The Healer's Gift (11 page)

Terror pierced Coira like the blade the man held to the lass’s throat, freezing Coira where she stood. The horror of seeing her own actions played out before her nearly sent her to her knees, but she forced herself to stay on her feet, wary, as the guards sorted out the other prisoners.

Logen jumped down from the high table’s platform and slowly approached the grim-faced leader. “MacMakon, what do ye think ye’re doing? Let the lass go!”

Logen’s voice cut through Coira’s shock. She took a breath.

Some women slowly pulled the remaining children away from the confrontation as the men in the crowd moved toward it. To Coira, it felt like a tide, surging and receding. Logen waved them to stillness.

“Keep back!” MacMakon glared at the men near him, most of whom were fingering their weapons. Then he turned his attention back to Logen, who still stood too far away to reach him. “Dinna try it. I’ll cut her throat if any of ye takes another step.”

Coira closed her eyes to the scene before her and focused on MacMakon’s voice. What she sensed chilled her. He wasn’t afraid! He kept his excitement hidden, but it churned like turbulence deep below the surface. He was enjoying the confrontation with Logen and the rapt attention of the clan. Coira opened her eyes and studied the hand that held the dirk. Aye, she could see a fine tremor, evidence of his exhilaration.

“If ye dinna wish to die right here,” Logen told him, “ye’ll let the lass go.”

“I’ll let her go when I’m outside the gates.”

“Do ye think I’ll let ye leave? Or trust ye to release her? Nay, she’s just a bairn. Let her be.”

“Get my horse ready to ride. I’ll no’ tell ye twice.”

Coira took a step closer, dismay making her belly roil. Could she calm him? Lull him into dropping the blade? She would try anything to save the lass, but she had to control herself first—the very thing she’d been unable to do that awful night in the Lathan hall.

After a deep breath, she stepped forward before anyone else could react. “Let her go. Take me instead.”

She felt the spike of surprise of the people in the room like spray splashing off of rocks. And Logen’s fear for her—an arc of lightning in a stormy sky. His gaze cut to hers, then back to the man he faced.

“Nay,” Logen waved her back. “Ye willna. No one will leave here.”

She ignored Logen’s order. She would save this lass to make up for what she had done at the Lathan keep. Her memory of the horror of that night overlaid what she saw now with her own eyes. Her hands trembled as she reached out to the lass. “Come away. I will take yer place.” She locked gazes with MacMakon. “I will ride with ye until ye are a safe distance from the keep.”

She fought to keep her voice low and calm, to find the lassitude that might ease the tension in the room. If anyone else rushed MacMakon, the lass would die before Coira could free her. She pictured the sea, flat and calm, the cloudless blue sky, nary a breeze to ruffle her hair.

As her belly settled, MacMakon’s tremors stilled. The lass in his arms looked heavy-lidded, ready to fall asleep, where moments before she had been wide-eyed with terror.

“Coira…”

She kept her gaze on MacMakon. She dared not look at Logen. All her effort must remain focused on the man and the child.

“Please release her,” she pleaded. “Ye can take me. We’ll walk out to the bailey. I willna fight ye. No’ a man will stop us.”

She sensed Logen moving nearer to her, but keeping his distance, not threatening MacMakon. Aye, Logen remembered, and knew what she was trying to do.

“Ye’ll slow my mount. The lass is lighter.”

Logen’s voice broke the sudden stillness. “Ye lads, go saddle his horse,” he commanded. “Quickly now.”

“It’s being done,” Coira assured MacMakon, never taking her gaze from his. She felt his tension ebb as his shoulders dropped and the blade moved a finger’s width away from the lass’s throat. Coira took a slow step forward. When MacMakon failed to react, she took another. She got close enough to touch him. But dare she do that, yet?

“Let the lass go. I am here.”

Suddenly, MacMakon shoved the child aside and grabbed Coira’s arm, pulling her close and laying the dirk’s blade against her neck. “Verra well. If the laird doesna want ye to go with me, then ye must be important enough to him to ensure he’ll do what I say.”

