Lois Greiman (9 page)

“Me…” Merciful Mother. “Intentions?”

“Toward the girl.”

He glanced at the door, doubting he could reach it before her, despite her heft. “Listen…Cook, I’ve only just met—”

“She ain’t safe here,” she hissed, and thrust the milk bottle into his hand.

Keelan glanced nervously toward the door. Lambkin rose to her feet and stretched. “What do you mean, not—”

“Come now, lad.” Cook rested her backside on the bed beside him. He tilted precariously in her direction and turned the makeshift nipple toward Lambkin. “Surely you’re not as daft as all that.”

His skin felt prickly. “I fear ye may be wrong there.”

“I know the master is bent on healing you,” she said, leaning close, “but things ain’t just as they seem.”

He tightened his fingers on both bottles. “How do you mean?”

“Roland.” Her mouth pursed. “There’s evil in him.”

His ribs throbbed in unison with his head. “What makes you think so?”

“Just a feeling, an itching on the skin. Don’t get me wrong, the master, he loves Cherry like a daughter and will protect her whilst he can, but that Roland…” She shook her head. “He’s a bad one. Just waiting around till the master can’t control him no more.”

His stomach crunched dangerously. His mind was buzzing with a hundred scrambling thoughts. “What happened to Mead?”

Her eyes all but disappeared into the folds of her face when she scowled. “How do you know about him?”

“I heard Lord Chetfield tried to save him…that night…from the bull.”

She shook her head. “Mead, he was always getting himself in trouble. Don’t get me wrong. He was a good enough fellow, but he had a weakness for the girls. If they had bosoms he’d make a try for them. Thought himself quite handsome. And clever. Had him a plan to get rich.”

His scalp tingled. “What plan?”

“He never said. Whatever it was died with him. But he did say he knew something that someone would pay dear to keep quiet.”

The image of Mead beneath Chetfield’s staff burned in Keelan’s mind. “Maybe he told one of the other women.”

She shook her head. “Would have maybe, but things had changed in them last years.”

“What things?” he asked, but he knew. Suddenly, with awful clarity, he knew.

“Seems he spent time between the wrong legs,” she said.

“He had the clap,” Keelan rasped.

She watched him, eyes narrowed. “I thought I was the only one who knowed that.”

She was. At least Chetfield hadn’t known. Not until after Mead’s death, after it was too late and he felt his servant’s malady sear his own body.
“Ye tried to heal him,” Keelan said. His scalp felt prickly, his head hopelessly clear.

“I couldn’t do much for him though.” She glanced at the bottle he still held in his hand. “Maybe he needed some of that water of yours. You’re looking stronger. Got some color in your cheeks.”

“What of yer master?” he asked. “Did ye try to heal him? After he was gored.”

“He never wanted no help. The master, he’s a proud one.”

Answers were lining up like goslings in his mind. “Like his sire?” His voice sounded distant to his own ears. Lambkin slurped at the bottle.

“Similar I suspect. Though the old man was harder. And not so dapper. Nevertheless, he liked his jewels.”

“Jewels?” Keelan’s heart clenched up tight.

“Aye. He was terrible beat when he was found. Face all but gone. Wouldn’t have recognized him but for the ring he always wore.”

“They left his ring?” His voice was a monotone.

“Constable must have arrived before he could take it, they said.”

He nodded, though it was difficult to manage even that. “But the brigand was never caught?”

“No. Never was. Run off, I’m told.”

“So you were here at Crevan House even then.”

“Been here for near thirty years. No fatter than you when I first come.”

“And Mead?”

“He wasn’t fat neither.”

Keelan forced a smile. “But he was here, when the old master died. He was here?”

“Sure. Weren’t but ten years ago. Old Mead, he was full of vinegar back then, before his…misfortune.”

“And what was Lord Chetfield like when he was young?”

She shook her head. “I never met the young master. He only came some weeks after the old man’s death. He grew up elsewhere.”

Lambkin abandoned the bottle and poked Keelan’s hand.

“Where did he live before Crevan House?” Keelan asked, voice taut.

“Bottle’s empty,” Cook said.

“Did ye know his mother a’tall?”

“You ask a mighty lot of questions about the master,” she said, “when you should be wondering about Roland. You must have seen the way he looks at our Charity.”

“She’s a bonny lass. Any man would look.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m thinking you ain’t as daft as you seem.”

He leaned his head back against the pillows, trying to resist the thoughts that buzzed through his mind. “Ye might well be surprised.”

