Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (34 page)

“Connell,” MacGrigor snapped. “She is an English spy.” He grabbed the precious sheets from her journal. “She writes cyphers so we canna divine her purpose.” He threw the papers, scattering them across the table and floor.

“Nay,” Lia moaned. The sheets were so fragile.
Years of knowledge! Please don’t let them be destroyed. Please!

Connell watched the sheets flutter to the flagstones at his feet. He looked at MacGrigor, his face pale. “That be the life of my son ye be throwin’ about.”

“It is nothing but a report to her lord. She just admitted she canna read.”

“What is reading but memorized scribbles on vellum?” Lia snapped. “Sueta did not have time to teach me, but she insisted I keep a journal of healing. This was the best I could do. It does not make sense to you, but it makes sense to me.”

“Aye, and to yer employer. How much is le March paying ye?”

“Who?”

“MacGrigor, stop this,” Connell barked. “My son’s life hangs in the balance.”

“How do ye ken she didna kill yer brother . . . yer wife?”

Connell’s throat worked as he swallowed. “Because I saw how hard she fought to save them.”

Lia bowed her head, fighting against tears.

“Ye werena here, MacGrigor, ye didna see what I saw. Ye judge what ye dinna ken. Just like others have judged ye.”

MacGrigor flinched and released her arm.

Lia scrambled after the sheets of her journal.

MacGrigor turned as if to leave.

“So ye run now?” Connell growled.

MacGrigor hesitated and glanced over his shoulder. “Mind yer place, I am still yer laird.”

“Who are ye?” Connell snapped.

“What?” The word wasn’t a question, it was a warning.

“Who are ye?” Connell’s voice cracked. He drew a steadying breath into his lungs. “The MacGrigor I ken didna stand by and watch. He removed his tunic and shouldered the heavy burden with the next man. He didna mind the dirt. He didna shy away from blood or sweat. When the floods came, he stood up to his knees in mud and carried four sandbags at a time when other men could heft only two. When the fire nearly burned down the village, I saw a man rip away tinder as it ignited and suffer burns on his hands. I watched a laird work harder, longer, and carry more than anyone else. I saw a man fight for what he held dear, he didna run from it, he didna quail. And when all was said and done, he laughed with us, he cried with us, and he raised a mug with those who had stood by his side.” Connell drew a deep breath. “That is the laird I serve, that is the man I call friend.”

Lia paused in picking up her sheets of vellum and studied MacGrigor. He remained with his back to Connell, his head bowed and his eyes squeezed shut.

Lia summoned her courage. She straightened her shoulders and drew a deep breath. Stepping forward, she placed a handful of vellum on the table and returned to the laird’s side.

“MacGrigor,” she said softly. “I know you doubt me because I am English, but listen to truth.” She gently gripped his arm and turned him around.

“Look,” she whispered, gesturing to those in the great hall. “There is Abby, over there. She is a scullery maid in a tavern. Joseph, in the corner, fancies Abby and tries to curry her favor with his tall hunting tales, but his words sound of youthful bravado. Michael, he also fancies Abby. But Abby is not certain if she should court either of them. Gertrude is next to her; everyone calls her Gertie. She is as old as the hills, but she has twelve grandchildren and is so very proud of each and every one of them. I am still struggling to remember all of their names.”

“Even I canna remember all of their names,” MacGrigor murmured.

But Lia didn’t stop there. She continued to tell him the names of every person in the hall along with all she knew about them. When she finished, she gazed at him a long moment. “Why would I bother learning about them if I meant to kill them?”

MacGrigor said nothing, simply studying her as intently as she looked at him.

“I am here to help them . . . and you.”

His intense eyes continued to search hers, the internal battle he fought with himself plain in his expression.

Lia tried once more. “On my journey here, Connell told me of the man I was coming to help. This man had been loved and respected by all. Known to be quick of wit, his laugh warm, his rule fair, slow to anger but not one to be trifled with when his temper ignited. He cared about his people and his people recognized that and admired him for it. But since my arrival, I have seen that trust strained, people terrified of what they do not understand.”

“The lassie who fell down the stairs . . . I saw the fear in her eyes . . . now they think I attacked her.”