Time seemed to stop. Coira shoved aside her fear, took a breath and touched his wrist, as though seeking to defend herself, where his sleeve slid back to expose skin. She had braced against the flood of emotions, so she was able to maintain her composure, at least on the surface. She exhaled and slowed her breathing even further, seeking to regain the calm the touch of cold steel against her throat had disrupted. Calm, flat water. Not a hint of air moving over the dunes. Bright sunlight in a cloudless sky.

She and MacMakon stood that way for several minutes, until one of the lads Logen had sent for the horse ran back into the room. “’Tis ready, laird.”

“We can go,” Coira said, so softly she imagined only the man at her back could hear her. She met Logen’s worried gaze with a slight nod, careful of the sharp edge at her throat.

“Move yer men aside, laird,” MacMakon said. “Ye have the lass. And I have this one. Which one would ye have preferred to lose?”

Logen tensed and Coira didn’t need her new sense to know he was poised to answer MacMakon’s taunt with a refusal. If he did, MacMakon would likely kill her. Logen knew it. She held Logen’s gaze, not daring to narrow her eyes at him where others could see and react when he did nothing.

“We’re leaving.” MacMakon’s sudden statement startled her, but she fought for calm and breathed. At Logen’s gesture, the clan stepped to either side of the hall, opening an aisle through the middle. MacMakon lifted the blade from her skin and nudged her forward.

Nudged. Not shoved. Coira tamped down on her elation. She moved slowly, as if fearful of jostling the blade near her throat, buying time to judge how well her attempt was working. MacMakon did nothing to hurry her along. As they approached the spot where Logen stood by, she held his gaze and inclined her head ever so slightly. Did he understand what she’d done? He mirrored her slight movement. Aye, he did.

As she came abreast of him, Logen struck, first knocking the blade from MacMakon’s hand then delivering another blow that crumpled him to the floor, out cold. It had taken only seconds. Then Logen’s arms wrapped around her, speeding her heart. He pulled her out of the way as Darach and Ross surged forward to haul MacMakon to his feet and hustle him and his fellow conspirators to the dungeon.

“Ye brave lass!” A woman’s declaration pierced the low rumble of voices filling the hall as the men were led out. “Aye, she saved the bairn,” said another.

“Brave, aye. And foolish.” Logen’s voice in her ear was a balm to her senses as the rising tide of approval threatened to bring her to tears.

She hadn’t done this for the clan’s approval. She’d done it to atone for threatening another lass, not so long ago. But the people cheering for her now must never know that.

“Ye couldha been killed,” Logen scolded softly as the noise in the hall increased.

“Nay, I dinna think so.”

“Ye calmed him like ye did those women outside the garden, aye? Ye didna need me. Ye wouldha escaped him easily once ye got away from other people.” Logen’s simple statement thrilled her. Not only his acceptance of her ability but his confidence in her.

“Aye. It worked. He didna even try to defend himself against ye.”

Logen touched her arm and gestured to the side, then remained silent as a woman led the lass MacMakon had threatened to Coira.

“Thank the lady,” the woman told her.

“Thank ye, lady.”

Coira nearly lost the girl’s high, lilting voice in the din, but her confusion was clear. She dropped to her knees and hugged the child. “All is well, lass. What is yer name?”

“Oona, lady.”

“Oona, the bad man will never come near ye again.” She took the child’s face in her hands and touched foreheads with her, doing all she could to project calm water, clear sky, peace. “Now, how do ye fare?”

“I’m sleepy.”

“That is as it should be. Go on to yer rest then. Ye are a brave lass, Oona.”

She stood and watched the woman lead the girl away. Had Aileana done something to soothe the lass Coira had threatened? Coira hoped so.

Finally, Logen called for order and the rumble of conversation quieted down. The mood in the hall seemed much improved. Even friendly. Coira wasn’t sure what to make of that. She found a seat on a nearby bench and listened as Logen assured the clan that those found innocent would be released back to their kin very soon.

Then the hall cleared as everyone scattered to their duties. Coira wondered what their mood would be when they returned for the evening meal, but perhaps by then, Logen would release some of the men. For now, she needed to tell Logen what she’d learned about the other men as well as what she’d discovered while in MacMakon’s clutches.

