Quinn: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 2) (17 page)

Hour after hour, Quinn trudged through pine forests, hastened over moors brightly laced with fragrant heather, and climbed over jutting rocks, all the while cradling Catarina in his arms. His legs stiffened with fatigue. His arms strained to hold her close as her body burned, and yet she shivered. Pushing on, he slushed through a small stream. Then, at last, beyond an open field, he glimpsed a road. He kept his eyes fastened on the goal ahead, one foot after the other. His fatigue made his head heavy. He stumbled, catching his foot on a rock, but he clasped his precious woman to his heart, refusing to yield her to the earth. He shook his head, standing straight and tall, imbuing his stride with strength. He pushed the weariness from his thoughts. His body mattered not at all nor did his life. All that mattered was getting Catarina to a healer with the skills to bring down her fever. She had to live. Only then could she once more be united with her son. Only then could she hold him close and know the fullness of God’s promise. He knew that was what she wanted more than anything else.

The ribbon of rode beckoned, compelling his stride to lengthen. He would make it to the end. Rows of golden flax flew past. He felt like a ship riding the waves toward shore. He moved as if one with the soil and wind, coaxed by his conjured sea. The dark, dust colored road contrasted with the bright golden field, making a line upon which he fixed his gaze. That dark line drew steadily closer; until, at last, he touched down his foot. Collapsing to his knees, he clutched Catarina close and breathed in her scent. Then he hung his head and was still.

His head jerked to the side, and his eyes flew open. For a moment, he had fallen asleep by the roadside, Catarina still shivering in his arms. He looked down at her. Her rich, long hair splayed out on the ground. Thick, ebony lashes frosted her olive cheeks. Quick breaths rasped from her dry, parted lips. Shifting her weight to one arm, Quinn reached for the costrel. He ran his finger around the rim, gathering water, and painted her lips. Then he held the costrel to her mouth.

“Drink, my love. Please,” he whispered.

Her lashes did not flutter. She made no noise or movement to show she heard his plea. He tipped the costrel back just enough to drip a tiny stream of water into her mouth. Then he took a sip himself. Drawing several deep breaths, he prayed for strength. Gritting his teeth, he rolled back on his heels and pushed against the earth to rise. He stood once more with her cradled in his arms, and one foot in front of the other, he started down the road. Ahead, the road curved out of sight. He kept his eyes trained on the bend, not allowing himself to think beyond that goal. As he stared, the slow clatter of hooves reached his ears, and then a cloud of dust appeared. Instinct bade he hide. He turned left then right. Fields stretched out on either side of him. There was not even a tree to duck behind. He closed his eyes and prayed for mercy.

When a rickety wagon came into view, he once more collapsed to his knees with relief. Driving a couple of old pack-horses was an even older-looking codger in the high seat, wearing a brightly decorated, wide-brimmed hat. A rainbow of feathers poked out from the brim: long, brown Golden Eagle feathers, gray and white striped Hen Harrier feathers, and the tallest white feathers Quinn could only imagine belonged to a sea eagle. Also, about the crown was a purple ring of dried heather.

He pulled alongside Quinn. The old man’s lips buckled in, and his chin jutted out. Slowly, he smiled a toothless grin. His eyes crinkled as they strained against his heavy lids. “Good morrow,” he said warmly, dipping his fanciful hat.

Quinn drew a deep breath and bowed his head in return. “Good morrow.”

The codger leaned over in his seat, peering down at Catarina. “What ails yer woman?”

“She is sick with fever.”

The old man’s brows lifted. He might have looked surprised but for his sagging lids, which refused to rise to the occasion. “’Tis not the time of year for a fever.”

Quinn shook his head. “She’s been injured, a gash on the bottom of her foot. It festers.”

The old man seemed to study Catarina. Quinn frowned at the pallid tint of her cheeks and her trembling shoulders.

“Aye,” the codger said. “She must see Abigail and at once.” Despite the urgency of his words, the old man creaked as he slowly stood and pointed to the back of the wagon. “Move my friends over and climb inside. Ye’ll find blankets too, although they’re sure to be covered with shite.”

