Highland Healer (9 page)

A light tap on the door startled her, and announced Elspie’s return, arms laden with under shifts, and kirtles of many colors. “Here, now,” the woman said by way of greeting, “the laird bid me find ye aught to wear. Some of these should fit ye right enough.” She deposited the pile on the bed and began to sort them and hold them up for Aileana’s inspection. “This is a lovely green, lass. ’Twould set off yer hair.” She picked up another gown. “Or a blue. See, it’s edged in white. And there’s a brown with lovely carved buttons.”

“No,” Aileana objected, though in truth, she needed a dress. The one she’d had on today was fraying at the seams, and she’d washed blood out of it too many times to count. Her other kirtle and the few other things she owned had been left behind in her sleeping tent and were probably now the property of one of the few camp followers who had dared to journey this far north with the army. “Where are my clothes? Who do these belong to? Surely they don’t want to give them away?”

“’Tis no matter,” Elspie assured her, holding up a kirtle made of rust-colored wool. “That lass is long gone from the keep. Thank the saints! She’ll not miss these. And anyway…”

“The green,” Aileana said, interrupting her prattle. The pile of clothes Elspie sorted through was too much. Added to the chamber, the bath, the food, well, she feared how she might be asked to repay this generosity. But she’d accept one dress. She needed it.

Aileana had worn green since her talent had come on her. Usually her mother’s hand-me-downs, as green stood for life and marked the healer’s apprentice as well as the healer. She’d continued the tradition even to refusing new clothes from Colbridge’s conquests, as a way to remember her mother, and as protection. She would not owe Colbridge for anything that was not absolutely necessary. So who had these belonged to, and why was Elspie glad that she was gone from the Aerie? Aileana wondered, regretting now that she’d cut Elspie’s comment short. A former lover of the laird’s perhaps, dismissed from his presence without her belongings?

“Then the green it shall be,” Elspie agreed, shaking out the dress to rid it of wrinkles. She produced a clean linen undershift from the pile on the bed and handed it to Aileana. “Here, lass, put this on first, and we’ll try the green afore ye go to yer rest. Moina can alter it tonight for ye to wear on the morrow.”

“Aye,” Aileana acquiesed and dropped the warm robe onto the chair. Cold air chilled one side of her body, while heat from the fire warmed the other. She stepped closer to the fire and lifted her arms to slip the shift over her head. The green dress went on over it.

“’Tis near ta right,” Elspie muttered as she fussed with the cloth. “A bit in here, a bit out there. Let down the hem. Verra well. Ye can take it off and put on the night rail I brought ye. Ye must be worn out, poor lass. Moina will have this ready for ye tomorrow, and perhaps a few others, too.”

Grateful to be done, and reassured by Elspie’s comments that she would not be accosted, at least for tonight, Aileana changed into a soft linen gown as Elspie gathered up the pile of dresses on the bed. “Please, only the green,” Aileana told her. “I’ll need no others.”

“But lass, ye’ll need several dresses. ’Tis no trouble for Moina. How the girl loves to ply the needle! She’ll be up half the night and happy for the chance. Nay, lass, dinna fash yerself. In the morning ye’ll have these and no argument. And if the laird approves, tomorrow will see a visit from the cobbler as well, mark my words.”

Too worn out to argue, Aileana did not contradict her, but rather bid her good night, mindful of long-unused courtesies common in the company of women. She’d been so many years with only Ranald for anything approaching companionship, and sometimes the company of the other male healers when they worked together. But Colbridge moved so relentlessly from one conquest to another that there had been no opportunity to pass time with women in the villages doing the womanly things Aileana recalled from her childhood. She’d been safer that way, she now supposed, but it was also a lonely way to live.

“Sleep well, lass,” Elspie said, then opened the door to leave and revealed the massive form of Toran, fist upraised, poised to knock.

Chapter Five

Toran had wandered the keep, deep in thought, recalling his conversation with Donal. What if Donal was right and he’d landed a killing blow on Colbridge? The man had been pale as death when Toran encountered him. What had Aileana done to him after she’d summarily ordered Toran out of her tent and into the negligent care of the guards? And if Colbridge still lived, how quickly would he be able to come after Aileana? Those thoughts kept him occupied until he realized where he’d arrived. Instead of standing outside his own chamber, he had followed his thoughts to the Healer’s door. So. Now that he was here, he might as well see to her comfort. It was possible that he owed her that and more, in payment for what she may have done for him. He raised a fist to knock just as the door swung open. Elspie, arms full of colorful dresses, stood on the threshold. Her eyes widened as she stared up at her laird.