“I seldom am. You’ve got a good mind. A good mind and a good heart,” she said, and hoisted herself laboriously to her feet.

“Ye’re wrong,” he said, and turned his back to her and the truth.

D
ays passed. Nightmares lingered. Dreams of the past, the present, the future, all muddled together. Iona’s eyes, scared, pleading. Iona’s grave…changing into Charity’s. Keelan woke with a start, sweating, breathing hard.

“Charity.” He said her name aloud, and suddenly he was out of bed, needing to warn her. To tell her the truth, but in that instant she breezed through the door.

“Angel. Angel luv.” She hurried toward him, dark gown rustling. “What’s amiss?”

“Ye died,” he breathed.

“No. No. All is well.” Reaching up, she smoothed his hair gently back from his brow. “’Twas naught but a dream. I am fine. Your lamb is fine.” She nodded toward the bed. Lambkin gazed at him with adoring eyes. “As are you. Healing amazing well. See.” She raised his hand
with her own. The abraded skin looked pink and healthy. She kissed his knuckles. “Soon you’ll be as right as rain. Strong as ever you were.”

He shook his head. “I was never strong.”

Her smile was sweetness itself. “What’s this nonsense? You saved Lambkin from the beasties what attacked you. Saved her at your own peril.”

Her eyes shone like polished amber. Her smile was like the sun, warm and kindly in her bright fairy’s face.

“Leave here,” Keelan whispered.

Her expression clouded. “What’s that?”

He shook his head, a thousand truths rushing in at once. “Things are na what they seem, lass. Ye are na safe. Ye must—”

“Shh,” she hissed, and then he heard the footsteps.

His heart faltered and clenched as Chetfield stepped into the room. “Mr. MacLeod,” he said. His tone was level, but his eyes were flat. Flat and dead. “Is there some trouble here?” Malevolence was as heavy as sin, saturating the very air they breathed.

Danger. It was all around him, closing off his air, but Charity squeezed his hand. “I think he was dreaming again, Master,” she said.

Keelan stared at her sunny face. Didn’t she see
the danger? Couldn’t she feel it? She loosened her grip on his fingers, but he held tight for an instant, desperately longing to tell her the truth, to save her from them, from himself, from the world.

The old man nodded. “Indeed.”

“’Cuz he spoke of danger and the like.” She shook her head and tugged her fingers from his grasp. “You can hardly blame him though, I suspect,” she added, and shuddered. “After what he’s been through with the beasties and all.”

Run
, Keelan wanted to say.
Run while you can
. But he couldn’t take his gaze from the baron.

As for Chetfield, he stood absolutely still, studying Keelan’s face.

“His wounds is healing surprising well, though, don’t you think, Master?”

The old man’s eyes were narrowed in thought.

“But how about you?” she asked, and reaching out, touched the other’s arm. “You’re looking a mite peaked yourself. Is your hip hurting you again?”

The intensity of the old man’s attention dimmed as he turned toward Charity. Keelan felt relief flood through him.

“Poor thing.” She tsked. “Taking care of the lot of us when you’re hurting yourself.”

Chetfield stared at her a moment, eyes narrowed, then lifted his lips in the semblance of a smile. “A man cannot worry about something so mundane as pain when you are in the room, sweet Charity. Indeed, I am certain it was the sound of your dulcet voice and nothing else that has brought our young visitor from the brink of death.

“I am right, am I not, Mr. MacLeod? It is her voice and nothing else?” He turned slowly back toward Keelan, but the girl was speaking again.

“Well, actually, there is more,” she said, flickering her gaze toward Keelan and blushing.

Chetfield shifted his attention back to her. The room was as silent as death.

Fie me
, Keelan thought, remembering the kiss they’d shared, remembering the healing feel of her skin against his, and realizing that healing might well be the death of him.

“Oh?” The old man’s face was set in expressionless lines.

Charity laughed. “Me smile might be passing fair, but it can’t hold no candle to Cook’s verbena tonic. There now, Master Chetfield…” She tsked. “You look as tired as me mum’s Myrtle. You’d best lie down. I’ll have Cook send something up to ease your pain as soon as ever she can.”

He was silent a moment as if searching for some evil in her words, but finally he spoke. “You are too kind, my dear,” he said, and turned slowly toward Keelan. “But I’ve heard our young visitor here has some skill in healing.”

Her brows shot up. “Angel?”

“Yes. Did you not hear? He healed the lamb with nothing more than the touch of his hands.”