Instead, she made her way out of the hall into the bailey and around to the garden. When they’d planned for her to study each of the men, Logen had warned her not to approach him in the hall afterward and give others cause to suspect her of condemning the accused men. As it turned out, she didn’t think anyone would notice if she and Logen continued to talk. But she couldn’t take the chance of being overheard, so she kept to their plan.

She tried the gate’s latch and acted as if it still stuck, even though the smith had fixed it two days before. But appearing to wrestle with it gave her the excuse she needed to go back into the keep. Anyone who followed her would suppose she sought the smith, who had stayed in the hall with a few of the men, discussing the situation over a cup of ale. In truth, she would meet Logen, as they’d planned, in Mhairi’s private chamber next to the nursery. His solar would become a gathering place for those who wished to argue for the release of their kin. And she still felt he could not be seen near her chamber, so she would wait for him where her presence in the hallway was accepted and unremarkable. By the time Logen dismissed the petitioners, Mhairi would be watching over the bairns napping in the nursery, and they could talk privately.

An hour later, Logen slipped quietly through the door.

“How were the families?” she asked as he stepped into the chamber.

“As I expected. Their men are all innocent, of course, even MacMakon, who they claim acted out of concern he would be falsely condemned.”

“They are not all innocent.” Coira gave him her impressions of each man. “Be wary, especially of MacMakon,” she told him when she finished. “Even before he grabbed the lass, he stood out. He was arrogant, amused, unworried. I hope yer men keep their guard up around him. I dinna think he expects to be held for very long.”

“I am still going to speak to each of the men individually. All I need to seal his fate is one or two to implicate him in the killings, especially after what he did today in front of the entire clan.” Logen turned back to the door. “Thank ye, Coira.”

“Keep Darach with ye at least. Ye are even more of a target, now that ye have moved against that man.” She placed a hand on Logen’s arm. “It will be best for the clan if ye are still here to be laird. To have this over. To heal.”

“I couldna agree more. If his men will give him up, he’ll hang. I’ll pardon any of the rest who weren’t involved in the killings.” With that, he slipped out again.

Coira moved to the window and stared out at the sea, unsettled to her bones. Despite the sunny afternoon, Logen’s mood had been as black as the storm clouds building up on the far horizon. Would a change in the weather signal a change in the fortunes of the clan? Only time would tell.

Chapter 8

Logen stared through the bare branches of the Dule Tree, the hanging tree that stood at the edge of the woods in full view of the clan’s home. He kept his eyes on the black clouds moving onshore behind the keep rather than on the man with the noose around his neck. How fitting for the sun to be lost in the clouds’ inky depths and for this man never again to see the light of day.

MacMakon stood pale and sweating on the wagon. His bravado having fled, he clearly dreaded the order for it to be shoved out from under his feet. Logen had given that order twice already, carrying out the sentence of death by hanging against two other men for having the blood of lairds on their hands. MacMakon’s henchmen, given up by the others, had fully condemned themselves with their own boasts. One of them was the Alasdair Darach had suspected. The other was one of the men Andrew had named before he cut his own throat on Logen’s blade. Like them, MacMakon would hang from the rope tossed over the stout branch above his head until he was dead.

“Have ye any last words, MacMakon, to atone for the lives ye have taken and the grief ye have caused yer clan? Yer kin?”

The man spat, eliciting angry mutterings from the watching crowd. Then he threw his head back and shouted, “Dinna forget!”

Logen refused to react to the declaration, though it confirmed what he had feared all along. While it might simply seem to be the plea of a condemned man, Campbells took that phrase as their own. Campbells were behind the deaths, using battles between MacDugall’s to clear the way for them to take over the clan and its lands.

He signaled the men poised at the sides of the wagon. Everything after that seemed to happen in slow motion. The wagon wheels rocked slightly before releasing and turning fully. In seconds, MacMakon hanged and a woman wailed. But an ugly murmur of “Campbell” also echoed in the crowd. Logen ignored it all and waited until the body stopped kicking and hung limp. Then he turned to the crowd gathered to watch their laird’s justice.