye were here. There are more, but they are too weak or too frightened tae come tae ye.”

“More?”

Alba nodded, tears in her eyes. “Marta and I, we do our best, but I ken so little of healing.”

Lia finally pulled her wits about her. “The chests I brought. I need someone to fetch them.”

“As ye will, milady.” Alba looked to two older boys; they sprinted off.

Lia watched them go and a puzzled frown creased her brow. “Are you a servant in the castle, Alba?”

“Aye. But I help Marta when she has need of me.”

“Who in the castle is ill?”

“No one, milady.”

The two boys returned with Lia’s chests.

“Careful,” Lia said stepping forward. “Alba, I need a table for these.”

“Of course.” She quickly began to clear one off, and the boys placed the chests on it.

“Thank you. All right, Alba, tell the cook to put a large pot of water on to boil, and we need the cleanest cloths we can find. I don’t care what they are, but they must be clean.”

“Aye,” Alba hurried away and Lia quickly rolled the sleeves of her chemise up and bound them with ties to keep them out of the way.

She turned to her first patient, a young lad of about ten, fit and strong. He had blond hair, and his blue eyes were dull with pain. “What is your name?” Lia asked, smiling reassuringly.

“William. Connell is my da.”

“Connell?” she asked, now seeing the resemblance. “He is the one who fetched me.”

William gave her a weak smile, sweat rolling down his face.

Lia felt his forehead and cringed against his high fever. “Your stomach hurts?”

“Aye, I fear I canna keep any food down.”

“How long?”

“Two days.”

“Even soup?”

“Even water willna stay in my gut, milady.”

“Have you told your father?”

The boy shook his head. “I havena seen him yet. His duties at the castle keep him away much of the time.”

Lia looked back at the two boys who had retrieved her chests. “Fetch Connell, please. I wish to speak with him.”

One lad nodded, but before he darted away, Lia stopped him. “Wait, do you have friends who are not ill?’

“Aye,” the boy said.

“Mayhap they would be willing to help fetch and carry? I fear with this many people I will be running you boys ragged.”

“They are clansmen,” the boy said. “If they arena kin tae a MacGrigor, then they be married or allied tae one. I will bring my friends. They will help.”

“Thank you.”

While Lia waited for Connell, she moved on to the next patient. He was an older man but still very much in his prime, and just like William, he had a high fever, aching stomach, and could not keep food down. The more Lia spoke to people, the more worried she became. There were only two who complained of different ailments; the rest were all the same.

Connell appeared in the door, looking around the room in concern with Robert only a step behind. He spotted William and immediately went to his side, crouching before him.

“William? What is wrong?”

“Forgive me, Da. Mum said she didna wish tae worry ye.”

Lia stepped up next to him. “Your mother, is she sick too?”

“Aye,” William replied grimacing. “But she be too afraid tae come tae the castle.”

“What be this, lass?” Connell asked her as he looked around the room, his eyes wide. “Some sort of plague?”

“I do not yet know,” Lia replied. “But Alba said there are many more in the village who are sick. With William being your son, I thought you should know.”

“Thank ye, lassie. My wife bides her time at her small shop in the village, selling wool and dyed threads. My duties here at the castle keep me away far too much. I will fetch her here.”

Lia bit her lip. Had Connell so quickly forgotten the MacGrigor’s order?

As Connell strode off, his worry plain on his face, Robert fell in step beside him. “Connell, I spoke with Aidan this morn.” They disappeared through the door, and Lia could no longer hear his words.

She needed to fetch her journal and begin making notes on the people she helped. With so many already here, and knowing more would be coming, if she didn’t start now, she’d never keep them all straight.

She turned to her medicant chests and nearly ran into a massive form standing behind her. She squeaked and jumped backward, fearing MacGrigor would order her to leave forthwith. But the giant man standing before her was not MacGrigor, even though he looked remarkably like him. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. No injuries, no heavy cowl covering his face. In fact, he was a couple of inches shorter than MacGrigor, his eyes a deeper blue, and his long, dark hair a shade lighter, tied with a strip of leather at the back of his head. But his body was just as strong and his features almost as handsome.

“Forgive me,” he said softly. “I didna mean tae startle ye.”

She blinked in surprise. Definitely not MacGrigor. “Who—”