“Lambkin?” She scowled, shifting her gaze toward the bed.

“Marvelous, is it not? I thought, perhaps, he might be able to assist me.”

So the true game had begun, Keelan thought. But Chetfield was a far more powerful adversary even than imagined. Darker, crueler, with unspeakable atrocities behind him.

“You’re a healer?” she asked.

Keelan turned toward her, finding he had no wish to lie. Strange indeed, for lies had been his faithful companions since the day he stepped from darkness. Yet suddenly he had an urgent need to tell her all, to win her heart on the truth alone. “Some think so,” he said instead.

“You doubt?” asked the old man, and there was something in his tone, something low and deadly.

Keelan caught himself, hedged carefully. “I’ve na wish to brag to the lass,” he said.

“Odd,” countered the old man, and smiled grimly. “Most do.”

“You can heal with your touch?” she asked.

No. ’Twas all a lie
, he wanted to say. There were those who truly had been blessed with the gift of healing. Those who had the power of wild beasts in their hands. Those who were as indestructible as granite. As for himself, he received scattered pieces of dreams he could no longer separate from reality. He’d rather have a stick in the eye.

“’Tis a magical gift then,” Charity said.

Chetfield chuckled. “I fear I do not believe in magic, but when one becomes as ancient as I, one cannot afford to rule out any possibilities.”

“Master,” Charity chided, and gently took his arm. “You are hardly ancient.”

Keelan closed his eyes, wishing with everything in him that he could believe her words.

“I will expect you in my chamber within the hour. If you’ve magic in your hands, boy, bring it along,” said Chetfield, and turned away, taking the girl with him.

She smiled, hand thrust through the crook in his arm. “I’ll have Cook brew your favorite tea, and when you wake you can dine…” Her words trailed off.

Keelan sat down. On a chair near the door, Mrs. Graves had left a pile of discarded gar
ments for him, brown breeches, a frayed tunic, and a dark coat. ’Twould hurt like the devil to don them, but there was no time to waste now. His herbs had been lost with his sporran. But the fat-bottomed bottle from his dreams remained beneath his bed. In a moment he held it in his hand.

Perhaps it truly was a healing potion. Or perhaps it would get him killed.

Chetfield’s chambers were dark and airless and smelled of things long forgotten. He lay so still upon his scarlet-draped bed that for a moment Keelan thought he might well be dead. He hoped such was the case. But finally he noticed the rise of the old man’s chest beneath his silver-shot waistcoat and knew the lecherous baron had defied death one more day and merely slept.

Keelan glanced about the room. Was the treasure here? ’Twould make sense, of course. Keep it close. Keep it safe.

An ancient leather chest stood in the corner. Perhaps it was there. Almost within reach. Maybe now was the time to act. To be bold. No more cowardice. No more doubt. Just action. Vengeance.

“’Tis best not to delay.”

Keelan’s nerves jumped at the sound of the old man’s voice. The teacup bobbled in his hand, but he managed, just barely, to keep his head, to turn slowly toward the bed.

“And what is it I should not delay, me lord?”

Chetfield didn’t lift his head, but turned it slightly, golden eyes gleaming in the dimness. “You were thinking of robbing me.”

Panic flared in Keelan’s soul. But he calmed it. Soothed it. “Old habits,” he said, and forced himself to step toward the four-poster bed, though it made his throat ache and his body tremble to do so. “They do indeed die hard.”

A smile flickered across the baron’s mismatched face. “I suggest you kill them soon, boy,” he said, “before they kill
you
.”

Keelan took another step forward and grinned, playing his act with desperate care. “I be bludgeoning them even now.”

“Tell me, Mr. MacLeod…” Chetfield said, and sat up, but strangely, as if he were pulled by cords, effortlessly, sitting straight on his bed without bending so much as a knee. “What did you hope to gain here at Crevan House?”

“Not broken ribs and a blinded eye,” he said, and dropped onto the mattress, though his muscles quivered as he did so.

Chetfield raised his brows at the audacious
move. “Then perhaps you should have stayed clear of my estate.”

“The thought has occurred to me,” Keelan admitted, and Chetfield chuckled.

“There is nothing like a few broken bones to clear a man’s head, aye?”

Reaching out, Keelan handed over the tea.

Chetfield raised a brow. “Are you hoping to poison me, boy?”

“And be left alone with yon beasties?” Keelan asked, tilting his head toward the world at large.