Quinn circled around the wagon and opened the back gate. Inside were dozens of cages of all sizes filled with a variety of animals: birds, rats, mice, bats. There was even a mountain hare.

“My name’s Pete. I’m a trapper,” the man called out.

Quinn tucked Catarina into the corner and then hurriedly rearranged the cages, giving them both a place to lie down. The bottom layer of blanket was clean enough. He laid Catarina down and then climbed in beside her, pulling the other blankets over their heads. Beneath the darkness, he closed his eyes and expelled a long, tired breath of relief. The wagon rumbled over ruts and bumps, lulling him into sweet oblivion. He dreamt they rocked in a skiff, heading out to sea underneath a black, starless sky.

~ * ~

Quinn sat up, jerking his head in all directions, squinting against the bright sun. The blanket had been yanked away, but he did not see the old man. Then a hat with feathers and flowers popped up on the other side of the wagon. Quinn’s shoulders relaxed when he saw the man’s toothless grin.

“I’ll take ye in,” Pete said. “Abigail is expecting ye.”

Quinn nodded and looked down at Catarina. He stroked her cheek. “My love,” he whispered. “’Tis time to wake.”

Her lips parted. Her lashes fluttered, but she did not speak. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Still, she burned. He pulled her into his arms and cradled her close as he shuffled to the edge of the wagon. Around him, the village bustled. Reaching back, he grabbed a blanket and covered her before he stood. Then he dipped his head beneath a doorway and stepped into a cool, dark hut.

At the center of the rustic cottage burned a warm fire despite the heat of the day. The smoke coiled out a hole in the roof. A pungent smell reached his nose, coming from a pot boiling over the fire. In one corner of the room there was a short wooden platform covered by a pallet and topped with a pillow made from an old seed bag. On the opposite side of the room, there was a large table with wooden bowls and leather pouches in disarray, and hanging from the ceiling above his head was a thin rope lined with herbs and bunches of flowers. Otherwise, the hut appeared to be empty.

“Yer very tall for a monk.”

He whirled around coming face to face with whom he guessed was Abigail. She pressed the door closed with her back, her lips curved in a wry smile. “Or not a monk as it would appear.”

His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Abigail had lovely wide, violet eyes and wild, brown curls. Her chin came to a point, exaggerating her heart-shaped mouth. She reached out to touch the dirk strapped to his hip, but he stepped to the side and reached for the door.

“I wouldn’t do that,” she said quickly, lunging in front of the door. “The village has eyes.”

“Get out of my way,” he snarled.

She shook her head. “Take her to the bed,” she said, reaching to place her hand on Catarina’s forehead, but Quinn stepped back out of reach.

Planting her feet wide, Abigail put her hands on her hips. “I will not be the one who sells her soul. Ye have my promise.”

He locked eyes with her. He saw strength in their violet depths.

“’Twill not be me,” she vowed.

What choice did he have? He stepped forward then. “She has burned like fire for nearly two days.”

She stroked her fingertips across Catarina’s dry forehead. “Place her on the bed.”

He turned and hastened across the small room in three long strides and laid her down on the pallet. “Catarina,” he whispered in her ear. “Come back to me.”

Her head jerked from side to side. “Quinn,” she said.

He clasped her hand. “I am here, my love.”

“Quinn,” she called out, this time louder. Her amber eyes flashed open. “I didn’t do it, Quinn. I didn’t kill Henry.”

He eased his thumb across her brow. “Hush, my love. I know ye didn’t. And one day so will everyone else.”

Catarina’s fearful gaze held his for several moments longer. Then her lids dipped, and soon she was swept away, once more lost to fever.

A loud crash snaked his eyes away from Catarina to where Abigail sifted through pots on the table, sending what she didn’t need to the ground in her haste.

“Where is the blasted Willow Bark?” she cursed. Then she threw up her hands. “Of course,” she said. Her bare feet padded toward the door. He watched her bend down. When she straightened, she held up her slipper for him to see. “I ran out of room in my satchel the last time I went foraging.” She tilted the slipper over her open palm and out poured bits of plant.

