Warrior Reborn (7 page)

As they passed her on entering her chambers, she realized the second man was hardly what she could consider small, towering over her as he did. He was equal in stature to Ulfr. No, it was only that the first was a great bear of man.

The larger of the two, obviously the one used to being in charge, spoke up first.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but on our travels here, my brother was set upon by thieves. He’s a nasty bump to his head and, with their having taken his boots, he’s blisters upon his feet now. We’ve a need for an herbal poultice to help with the healing.”

“It’s not all that bad,” the second man added. “You don’t need to put yourself out, ma’am. I’ll be fine.”

Something about his words, something in his voice, tickled at the back of her mind.

“Sit. Remove the bindings from your feet,” the first one said as if his brother had never spoken. “Allow the healer to see for herself.”

Christiana pushed away the odd feeling, attributing it to the strange disquiet and worry she’d battled all morning. “Here.”

She pulled a small stool forward for the man, regretting her choice as soon as he bent down to perch awkwardly upon it. She dropped to her knees on the floor next to him, pushing his hands away to loosen the bindings herself before he lifted his foot for her to examine.

The animal skin he’d worn had rubbed against
the bottom of his foot until liquid-filled blisters had risen and, some of them, burst. The knowledge of the pain he endured knotted her stomach.

“I can help you,” she assured, looking up to find him staring down at her with a gaze so intent, she floundered for her next words. “I’ve a . . . a balm,” she began. What was it about him that so put her off her comfort?

“It’s a poultice what he’ll be wanting, my lady,” the one standing interrupted. “Made of good herbs.”

“My balms are made from good herbs,” she explained, her eyes still held by the man in front of her. “But if you prefer a poultice, I can see what—”

Her words froze in her throat as her fingers brushed over the man’s skin. A prickle of awareness ran the length of her arm and she jerked her hand away.

Only his hand darting out to grasp her elbow saved her the embarrassment of toppling backward onto her bottom right there in front of them.

“Steady,” he advised.

What had that feeling been?

“A . . . a poultice,” she managed, pulling away from him to rise to her feet. Steady? Not with that man’s hand upon her. “Herbs, yes. Of course.”

“Of course,” the standing man agreed.

“For wounds,” she murmured to herself, turning her back on her visitors as she moved to the wall shelves to search among her dwindling stock.

She ran her hands over the jars to gain time to recover her senses.

He had felt it as well, she was sure. The dark centers of his eyes had widened in acknowledgment of what had passed between them, like polished jet rising from a churning green sea.

“Comfrey,” the big man advised. “And Jupiter’s Beard. Yarrow. I don’t suppose you have calendula?”

“Calendula? No.” It surprised her that this man knew his herbs so well, especially when he named one she’d never heard of. “But I have others I would use, if they meet your approval. Agrimony and betony are two I like for wounds.”

At his nod, she dumped the various herbs into a stone bowl and ground them with the pestle before adding a splash of whisky she kept on the shelf for exactly that purpose.

“Good,” the big man muttered from his spot by the door.

Of course what she did was
good
. She’d learned from the best. She’d like to see him dare to lead Orabilis through this process, as he had her.

Dropping back onto her knees in front of her patient, she kept her eyes on the work in front of her, rubbing her hands together to force away the tremors that rippled through her fingers.

“I’ll do my best to avoid causing you any further pain, sir,” she said, daring a glance up.

“Don’t worry. You won’t hurt me,” he said quietly. “And my name is Chase, not sir.”

She glanced up just as he smiled. Only a tiny lifting of one corner of his mouth, but it was enough. His eyes captured hers and she caught her breath as a wave of recognition broke over her.

It was
him
! How she had not known it from the moment he’d entered her door was beyond her. She’d never clearly seen his face, but those eyes! She’d been lost in them too many times not to know them now. Her whole body tingled with recognition, a physical reaction to their first meeting she’d never foreseen or imagined possible.