“But the MacGrigor would never harm a soul unless they threatened someone he loves. And he loves his people; he has tried to defend them, to protect them from this war.”

“If the English sense weakness in me, Longshanks will destroy my clan. I have tried so hard to keep them out o’ the fighting so none would die needlessly, but I failed.”

“Connell also told me the words of a wise man who once said that when kings argue, it’s the common man who ends up doing the bleeding.”

MacGrigor looked at her, his eyes wide. Then he looked at Connell.

Connell nodded, his lips curving upward ever so slightly. “Do ye remember tellin’ me that before this last battle, MacGrigor?”

“MacGrigor, don’t you see?” she whispered. “That’s why I am here. I am the one who stops the bleeding.”

M
acGrigor squeezed his eyes closed again and bowed his head. Lia watched him brace his right hand against the table as he swayed just a bit. She quickly realized he tired easily and was probably dizzy. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly, still staring at the floor. He moved cautiously, mindful of his healing wounds, and bent to pick of a sheet of vellum next to his boot. Slowly, he handed it to her.

“There are two more sheets in my solar,” he said. “Aidan and I were trying to break your cypher. We needed to determine if ye are what ye say ye are.”

That was perfectly understandable, but she wished he didn’t feel as if he had to do that.

Connell studied MacGrigor for a long moment, made a slight motion with his hand to the others, then returned to William’s side. Following his lead, the others returned to their places.

MacGrigor’s gaze traveled over the sick in the great hall, his steel-gray eyes reflecting his worry and sorrow.

Lia picked up the last of the vellum but kept her attention focused on the giant man before her. She was surprised he did not leave the great hall, but after hearing Connell’s words, she realized he probably could not. It was not in his nature to abandon his people when they needed him.

“You wish to help,” she said.

Again he glared at her, but his gaze returned to the sick, and no matter how much he may have hated her, he could not hide his compassion for them.

His gaze fell to the floor and his shoulders slumped. “My people need me, but I canna help them.”

“Why not?”

He blinked at her, stunned. “Look at Seamus and Ian,” he said and gestured to the two men. “They try to avoid looking at me, but in truth, they watch as if waiting for me to grow fangs and a tail. They try to play their dicing game, but if I take one step toward them, they will run from this great hall screaming. If I try to help someone in the midst of a fever dream, they will no doubt think Death has come for them. I willna terrify them more.”

Lia rolled her eyes at him. “And you do all you can to promote that folly.”

“What mean ye, Sassenach?” he growled.

In an instant, she reached out and tugged the cowl off of his head. He recoiled violently, but it was too late. The cowl settled on his back. His lip curled and he scowled at her.

With the cowl out of the way, she saw instantly why he hid his face. Small patches of newly healed skin riddled the right side. On the left, a black line ran from just below his temple and down and across his cheek to his jaw line. He thought himself scarred and ugly. But Lia recognized that the long wound had been stitched well. It would fade to an unnoticeable white line and eventually be lost in the smile lines that creased his skin. Lia absently wondered if he would ever smile at her.

She shook her head, dismissing the foolish thought. “You wander the halls only at night, covering your face and stalking the shadows. No wonder they are terrified of you, MacGrigor. You do all you can to encourage the rumors of the Demon Laird.”

“Ye think me cursed as well,” he snarled.

“Nay,” she said firmly. “And if you’re willing to help, I will put you to work. But take that bloody cloak off and stop hiding.” She turned on her heel and moved purposefully to the other side of the table. She needed to mix more medicants.

The soft scrape of a boot caused her to look up. He shed his cloak and placed it on a chair out of the way. She smiled, but her heart lurched again. His scars did nothing to hide the fact he was a fine-looking man. His harsh expression eased just a bit as he caught her gaze.

“I will show you what needs to be done.”

As she instructed him, stressing the importance of cleanliness, she couldn’t help but examine him out of the corner of her eye. She kept telling herself not to but couldn’t get herself to listen. Now that she could see him clearly in the better light of the great hall, without interference from the cloak, she found him much more . . . human.

