The Highlander’s Widow (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 8) Page 3

  Bronan watched her head to the doorway, and then his eyes took in a stranger, her hair covered by a cap. Her face was a fine oval, her eyes dark and merry. She smiled at him.

  “Hello, lad,” she said with a faint trace of an accent he didn't recognize. “Good to see you're awake. I've got to tend your wound, but first you'll do well to drink this tea. It will help keep the fever off.”

  “Thanks,” Bronan said slowly, feeling a little surreal as she set the tea down beside him and helped him to sit up. “I'm much obliged tae ye, Mistress Prudence.”

  “You ken my name?” The woman's fine-boned face dissolved into a smile. “Well! You're clearly not suffering from the Lethe that much. What fine news to tell Milady Amalie.”

  “Amalie?” Bronan's heart leaped. Was that my angel's name? “She found me?”

  “Aye,” Prudence chuckled. “In the stables. You're lucky it was her as found you – our guards don't like intruders much. She went out to fetch her saddle-bag and came back with you. Lucky, eh?” She grinned, and he noticed she was beautiful, too, in a lively way.

  “Tell her I say thank you?” he whispered.

  Prudence grinned again. “I will do, lad. Now, if you'll drink this tea, perhaps we stand a chance of keeping the fever out of you. That wound's a little better, but I'd like to keep it clean.”

  “Aye, mistress,” he said. He bit his lip, wincing as she, still smiling, helped him sit up and pressed the cup of bitter fluid to his mouth.

  He drank, and coughed, and Prudence gently wiped his chin. “Easy, lad,” she said gently. “You've had a right run-in with the wrong end of a gun. It's a blessing milady found you.”

  “Aye, it is.”

  He leaned back against the pillows as she turned away, feeling exhausted. He watched Prudence go about her business – washing her hands in the ewer, putting away the herbs she'd untied from bunches hanging on the wall. He liked her, and he was grateful to her. All the same, he wished Lady Amalie was there.

  “Amalie.”

  He sighed. He had barely believed her human when she appeared before him. Now, it seemed, she was a person, with a name. She was the lady of the castle, most likely.

  And I'm a carter's son.

  He shook his head bitterly. He couldn't allow himself to moon about thinking of her now – he was as likely to meet the King over the Water as he was to see her again, most likely.

  And now, he thought sadly, nobody will meet the King over the Water. The rising had been shot to bits there on the field of Culloden. He still didn't know what the result of that would be, but he knew it would bring no good to the nation.

  And me?

  He sighed. He was alive and warm, and safe. That was more than enough for him.

  He rolled over, winced as the pain bit into him, and hoped he would sleep soon.

  Perhaps if he was lucky, he'd wake and find Lady Amalie visiting.

  A TALK IN A SICK-ROOM

  The fire burned low in the grate. The manor was silent. Amalie leaned back in the big chair by the fire and felt as if half her own life-blood had been drained. She was exhausted.

  “Alec...be well,” she whispered. She recalled her son's strained, pale face. She had gone to him as soon as she had seen the stranger settled. Oddly, her thoughts strayed from her son back to that red-haired interloper.

  Poor lad.

  She sighed. He wasn't much younger than her, she guessed – perhaps five years younger, at the most. However, he had about him a sort of tentative innocence that made him seem much younger. She had barely spoken to him – he had been unconscious through most of the time she'd been near him – but the few words he'd said made her think he must be a rather guileless sort.

  “Not that anyone's the way they are when they're worn out.”

  She sighed and tucked red hair behind her ears. She was exhausted, drained of every last drop of energy. It was all she could do to sit here, and not fall asleep before the flickering flame-light of the hearth-fire. However, she couldn't afford to sleep. Not until the healer had spoken to her.

  Her thoughts drifted from her son – pale and unconscious – to the soldier again. She was surprised to feel a pang of tenderness as she recalled his sleeping face. He had a lithe grace to his features – a thin nose, soft cheeks and those full lips that belied the harshness of his face. He was likely quite good-looking when he was himself.

  Amalie Inverkeith! Stop it.