“And I am Halldor O’Donar,” the man next to the door boomed, laughter rolling in his voice. “Clearly, in the care of such a lovely healer, my brother has forgotten any manners he might have once had.”

“You’ve no the need to waste yer time on introductions to Mistress Christiana. Our good laird’s sister is no one you’ll be talking to again, I can assure you,” Ulfr said.

She flinched, almost having forgotten her brother’s hound still stood in the room.

“You have another healer here, do you?” Halldor questioned, waiting only for Ulfr to shake his head in answer. “No? Then I suspect we’ll be seeing this good lady regularly until my brother’s wounds have healed. That poultice she’s wrapping around his foot will need changing soon enough.”

Halldor was right about that. Unfortunately, some of the jars she’d selected for her mix were close to
empty. She had enough for two, perhaps three more treatments.

After that, she’d be forced to seek Torquil’s permission to visit Orabilis.

“That poultice and bandage will want changing in two days’ time,” she advised Chase, watching his hands as he retied the straps around the furs covering his feet. “And best you find some proper footwear, aye? Or all the herbs in the world won’t help you.”

She risked a look up just as a full grin split his face. It was as if her heart had forgotten how to beat.

“Yeah. Proper footwear. I’ll do what I can about that. Thank you for your kindness . . .” He paused, that half-smile tugging at his mouth again before he finished. “Christiana.”

She nodded, and the three of them filed out, her knees so weak she leaned her back against the door as she watched them walk away.

Chase’s voice was deep and rich and his words had such a strange sound to them, befitting a man who came from a faraway land. With joy, she could listen to him speak for hours on end. And if the only word he chose to say over and over again was her name, she’d be well pleased.

It was only as they crossed the bailey toward the soldier’s lodgings that she remembered what she must do.

“Ulfr!” she called, stepping outside as the sun broke from behind the clouds where it had hidden
all day. A good omen. “I’d ask you to carry a message to our laird. I’d seek an audience with him, if it pleases him.”

Ulfr nodded his acknowledgment and strode off, leading the strangers to their new quarters.

No, she reminded herself as she hurried back inside her tower. Not strangers. They were much, much more than that. They were her savior and his brother.

N
ine

C
ASTLE
M
AC
G
AHAN

S
OUTHERN
H
IGHLANDS,
S
COTLAND

B
RIDGET
M
AC
C
ULLOCH PACED
along the wall walk, a favorite spot since the first time her father had allowed her up here.

Her beloved father. Her murdered father.

Wild anger shafted through her grief-ravaged heart. After her mother’s death, Hamud had cared for her as both mother and father. Now it was time for her to pay back the debt of love she owed the man who had given her life.

You’ve no a need to fash yerself over Jamesy,
her uncle had said.
We’ll find you a husband to fill yer days as yer father should have done long ago, and you’ll forget this vengeance business soon enough.

Brie spat on the ground beside her.
That’s
what she thought of her uncle’s idea. How could any man who shared her father’s blood be so daft? How could her own uncle know so little about her? If these men thought she was simply going to accept her father’s
murder, sitting in her little cottage, mourning away her life, or devoting it to the upkeep of some slovenly bastard they chose for her, well, they were all badly mistaken.

Through her mother, Brie was a daughter of the House MacUlagh, descended from the Ancient Seven who’d ruled over this land when not even the Roman invaders had dared challenge all the way to the northern sea. Her father had honored her mother’s bloodline, training Brie with weapons even as he’d trained her older brother. Warrior ran in her blood as much as in Jamesy’s.

Except that in her blood, temper ran in equal parts with warrior. Her da had always claimed it was that which kept her from being her brother’s equal. She drew in a deep breath, fighting to tamp down the anger as her father had often instructed. Fighting to wrestle it to the ground and bury it in a deep, dark hole.

As always, she was only partially successful.

When Jamesy returned, the foul MacDowylt laird of the northern clan would be made to pay, even though Malcolm would do nothing to avenge her father’s death.

Jamesy
would
return. Any day now. He would.