He wore a long undyed tunic, belted at his waist with a wide leather belt. The tunic was loose fitting and open at his throat, which revealed a hint of the deep cut of muscle of his chest. Trews covered his legs, made of soft leather and tucked into cross-quartered boots that ascended to his knees. His long black hair tumbled wildly around his shoulders, but as she explained the medicants, he took a leather tie from his belt pouch and bound his hair at the nape of his neck. His newly healed wounds became more evident. She noted again the white patches of healed flesh on his handsome face. But at his throat were darker red lines, as if a narrow rope had been tied around his neck; perhaps his captors had tried to strangle him. Angrier lines, healing but not quite closed, ran across the opening of his tunic and descended down his chest. Under his tunic she noticed the ridges of three different bandages: a large one on his chest, one at his side, and another on his back, near the middle of his spine.

Her curiosity deepened. Did someone else tend to his wounds and change his bandages, or had he learned to do it himself?

Forcing her attention back to her medicants, she began to prepare cups of mulled wine, mixing specific herbs into them. She instructed him which patients to give them to.

“Each one is different?” he asked, a frown blurring his brow as he stared at the cups on the table.

“Aye, for each person has different needs. It’s important that we not confuse them and give the wrong medicant to the wrong person.”

“How can ye keep them straight, Sassenach?”

She glared at him, suddenly hating his name for her. He was determined to remind her why he distrusted her. “Now you know why I write in my journal, and why I was so flustered that pages turned up missing.”

He gazed at her evenly. “I did what I had to do,
Sassenach
.”

She cleared her throat and forced down her anger, pointing at the cups. “The cups are in the same placement on the table as the sick in the hall. I have been doing this since I was a child,” she said softly. “This is the first thing Sueta instructed me to do. I thought it would be a good place for you to start as well.”

He nodded curtly and picked up the first cup, taking it to the man she pointed out.

HHH

Ronan prepared himself for the worst as he knelt next to a sick young man, James, Alba’s cousin. He studied under the guidance of the village priest, his desire to someday be a scribe. Ronan looked up and his gaze automatically found Alba. She stood next to Marta, staring at him in fear. Marta patted her shoulder reassuringly.

Ronan tore his attention from her and roused James enough to drink the medicant. James did not recoil. Instead, he allowed Ronan to help him upright slightly so he could drink without choking. Ronan braced James against his chest and held the cup to his lips. He drank it down without complaint. Ronan returned him to his pallet and made sure the blankets covered him.

“Thank ye, MacGrigor,” James whispered.

Ronan blinked at him in shock. James recognized him but did not fear him? James’s eyes closed and he relaxed, the harsh lines on his face easing. Ronan quickly realized the medicant not only promoted healing but eased his pain.

Shaking his head, Ronan returned to the table where the Sassenach prepared more cups. Considering the number of sick in the hall, Ronan would be at this all night

Surely this was daft. Every time he roused someone to drink, he was certain that person would see him and scream in terror. But none voiced complaint or even concern. One or two looked startled, but they said nothing. Each accepted the cup he offered willingly. Ronan’s surprise continued to grow. He had been so infuriated with the Sassenach that he accepted her challenge only to prove her wrong.

And you do all you can to promote that folly.

Saints have mercy, what if she was right?

Ronan remained in the great hall working as the Sassenach instructed him for the remainder of the night. His thoughts continued to trip over themselves as each person accepted his assistance without complaint and without fear, with those who were able thanking him.

He heard the gates to his keep being unbarred and looked up in surprise. Through a loophole, he saw the night sky begin to brighten as dawn arrived. He stepped to the door of the keep, listening to the first stirrings of its residents as they roused to greet the day. More sick entered the gate, but he noted the number had been reduced significantly. He glanced over his shoulder at the Sassenach. She had worked all night without rest and continued to do so.

“Now ye see, Seamus,” Ian said, gaining Ronan’s attention. He jabbed the stem of his pipe at Seamus. Ian could not carry on a conversation without that pipe in his hand. “That man be the laird I have come to ken.”

Guilt stabbed at him, but Ronan feared he tempted fate. As the dawn grew in strength, he picked up his cloak but did not don it. He trudged for the stairs, exhausted, but how much more so was the Sassenach? Feeling as if he ran like a whipped cur, he limped away from the great hall to his solar. He tumbled into bed, not bothering to remove his clothes.