  She was a widowed woman, and this man's senior. In addition, she had Alec. She had absolutely no room whatsoever to be entertaining ideas about a soldier intruding on her friend's landholdings.

  She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, her worry for Alec the only thing that stopped her falling into sleepy oblivion.

  Where is the healer? If she doesn't come soon, I'm going to fall asleep.

  Amalie felt her mind drifting in a gray haziness, and she reckoned she must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew she was startled awake.

  “Aye, I reckoned you'd be in here.”

  Amalie jumped. She was staring up into the gaunt, dark-haired healer's face. “Where is my son? Is he...”

  The healer smiled. Amalie strained to recall her name.

  “Aye, he's resting easy. Lost a lot of blood, but he's strong. He'll wake tomorrow morning with a headache and a paining shoulder, and like as not have an appetite on him like six starved soldiers.” She chuckled.

  Amalie found herself grinning, weak and relieved. “You think so? Oh! Thank you...thank you!”

  The woman looked into her eyes. Her own were dark as midnight, and compassionate.

  “Och, mistress. Ye have nae tae care so. Your fretting weighs on ye. I see it does. So much care, in such a young lass.”

  Amalie sighed, leaned back and closed her eyes. Young? She felt ancient sometimes: weighed down by cares and worries. The woman was right. How else was she to live? “Alec needs me. I'm all he has in the world.”

  “Aye, I ken,” the woman said after a long silence. “You fret more than ye should. The boy's strong. And he's not alone. His father watches over him.”

  Amalie's eyes flashed open. She wasn't sure whether to gasp or be offended. What would this stranger know of Keith's soul? When she met her gaze, however, she felt relaxed. Her offense died, turning into hope. “You think that?”

  “Of course he does,” the healer said and nodded slowly. She had a calm, definite manner about her. In a world of haste and violence, this woman was a firm presence and Amalie felt reassured by her. She continued, gently. “You think he would wish to leave ye?”

  “I sometimes wondered that.” Amalie felt her voice crack.

  How many times had she wondered exactly that? If Keith was somewhere in an intangible realm, watching over her? Over Alec? Or if he really had chosen to leave them alone?

  “Of course he is.”

  She felt as if her heart had melted, hearing those certain words.

  “There, lass. Easy, now,” the woman said.

  She fished out a handkerchief and Amalie took it. She noticed the “lass”, belatedly, and did not care to correct it. In that moment, she was not Lady Amalie; she had no rank. She was a woman, who loved and ached. The woman opposite her was another woman, and her comforter.

  She wiped her cheeks, furtively. The handkerchief smelled of thyme and other pungent herbs. She passed it back, sniffing. “Thanks.”

  The healer smiled. “Well, if you wish to check on your patient, he's sleeping well. The other one, too,” she added, brow raised. “He'd rest easier if you visit him. Both of them would,” she added cryptically.

  Amalie raised a brow. “How is the soldier?”

  Her voice was as level as she could make it. She felt her cheeks flush, knowing at once that she was interested in news of him, and wondering if this so-perceptive woman had noticed something. Why else had she said that?

  The woman – Merrick, that was her name! – smiled genially.

  “He's well. Sleeping soundly,
as I said. And like as not to wake with a sore head tomorrow. And more confused than he'd care for, too. As I said, he'd sleep easier for a visit.”

  “Confused?” Amalie bit her lip.

  “I think the lad thinks he's passed away,” Mrs. Merrick said, grinning cryptically again. “I heard him say something about an angel. Nonsense, probably.” She laughed and, abruptly, stood and headed through the door.

  “Mrs. Merrick?” she called after her.

  “Yes, milady?”

  “Can you take me to my son?”

  Mrs. Merrick nodded, a ghost of a smile crossing her features. “Of course. With a bit of luck he'll wake soon. He's been asleep four hours in yonder turret room.” She jerked her head, indicating a room along the hall. “It's almost three o' clock. I should head down to the kitchen. Need to start the cook-fires in an hour or two.”

  Amalie noticed suddenly how the woman stooped a little when she walked, how the skin beside that dark hair was gray with weariness. She had worn herself out, healing those two. Moreover, she was not that young: with the strange glamour of prophecy gone from her, she looked much older, and very tired.