“If,” she hissed into the wind, her fists clenched at her side.
If
Malcolm had told her the truth.
If
he had actually sent word to Jamesy of what had happened to their father.

But what if he hadn’t? What if Malcolm had lied
and Jamesy had no knowledge of their father’s murder? It was a possibility she had to face. If her brother didn’t return, it was up to her to set the grievance right on her own. Whatever it took, she’d make her way to Tordenet Castle and seek vengeance against the vile Torquil herself. One way or another, he would be made to pay for the crime he had committed against her family.

“By the Seven,” she vowed, stopping as her attention fell to the clanging of the heavy chains raising the gate to give someone entrance to Castle MacGahan.

Could it be? Her heart pounded as she rushed to the opposite side of the wall walk to peer down to the road below, holding back her disappointment at the sight greeting her eyes.

Not her brother, but a distraction nonetheless. Tinklers!

She raced back across the wall walk to look down on the courtyard. As if word had spread by magic, inhabitants of the castle streamed from the keep and outbuildings, all hurrying to reach the Tinklers’ wagons as they pulled into the bailey.

Though this was the first visit Tinklers had made in the year she’d lived at Castle MacGahan, she’d heard the stories of how they’d long been refused entry to the castle grounds. But all that had changed thanks to Laird Malcolm’s first wife, the Lady Isabella.

These days the Tinklers and the wares they carried
were welcomed. One who appeared to be their leader, a man by the name of William Faas, if Brie remembered the stories correctly, jumped down from the lead wagon before reaching up to assist a woman to the ground beside him.

Cook weaved her way through the gathering crowd to speak to the man. With Cook’s silver tongue, there’d likely be new pots in the keep’s kitchen before day’s end. The Tinkler woman did not join in the conversation with Cook, but hurried away from the wagon, directly toward the stairs where their laird and his lady waited with Lady Danielle’s friend, Mistress Syrie.

As soon as the Tinkler reached the group and made her greetings, she and Mistress Syrie moved away from the others, their heads bowed close together in conversation.

Fair odd, that. But from what Brie had seen of Mistress Syrie since her arrival at the castle, she shouldn’t be surprised. That woman was fair odd, herself. Every bit as odd as her aunt had been, before she had left to be replaced by Syrie as Lady Danielle’s companion.

Brie would have loved to be close enough to hear the conversation shared by those two, but she had little time to dwell upon that curiosity, because more visitors climbed down from the second wagon. Visitors who did not dress the same as the Tinklers. It wasn’t so much the people themselves that interested her as what they carried. One man held a
drum, another a set of pipes and within the blink of an eye, the men began to play while a woman danced behind them.

That was enough for Brie. Down the narrow stairs she ran, not stopping until she reached the edge of the crowd that had gathered. To her disappointment, she’d no more than arrived when the music ceased.

“A taste, good people, only a taste. We’ll share the full of our talents this very night in yer own hall. All we ask is a few paltry coins to cross our palms in payment for the pleasure of our talent.”

Murmurs of the crowd buzzed in Brie’s ears as Laird Malcolm himself made his way through the people gathered around the newcomers.

“Welcome, friends. I’m sorry to say there’s none here what can afford to cross yer palm with anything, minstrel. Though yer welcome to take yer night’s rest within the safety of these walls and we’ll gladly share our evening meal with you.”

“Done!” William Faas agreed. “And perhaps these minstrels who travel with us as our guests will agree to repay your kindness with a few songs!”

It didn’t look as if the minstrel standing next to William was any too pleased with that idea, but the cheers of the crowd perhaps encouraged him to relent.

“As you will it, Master Faas,” he agreed. “Our journey north continues on the morrow only due to your kindness. A small performance for these people
tonight seems a price well paid for the transport you provide us.”

They journeyed north on the morrow? Brie’s mind churned with a fast-forming plan. It was almost too perfect to believe.

North was exactly where she needed to go if she was to avenge her father’s murder.

T
en

T
ORDENET
C
ASTLE

N
ORTHERN
H
IGHLANDS,
S
COTLAND