The Healer's Gift (2 page)

Instead of taking a seat at the large table dominating the room, she moved to the window. The view was little different than the one she’d regarded along the cliff and did not hold her attention now. She turned her back on it and studied the nearby bookcases.

She could read, but rarely had when she lived at home before her fostering, preferring to spend her time gossiping with the other lasses over their needlework. She pulled an especially worn volume from the nearest shelf and opened it, moving to the window to better see the lettering within. Poetry. French. But even familiar words made no sense to her. Suddenly irritated, she realized she was in no state to concentrate enough to tease out their meaning.

“Ah, Francois Villon. Do ye read his poetry, then?”

Coira’s heart skipped a beat as the deep voice broke the silence. She snapped the book shut and whirled to face the intruder. Her eyes widened as she regarded the man before her. Tall, a few years older than she, with the gold-streaked brown hair common among the clan, his external demeanor was calm, his expression and tone of voice cordial.

Although she hadn’t heard him enter the room, she realized where her irritation had come from—him. As he arrived, or certainly when he approached her closely enough to recognize the book she held, a favorite, judging by the wear on it, she felt it. Yet his irritation faded, quickly replaced by curiosity. He held out his hand.

Without thinking, she placed the book in it. Her irritation suddenly spiked. Hers? Or his?

This man was angry, but hiding it behind his deceptively simple question and polite treatment of a stranger. How much did he know about her?

“Are…are ye laird...” she managed to stutter.

“Logen MacDugall, aye, newly Laird MacDugall. And ye are Coira, recently returned to us from the highlands.” He turned the book over in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, then returned his gaze to her. “Ye must tell me of yer adventures there. I’m sorry I failed to welcome ye before now, but our healer wished ye to have some time to yerself.”

So his anger had not been directed at her? Her lack of understanding of this new ability frustrated her, but she dared not show it. If he was not the firebrand she expected, bent on delivering her punishment, she did not want to incite his anger further. What should she do? A flush warmed her chest and neck.

“I...I thought that was why I had been summoned, laird. Because of my...misadventure there.”

A hint of sadness drifted to her, heavy and low, followed by a slight creasing of the skin between his brows, then stronger chagrin. Logen’s lips pursed and he stepped away, behind the table. “Indeed. Please, sit down.”

“Is no one else joining us?”

“What? Nay. I wish to speak with ye without the...interference of others.”

Coira exhaled softly, tightly controlling the urge to sigh in relief. No onlookers. No one else to judge her. No storm of others’ emotions in the chamber to confuse and overwhelm her. She might get through this with her dignity intact after all.

She nodded and took a seat, head down, hands clasped in her lap, and waited.

When the silence became unbearable, she looked up again. Laird MacDugall, Logen, watched her. A chill ran down her back, but she held his brown-eyed gaze, suddenly emboldened by his hesitation.

“Ye ken this is an unusual...”

“I understand this is unusual...”

They spoke over each other. Logen’s lips lifted slightly, and Coira nodded in acknowledgement of the awkwardness. “How much did my escort tell ye?”

Logen sat and placed the book on the table in front of him. “Enough.” Suddenly he seemed cold, closed off from her.

Coira blanched. Enough...for what?

Logen’s gaze drifted to the window where the sun hid behind puffy clouds. His unreadable expression gave her no clues as to what he was thinking—or feeling.

Though her strange new talent worried her, the loss of its insight frightened her. Waiting for his judgment set her teeth on edge. Coira fought the urge to cross her arms over her chest.

Suddenly, a ray of sunshine brightened the room. Logen turned to her and nodded. “The Lathan, on the advice of his lady, excused yer actions due to the illness ye suffered while ye fostered with them, and hoped returning to the sea air would make ye well.”