His gaze lifted into the room beyond. The sight that greeted him stunned him into immobility. Aileana stood near the hearth wearing a thin night shift made nearly transparent by the glow of the fire behind her. Heat to match the blaze that lit her luscious form flared up from his loins to his eyes. Her unbound hair cascaded down her back to frame her slender waist and rib cage. As she turned her back to him, he caught the silhouette of her full, firm breasts, and the shadows of their rosy tips. His mouth went dry.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded over her shoulder, clearly startled and not at all pleased to see him. “Get out.”

Her imperious attitude diverted Toran from enjoying the sight of her. Elspie coughed, drawing Toran’s attention downward. She looked appalled as she stared up at her laird, though it was not clear if it was the Healer’s tone, or Toran’s presence, that scandalized her. Either way, her censure, and the Healer’s demand, irritated him and his answer came out sharper than he’d intended.

Keeping his gaze on Elspie, he barked, “’Tis my keep.” Then he glared at Aileana. “Ye’re my prisoner—or my guest.” The anxiety on Aileana’s face should have stopped him, but it failed to do so as his temper gained mastery over him. “Ye choose how ye’re to be treated. Ordering the laird about will, like as not, get ye treated as a prisoner.”

With that, he stepped into the room around the usually unflappable Elspie, whose eyebrows now arced up to her salt-and-pepper hairline. He gestured her out, and closed the door softly, menacingly, behind him, leaving the Healer gaping at him over her shoulder.

“Cover yerself,” he commanded, noting the tempting swell of her backside and grabbing onto his control with both hands, “unless ye want me to make something more…or rather, less, of yer current attire. Something more appropriate to the treatment of a female prisoner.”

To Toran’s sneaking amusement, the Healer’s mouth opened and closed, twice, before she could get a sound out. “At least,” she began, then apparently thought better of her temper and started over. “Could you at least turn your back?” That was better. He would not be ordered around in his own keep. Satisfied, Toran turned to face the door and exhaled his annoyance with a breath.

“While ye dress, ye can tell me whether Colbridge survived his wounds, and why he’s gone to war with the Highland clans.”

Behind him, he could hear the soft rustle of a robe sliding over the night shift, hiding that beautiful body. Disappointment settled over him as the robe settled over her.

“You can turn around,” the Healer told him, and he turned to see her finish pulling soft slippers onto her feet. Toran was struck again by her beauty and grace as she sat down at the dressing table and calmly began plaiting her hair. The urge to gather those tresses in both hands and bury his face in them overwhelmed him. He nearly stepped forward to put thought into action when the Healer began speaking, stopping him in his tracks.

“He lives. Or he did when last I saw him. And I know little more about him than I told you this morning,” she said quickly while she worked. Her eyes never left the fire. “Colbridge owned, long ago, a minor hold on the border. He has taken advantage of the lack of clan leadership since the massacre at Flodden. I heard him once call a clan he’d beaten easy pickings because its surviving laird was a seven-year-old boy. He gathered broken men together with him and headed north. He destroyed my village two summers past.”

She glanced toward Toran, then looked away. “My family did not survive. When my mother discovered my father’s body among the dead in the field, she could not go on. She killed herself with his dirk.” She paused before quickly resuming her braiding. Toran noticed that her hands trembled ever so slightly.

“One of Colbridge’s closest lieutenants was injured. They brought him to me when they found out I remained the only living Healer in the area. The Talent had come on me four years before. I was born to it,” she said, “like my mother, and hers before her. When Colbridge moved on, I had no choice. He took me with him. I’ve been under his protection ever since, and the men have come to respect and depend on me, so they do not accost me. I was in no danger in the camp you took me from.”

A fierce sense of elation, tinged with relief, shook Toran as he digested that news. She was untouched. Incredible. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her as she finished with the heavy braid and secured the end with ribbon. She tugged the braid over her shoulder to drape down the back of her robe, then folded her hands in her lap, but kept her head erect.