HHH

Lia looked up in time to see MacGrigor’s back disappear up the stairs. She rubbed her eyes, wishing her blurred vision would clear. She was disappointed to see him go but was also glad for the small victory. She reminded herself that he was still healing and would not have the stamina he had once known. He needed to rest, but she wished he had not run from the great hall with the arrival of dawn.

Still, the success he had achieved this night was not to be denied. After he removed his cloak and began to help, no one had recoiled from the Demon Laird, no one had voiced even a whisper of fear. She hoped that fact was not lost on him.

“Lass, ye need to rest,” a voice startled her. At first she wondered if MacGrigor had somehow magically appeared behind her. But then she recognized Aidan’s voice and turned.

“I will,” she said softly. “Thanks to your brother, I do not have much work left.”

Aidan blinked at her. “My brother?”

“Aye,” she said and told him of the night’s happenings.

Aidan’s shocked expression eased and a smile replaced it. “Praise be,” he murmured.

“We have not earned the victory entirely,” she cautioned.

“Nay, but this night my brother took his first step toward it.”

She nodded and thought for a moment. “Aidan, may I have my other two journal sheets back?”

He ducked his head, his face turning ruddy. “Aye, lassie. I shall fetch them for ye.”

HHH

Lia had no idea how many days had passed. She jerked her head up and winced as a muscle in her neck cramped. She rubbed her eyes, struggling to focus on the sheets of vellum spread before her. She had received precious little sleep and had dozed off again. She sighed heavily; there was still so much work to do, but she was going to have to finally admit she had to get more than an hour or two of unbroken sleep.

The door to the keep banged open and a man staggered through, startling everyone. Robert sprinted across the great hall toward him, and Aidan charged down the stairs.

The man looked at Lia, his eyes glazed and wild. His face was bright red and Lia knew instantly his fever was dangerously high. Sweat covered him, soaking his leine and his stringy hair.

Lia rose, but before she could truly move, he lurched forward like some sort of walking corpse.

“Help us,” he choked then collapsed, suffering a convulsion.

Alba screamed.

Lia sprinted toward the man, praying Alba would not begin screaming about the Demon Laird’s curse.

Aidan reached him first. He touched the man’s forehead and yanked his hand back. “He burns with fire.”

Fire.

The word whispered through her thoughts, stirring a memory, but she could not grab hold of it. She knelt next to the man as his fit faded only to hear the rattle in his throat as he took his last breath.

Then her gaze fell on what appeared to be a burn mark on his neck, about the size of two of her fingers. She looked again and realized it was a blister. She ripped open the man’s tunic and her eyes widened in horror. His body was covered in blisters. Those that had broken open had turned gangrenous. The smell was awful.

But Lia ignored it, her thoughts tripping over themselves. “Aidan, do you know this man?”

“Aye, ’tis Hamish, he is a farmer.”

“Why didn’t he come to us sooner?”

“M-Milady,” Alba said, “there are still many sick in the village too terrified of the Demon Laird. Marta and I have taken yer knowledge and used it to the best of our ability.”

“And you did not tell me?”

“Ye canna go to them, milady. Others fear ye because ye came to tend to the Demon Laird.”

“How many?”

“Ten, milady.”

There was an entire group of people with the illness that she had not seen. Lia abruptly rose, her eyes wide, her heart in her throat.

Why are none in the castle sick?

“Lassie?” Aidan asked.

As she stared at the dead man, one piece fell into place, and then a second. She took a step back, shaking.

It’s not contagious.

“Lassie, what vexes ye?”

Suddenly, she was sprinting back to the table and the sheets of her journal. She dug through them with unusual carelessness.

Fire.

She hesitated, looking at the sick still in the great hall. Many had died because of their high fevers, but others began to strengthen and recover.

Unable to keep food down.

She found the vellum sheet she searched for and scanned the symbols quickly.

Aching stomachs.

Vomiting.

High fever.

Convulsions.

Gangrenous blisters.

Her gaze returned to the dead man before the door. She had only seen part of the illness, which was why this plague did not make sense.

“It’s not a plague at all.”

“Lassie?” Aidan asked in confusion.

“It’s the food.”

Holy Fire
.

“It’s in the grain.” She searched the area around her. “My cloak, where is my cloak?”
Blessed Mary, don’t tell me that is missing too.