“What?” Confusion swept over her, stealing her breath and forcing her to her feet. Suddenly, she was back in the Lathan great hall, watching as Toran, Laird Lathan and his new bride, the Healer Aileana, approached her. She could feel the trembling child beneath her arm, the dirk in her other hand. And see Donal MacNabb’s steely glare focused right between her eyes. Her own feelings were still missing. Numb. Even the memory of plunging the dirk into the Healer’s chest and the fire of Donal MacNabb’s blade as it pierced her side failed to arouse any of the fury that had been a howling, raging beast within her that night. It was as if everything had happened to someone else. Not to her.

“Are ye well, Coira MacDugall? I was told the Lathan Healer treated ye.”

“I...” Coira’s knees went weak, and she lowered herself into her seat as another memory claimed her attention. Dimly, as if viewed through morning fog, she saw Aileana leaning over her where she’d collapsed on the rush-strewn floor. A blood-soaked cloth covered the wound Coira had inflicted on the Healer, but her hands moved over Coira’s dying body with strength and…what? She felt the warmth of the blood welling from her own wound as Donal’s blade was drawn from her side. Then it all faded away, except she could almost hear Aileana speaking to her, like an echo from distant hills. Faint, but repeating. What had the Healer said to her? What had she
done
?

“Must I be concerned for yer future well-being? Or that of the clan?”

Logen’s voice yanked her back to the present, shocking her, like cold water to her face. “What?” It took a second to recall what he’d said. “Nay!”

“Then ye are well?”

She took a breath. Where was her anger? Had the Healer stolen her emotions, only to give her an awareness of the emotions of others? “I...believe so, Laird MacDugall.”

“Yet yer escort recommended ye be watched. So ye have been observed since ye returned to us. There havena been any reports of strange maladies in the clan. Ye have remained compliant with the Healer’s instruction for rest and contemplation. For that reason, I willna set upon ye the penalty my advisors recommend.”

Penalty? Coira’s heart pounded its distress at hearing the word, though she’d expected nothing less. What penalty? What did they know, or think she’d done? Logen gave her no chance to ask.

“Instead, ye will rejoin the clan. But ye must make yer own way back into their trust.”

No punishment? Had she understood him correctly? If he knew what she’d done, how could he think she deserved a reprieve? “Is that possible?”

“I fear I am not the best person to ask, being newly made laird. I am not entirely in the clan’s favor either.”

The change in subject confused her. She shook her head. “Out of favor? How can that be?”

Logen shrugged. “I am the remainder of several candidates whose factions, in essence, eliminated each of them from contention. That left me most favored long enough to be elected laird.”

Was that a whiff of fear she detected? Or resignation? Did he expect to meet the same fate, sooner or later? And what would happen to her if he became some faction’s next victim? Would that leave someone in power who would deal more harshly with her? What penalty had his advisors recommended?

Coira gave in to the urge to cross her arms over her chest. What sort of mess had she returned to? And what would be the clan’s reaction when they learned their laird had decided not to punish her? Did he have allies, or was he as alone here as she? Was he truly strong enough to defy his advisors or was he using her to test them? Would they take it upon themselves to retaliate for the wrongs she’d done to the Lathans and to the clan’s reputation? Her stomach roiled as her mind ran through the possibilities.

She’d expected to be punished. What was she supposed to do now?

****

Logen tensed as he stared down the table in his solar at the latest of his advisors to decry his decision not to punish Coira. Based on the few hints her escort had let slip about events in the highlands, rumors had been swirling since she arrived, growing wilder and more dire with each passing day. It troubled Logen that the escort was clearly under orders not to reveal everything they knew. But the message from the Lathan laird had been specific in its forgiveness of whatever had happened. Since the Lathan did not demand consequences, Logen had no reason to impose any, and he certainly would not do so based on rumor.

If only he knew what had happened that required such…circumspection…or was it compassion…from the highland clan.

But he was right, whether these ruffians could see it or not. Forcing Coira to make her own way was harsher punishment than lashes or time spent in the dungeon could be, no matter how well deserved—or undeserved—they might be. She would find regaining the clan’s trust hard going, but nothing worthwhile was ever easy. She would succeed or fail on her own terms. Much as he would do.