Smiling, she said, “Luck is on our side. ‘Tis already crushed.” Then she added the handful of herbs to the steaming pot. Giving the mixture a quick stir, she returned to her table and set to work, mixing herbs and crushing roots. At length, she returned to the pot and added some of her potion to a bowl of mossy greens. Then, using her fingers, she kneaded the contents. “Ouch,” she squealed, pulling her hand out. She waved her fingers around. “Hot,” she explained to Quinn, not that he hadn’t figured as much already.

Kneeling at the foot of the bed, she unraveled Catarina’s bandage and brushed at Quinn’s dried poultice.  “What is this mess?” 

He explained the mix of herbs he had used, but she shook her head. “’Tis useless without heat.”

When she scraped away the remainder of the poultice, a yellow ooze began to seep from the wound. Fear instantly gripped Quinn’s heart when the odor reached his nose, for he knew something foul laid waste to her body. His heart began to race. If only he had acted sooner.

“Please,” Quinn said, grasping Abigail’s arm. “She must live.”

Abigail frowned. “She is still here. She can hear you and sense your fear. Hold tight to your faith, and do as I say. Now, add some more water to this bowl to reheat the herbs.”

He went over to the pot and dipped the ladle past the surface of rose petals to the reddish liquid below. When he withdrew the spoon, a new scent filled his nose, pungent and bitter. He imagined it held the strength of a sword that could cut away the poison from Catarina’s body. After pouring the steaming potion onto the herbs, he knelt once more beside Catarina and offered Abigail the bowl.

She winced, taking a handful of the hot mixture and squeezed out the extra juice. “’Tis hotter than the fires of hell, but that is good. The heat will draw the poison from her veins.” Then she pressed the poultice to Catarina’s foot. Catarina jerked, but Quinn reached out to steady her leg.

“’Tis too hot,” he snapped.

Abigail shook her head while she deftly wrapped Catarina’s foot in clean linen. “’Tis just right—hot enough to hurt but not to blister.” Then she stood up. “I’m going to make a tisane now.”

Quinn stayed by Catarina’s side and held her hand while he listened to Abigail clatter about the room. It was not long before she came back with a steaming cup.

“Get behind her and tilt her head back a little,” she said. “We’ll see if we can get her to drink any. Just a tiny sip is all we ask,” she said to Catarina.

After precious little of the hot liquid made it down Catarina’s throat, Abigail set aside the cup and felt Catarina’s bandage. “It has cooled,” she said. “We must start, again. The secret is in the heat.”

They carried on like that for some time, changing Catarina’s poultice and bandage and plying her lips with tisane. After they finished yet another cycle of each remedy, Quinn knelt once more and reached for Catarina, bringing her partway into his arms. Movement near the pot, caught his eye just as Abigail dropped fistfuls of white and pink blossoms into the brew. Soon a new scent filled the room. It reminded Quinn of a springtime meadow.

“What will ye do with that?” Quinn asked.

Abigail shook her head. “’Tis not medicine of the kind yer thinking. She’s not going to drink it. But the sweetness of the air might keep the foulness from her dreams. It’ll coax happy memories from her mind.”

Quinn looked down at Catarina. He thought about what her youth must have been like living in the Redesdale fortress with Bella.

“I can see ye inside the great hall with yer family, sitting at the high table in all yer finery,” he whispered in her ear. “Bella said yer parent’s loved each other dearly. I imagine their chairs at supper would have been close together so they could touch. I think ye would have sat on yer mother’s side, and Bella on yer father’s.” He smiled, imaging her as a carefree lass. “Ye must have loved the market. I wonder if ye ever touched any of the fabric I brought back on
La Vierge
. So many bolts of satin and silk. Perhaps yer hand grasped what my own had held. I wish I could take ye there, to the Berwick market of our youth—not that I could afford to buy ye satin and silk.”

“I do not want satin or silk.”

His heart quickened as he lifted his head and looked into her amber eyes.

She smiled weakly. “All I want is you.”

He clasped her cheeks, his heart pounding. “Her fever is breaking,” he called to Abigail. Then he wrapped his arm around her.