Chetfield stared for a moment, then took a sip. But if he tasted anything amiss, it did not show in his face. “I believe you have Bear and Frankie quite terrified.”

“Roland, on the other hand, may yet eat me alive.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. They all hope to see you dead. ’Tis why I hired the lot of them. They have no morals whatsoever. But your trick with the lamb…” He nodded, eyes sharp. “It has them all a bit unnerved, I believe.”

Keelan said nothing. Chetfield smiled, teacup held just so, pinky finger raised delicately.

“So you will not disavow your wild tale? You still say you are a healer?”

“As your Charity said,” Keelan began, and
shrugged. “’Tis the gift of magic. ’Tis na something I can control.”

“Even if your life is forfeit?”

“I think you know something of gifts, Chetfield.”

“Oh?” The ancient brows lifted.

Keelan’s nerves rattled, but he braced his hands against the mattress and held himself steady. “Ye are well past sixty years, I would guess?” he said, tone casual against the thrumming questions in his head. “Surely in that time ye have learned that gifts are freely given and not taken by force.”

“On the contrary, I have found that most everything can be taken by force.”

“Not this.”

Chetfield narrowed his eyes, watching. “Perhaps,” he said as he finished his tea and lay back down. “So we will now see whether you tell the truth…” He smiled. “Or whether you will die screaming.”

Dark images shrieked through Keelan’s mind. His father’s torment, his mother’s gamble. He had not wanted that kind of love. Had not asked. Had not deserved.

“You remind me of someone,” Chetfield said. His voice was soft, his head tilted a little. “What is your true name, boy?”

“I have already told ye.”

Chetfield smiled, the expression sweet, or mad. “And now you will tell me the truth.”

Keelan forced a shrug. “Ye can rip me piece from piece. It would na change who I be.”

“And who is that?”

“A fatherless whelp does na oft come with a pedigree.”

“Ahh, I remember now. Your mother was a witch.”

Keelan’s gut twisted, but he kept his expression carefully bland. “So the village lads said.”

Chetfield tsked. “Children can be so cruel.”

He shrugged. “Mayhap it’s for the best.”

The old man raised one brow.

“In truth, yer beasties’ ministrations were little more than a Sunday stroll by comparison.”

“I’ll have to make certain the lads apply more zeal next time.”

“I plan to make certain there is na next time.”

“Really? And how do you hope to accomplish that?”

Keelan shrugged, held his breath. “By curing you of the clap.”

The room went silent for a moment, then: “How did you know?”

“Ye dunna believe I am a seer?”

Chetfield stared, lids heavy over eerie eyes. “It is true that I have seen stranger things, but I rather doubt—”

“Tell me of them,” Keelan suggested.

For a moment it almost seemed that he would do just that, but then he smiled knowingly. “So you intend to heal me, do you?”

“Or make you believe as much.”

The old man stared at him a moment, then laughed out loud. “You amuse me, lad. Indeed you do. I may actually dislike killing you.”

Keelan forced a shrug. “We all must die sometime.”

Chetfield tilted his head. The motion was almost coquettish. “Must we?”

Keelan’s scalp tingled madly, but he kept his tone casual. “Am I wrong yet again?”

“It seems a bit difficult to believe that a thief is also a healer.”

“The Christ was a carpenter.”

“Comparing yourself to Jesus Christ, Highlander?”

“Mayhap I should say that Lucifer was once a favored angel.”

“So we shall see,” he said, “whether you are an angel or the devil himself.”

“Which would ye prefer?” Keelan asked, and noticed that the old lord’s lids had dropped
sleepily. Was it Toft’s tonic? Or was it a ploy? Either way, Keelan could delay no longer. Though his skin crawled at the thought of touching the uncanny baron, he raised his hands, palms out, fingers spread.

“I’ve met the devil,” said Chetfield. His tone was muzzy. “Indeed, we got on quite well.”

Reaching out, Keelan skimmed his hand slowly above the oddly skewed features.

The old man stared at him, eyes dead. “’Tis my rod that needs healing, boy. Not my head.”

“Quiet.”

Surprisingly, he did as told. Keelan rocked back, rolled up his eyes, and hummed.

For what seemed a lifetime, the old man stared at him, but finally the eerie eyes fell closed, the head tilted toward the wall, the mouth became lax.

Keelan stopped the motion of his hands. Nothing stirred. He cut his eyes toward the leather chest. ’Twas no more than three strides away, waiting, taunting. And time was running short.