  “Thank you,” Amalie whispered. “For what you did for him. For both of them.”

  Merrick flashed her a taut grin. “Och, lass. It's no' a thing tae thank me for. I'm a healer. And you're a lass with a long path ahead of you. There are going to be strange turns on it. But you'll be safe. Remember where the light is, lass. And trust your heart.”

  Amalie stared. Was this a prophecy? She shivered. There was something very uncanny about this woman. “Thank you,” she stammered, swallowing hard. How was one supposed to receive such a warning?

  Merrick had already turned away, and was stooped at the head of the stairwell, her black dress blending with the dark shadows. “You thank me for it, lass?” she called as she went. “Be sure to trust nobody save yourself. And know yourself for who you are. Remember what I said.”

  “Yes,” Amalie whispered.

  The sound of footsteps going downstairs died slowly away. Amalie let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. She was tired too. She needed to see her son.

  He's in the turret-room.

  She found the room. The fire was lit there, and the flame-light danced over Alec's face, showing clearly how deathly pale he was. He lay on his back, one arm out of the covers, the sheet pulled up to the base of his neck. He was breathing slowly and steadily. He looked peaceful.

  “My son,” she whispered. “My poor Alec.”

  She stood at the end of his bed, looking down. As Mrs. Merrick had foretold, he was sleeping peacefully. His face was still, unlined from pain. She hadn't realized until this moment how used she'd got, in those long hours, to the rasp of his breath, the tight lines of pain around his young eyes.

  “My son.”

  Her heart ached. He was swathed in bandages, his left shoulder bulky where the healers had strapped it, the scent of herbs overlaying the fainter scent of blood. He was at peace, at last, asleep.

  Amalie reached out and gently touched his hand.

  She looked down at him for a long moment. He sighed and shifted in his sleep. She tiptoed out, not wanting to wake him. He needed some sleep.

  She was about to head back to the parlor when something caught her attention. Someone had called her from a half-open doorway.

  “Lady...Amalie?”

  “Yes?”

  All Amalie's hair stood up, though oddly it was not fear. A strange sort of apprehension filled her that was as much excitement as it was trepidation. She stared into the room.

  It was dark and she stared in, straining her eyes. They fell on the soldier. He lay in a bed, the firelight making his face a mystery of glow and shadow. She stared.

  Red hair framed a pale face, the cheeks hollow, and the nose long and straight, lips full. In the strange play of light and dark, he wore haunting nobility. She swallowed hard.

  “Lady Amalie?”

  “You know my name?” she asked.

  “The healer...said it,” he said, sitting up against the pillows. His gaze held hers and she saw a glow of tenderness there that she had never thought to see again. She shivered.

  No. I shouldn't think about anyone like that. Not yet. It is too soon.

  Keith had been gone five years. It didn't seem that way: she still woke sometimes with the ache of his loss pressing on her chest like a wound. It could have been days ago, not years. She felt lost, suddenly: seeing that look and feeling the strange flutter it called into her heart made her afraid.

  The healer's words came back to her. You've a long path ahead of you, lass. Trust yourself.

  “You know my name,” she said softly. “What is yours?”

  “Bronan,” he said softly. “Bronan Ludlow.”

  “Hello, Bronan.”

  Amalie swallowed. Ridiculously, she felt shy. She looked at her feet, where the toe of her traveling-shoe showed below the hem of her red gown.

  She looked up as the man grinned. It was disarming and she felt something strange happen in her heart. She looked down again, but not before she'd smiled. “What?”

  “When I saw you...I thought you were an angel,” he said.

  She looked up. He was smiling, his dark eyes gentle and lit with warmth. She smiled back, and felt heat flush through her body and settle in her tummy. She swallowed hard again.

  This is ridiculous! I'm not the one who's fourteen.

  All the same, she couldn't help how she felt. She couldn't quite extinguish the warmth that was flowing through her, making her fingers tingle. “You must have been badly injured,” she said, feeling her mouth lift into a wry grin. “You can see; I'm no angel.”