“The Lathan only wished the sea air would restore her. Did that sound like a man, or a clan, bent on revenge?”

“So ye mean to allow her to walk among us, unguarded, unsupervised, as though nothin’ happened?” Rannulf would not let this go.

“Aye,” Logen repeated for at least the sixth time. “Unguarded, but no’ unobserved. Every eye in the clan will be upon her, and she kens it well. Ye must give her the chance to prove herself—”

“We mustna do any such thing,” old Eric interjected in his crackly voice. “She’s been among wild highlanders these last two years, where the auld laird sent her against our advice. They sent her back to recuperate from…what? Some strange ailment that requires isolation and rest? She could be a danger to the other lasses, the bairns.”

Logen fought down the irritation this discussion was causing him. If he was to convince these fools, he must remain calm, his tone reasonable. “She isna. The healer has approved her. She’s hale, a great deal more than ye. So watch her all ye like. She will again become a useful member of this clan, and ye’ll no’ be able to deny her.”

“And what makes ye so certain of that? Are ye hankerin’ for a lass, then. One new to ye? Do ye think by going easy on her, she’ll lift her skirts for ye in thanks?”

Logen snorted his disgust, then leaned forward and pinned Rannulf with a glare. “I dinna think any such thing. And if
ye
were thinking, ye’d realize I havena gone easy on her.” He emphasized his point by tapping the table between them with his index finger, when in truth, he’d rather use the pommel of his sword. “The clan wouldha’ accepted any punishment the Lathans demanded. They didna. The Lathan wished her well, for God’s sake. But to satisfy the concerns of a few, what she must do now is much harder. She will spend as long as it takes making amends to every member of this clan for any discord she may have caused.” As the rude chuckle erupted around the room, Logen slammed his fist onto the table. “If one hair on her head is disturbed by any man whose attentions she doesna welcome, I’ll gut that man myself. We dinna treat our lasses that way.”

“She’s no longer our lass.”

Logen stood and planted both fists on the table top, looming over Rannulf. “I’m laird here, and I say she is, born and bred. We are her family and it’s up to us to help her.”

“Who’s helpin’ the Lathans she harmed?”

“
If
she harmed any of them, and we havena any proof she did, they’ve been cared for and are no’ of concern to us. Coira is.”

Hugh, who’d kept silent up to now, leaned forward. “As laird, ye say she is again one of us. Let yer actions speak, then. Make her yer charge. She’ll be yer responsibility, and her actions will reflect directly on ye.”

A chorus of aye’s echoed around the room.

Logen grimaced, but saw no way to avoid the challenge. “Aye, I will. Hear me, then. Any harm done to her is harm done to me, and willna be ignored.” He looked from one side of the table to the other, making certain he had their full attention. “Ye may consider me little more than a fisherman who was made laird by accident, but think on this. I havena survived these long years at sea by being stupid or soft. Ye’ll remember that I beat all comers in training as a lad, and years of hauling nets have only made me stronger. I’m one of the few who walked away from Flodden.” Logen paused to force down the bile that threatened to rise into his throat. Now was no time for those memories. “Our clan has been through troubles, but that time is over. Dinna think to use this lass to stir them up again.”

“Sure of yerself, are ye?” Auld Eric’s voice never wavered.

“Sure enough.” Logen walked to the door and opened it, his meaning plain. “Now that’s clear, we’re done here.”

“For now.”

“Aye, for now.”

He stood by the door, making eye contact with each man as they left the room. He had to appear stronger than he felt at this moment. Their challenges, based on nothing more than speculation and aimed at a lass who had harmed none of them, told him he still had a great deal of work to do to consolidate his position in the clan. His power base was too small, since most were fishermen and too often gone from the keep to back him up in a violent confrontation. This meeting had not come to blows, but his advisors had just raised the stakes. His future was now even less in his control. Coira’s actions, Coira’s acceptance, would make the difference, not only for her future here, but his.