Toran suffered a moment’s regret for what the girl had been through, but only a moment, for those trials had brought the woman before him into his hands. He recalled the headlong ride from Colbridge’s camp, and how, despite being consumed with controlling the horse and avoiding pursuit, he’d been aware of her body pressed against the arm he’d wrapped around her waist and the tightness in his groin where he held her in front of him. It had taken all his skill, if not quite all his concentration, to get them safely to the Aerie. Having seen her sweet form in the firelight, Toran did not know if he would again have the power to hold her in his arms and concentrate on the ride, no matter the danger.

As he watched her wait for his next question, he also recalled the warmth of her hand on his arm where her nails had pierced the skin. Absently, Toran rubbed the area. Only faint pink lines remained. How had she done that? What had she done in the tent as he lay senseless from the blow to his head? What did she mean when she said talent had come on her? Wasn’t healing all potions and poultices and herbs from the garden?

By main force, he brought his wandering thoughts back to the present and the information he needed tonight.

“How did Colbridge surprise the MacAnalens, and prevent them from summoning aid?”

“I am not privy to his tactics,” she replied evenly and shrugged. “I know he sends out advance scouts. Perhaps they surrounded the village and prevented the escape of any runner.” Finally, she turned her head, met and held his gaze.

“Perhaps,” was all Toran could manage to answer while the meadow green of her eyes held him mesmerized.

“My assistants and I are always well away from the battle,” she continued, looking away. “Colbridge’s wounded are carried to us for care.”

“Which ye seem to do verra well.” With her eyes averted, Toran found his voice and his focus returned to him. He studied the proud and defiant lass before him and waited, in silence, for her to go on. But it seemed she knew that tactic, and was prepared to wait him out. He smiled to himself as he leaned against the door and crossed his arms over his chest. “How is it that a man still lives who seemed near to dead this morning of a blow that would kill any other?”

“I healed him.” She barely breathed her simple answer.

“Like ye healed my arm where yer nails pierced the skin?”

“Aye.”

Toran pushed away from the door and stood straight, hands clenched at his side. “And like ye healed my battle wounds?” he demanded.

“Aye.” Aileana’s voice didn’t waver. Though he saw her tense as he stood, she did not flinch at his tone.
Stop being such an ass,
he told himself,
or ye’ll scare her into silence.
He leaned back against the door.

“And where is Colbridge next taking his campaign?”

“Here, I’d imagine. Especially now that I am here.” Her flat, even tone made it clear that she believed that to be a simple statement of fact.

Toran shook his head in wonderment. Before he could say anything, she continued, “He will discover where I’ve been taken and will want me back, as much as he will want to capture the Aerie.”

“Ye place great value on yerself, to equal the Aerie.”

“Not I. Colbridge.”

“Ah, of course. He values ye as I do my home and my people because...?”

“Because I can keep him alive. And his men,” she said, returning her gaze to him. “Without me, the success of his campaign is no longer assured.”

Satisfaction surged through Toran, warming him from the inside out. Without this Healer, Colbridge would be at a disadvantage—real or imagined, it mattered not. He would be weakened. He would know that he had walked away from a battle wound for the last time.

****

Aileana studied the big man leaning so casually against her door. He’d been formidable, stretched out on the table in her Healer’s tent. On his feet, healthy, fully in his power and in his own keep, formidable was too weak a word. He fascinated her. His genial arrogance annoyed her; his size, strength and powerful position frightened her, but still, she found him compelling.

She’d distracted herself by braiding her hair, keeping her eyes away from the bed, and looking anywhere but at him as he questioned her. Now, she had no further diversion, and no excuse to look anywhere else, nor did she want to.

In the flickering firelight he seemed taller and broader than any real man could be. The metal and crystal of his torc gleamed at his powerful throat, half covered by the fall of his thick, dark hair. But she knew just how real he was. She had touched him. She had healed his hurts. She knew the beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his massive chest, the length of his lashes when they rested on his high cheekbones. She’d depended on the strength of his arm securing her against his hard torso as he rode headlong through the hills, and blushed at the forbidden hardness of his manhood pressing against her hip.