  She looked at her hands where they lay on her velvet skirt, noticing the faint wrinkles that lined the bones of her fingers. They were barely visible, but she felt self-conscious – they hadn't been like that when she was twenty and marrying Keith.

  I'm no longer young.

  “I thought you were an angel,” he said softly. “And I'm still half-uncertain.”

  She looked down firmly. He was flattering her – must be. But why? She wasn't going to let herself react to it. “You must have been in a lot of pain,” she persisted.

  He grinned. His face was handsome in repose, but when he smiled! She couldn't help but think of the paintings in the gallery. He was beautiful.

  “Och, milady. It's nae so bad. Just a gunshot.” He shrugged. “Would have killed me, though, if you hadn't come along. You saved my life.”

  “It was nothing,” Amalie said at once. “I would somebody could have done the same for my son.”

  “Your son?” he asked. His eyes were gentle, but Amalie found the look in them hard to interpret. With a prickle of irritation at herself, she wondered if he thought her son his age!

  “My son ran off to join the soldiers. He's too young for it. I forbade him, but he would go...” She shook her head, the pain in that outweighing her hurt pride.

  When she looked up, the soldier's gaze held hers.

  “I did the same,” he said softly. “When I were a lad. I was, what? Thirteen when I thought myself a man.” He grinned wryly. “Fifteen – no, wait, sixteen – years, that makes it. Those haven't taught me much, either.”

  He's nine and twenty years old. She reckoned it quickly. That made him seven years her junior! That was inconceivably young.

  When I was his age, Alec was nine.

  She swallowed. It shouldn't matter to her, but it felt as if the flame that had lit inside her was roughly quashed.

  Pull yourself together. “You have been sixteen years a soldier?”

  “Aye.” He grinned. “If you could call it that. Worked for the laird who took me in. Laird McLeary. Guarded against reivers, mostly. More like a scoundrel than a soldier.”

  Amalie smiled. His grin was irresistible. Again, she felt that ache in her tummy. He's so young! He'd think me ancient.

  “You say so,” she said slowly. “But I'm sure you d
id great work for Laird McLeary.”

  He chuckled again. “Mayhap. Gave him a fair lot of gray hairs, I reckon.” He shook his head and winced, clearly hurting his shoulder with the movement. “I was a handful. Never listened to naught. Sounds like your son's like that?”

  Amalie wet her lips, feeling oddly reluctant to talk about her son. She was nervous, she realized, to mention his age. It was ridiculous! She should tell him straightaway, put a stop to this strange, joyful feeling that grew inside her, like the first breath of springtime visiting the land. “I reckon. He's fifteen now – the age you were, almost, when you went into service.”

  “Aye. A fine age.” His eyes held hers. She didn't see the expression change. That in itself surprised her.

  Well, either he guessed my age aright, or he thinks I birthed Alec when I was six and twenty, and imagines me much older.

  She had been young when she had her son – her physician thought her too young, though girls of fourteen or fifteen gave birth in the village. Her maid, Mercy, had worried for her sorely. She'd survived, though she bore no other children in the ten years she and Keith had together.

  “What...happened to him?”

  Amalie jumped, startled out of her reverie. “My son?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  “He's wounded. I brought him here, for healing. My friend is the countess here. Lady Marguerite.”

  “Oh.”

  She saw an odd expression cross his face, one she found hard to interpret. He looked down at his hands where they lay on the coverlet. They were strong hands, she noticed. Soldier's hands. She swallowed hard.

  The silence stretched, the sound of the fire cracking loud in the darkness.

  “He'll get better,” he said softly. “He's that age.”

  She shared a smile. Oddly, his comment was more reassuring even than the healer's had been. “I'm glad you think so,” she whispered. “Were you injured, at that age?”

  “Aside from my head, no.” He laughed. “I've a thick skull, I reckon. Still got the scar though.” He reached up, those strong fingers parting his red hair.

  “A sword-cut?” Amalie asked, worried.

  “No, a stave,” he said. “I was thieving and the bailiff cracked me on the head. Served me right.” He chuckled.