The Healer's Gift (6 page)

Coira sighed and rose, steeling herself against the lapping wavelets of irritation and mistrust moving toward her like a rising tide. Some people projected such strong feelings that Coira’s senses could barely register anything else around her. This woman was one of those, though Coira got nearly as much from her shrill voice as she did from the disdain that felt like icy spray hitting her skin. Surely, this woman and whomever she was speaking to would pass by soon.

“Ye mean the one named Coira,” another voice answered the shrill one quietly. “I do wonder what really happened in the Highlands, eh?”

“And what about these rumors I’m hearing?”

The rumors again? Would they never die down?

Shrill’s spike of irritation added icicles to the sea spray sensation. Coira fought to keep her breathing even and slow.
Please go on by. Dinna come in here.

“I canna guess what news ye might be hearing,” the softer voice answered. “Tell me!”

“The lass was so difficult before she was sent away that no man here would have her. No man there, either, it seems, since they sent her back to us.”

Shame, hot and deep, speared Coira through the gut. If only she could erase the person she’d been from everyone’s memories. Though she wanted to protest that she’d changed, she held her tongue and thought about sandbars and offshore winds, clear sunny days that flattened the sea into a shimmering mirror. Her breathing slowed as she began to feel calm. In moments, she realized something was happening. Like a tide going out, the shrill one’s onslaught was receding, diminishing.

“She’d best no’ get any ideas about the laird here, mind ye.” Shrill’s voice penetrated the soothing image she’d built in her mind.

Coira couldn’t help reacting. She stiffened, but remained silent as the harridan continued, her disdain breaking through to Coira like water breaking through a dam—a trickle at first, but growing fast.

“She failed to become the Lathan lady, or she wouldna be back.”

The truth of that pinched at Coira, deeply and painfully.

“She willna be so exalted here either,” the soft-voiced woman’s tone dripped sarcasm. “What makes her think she’s so special? Other lasses—that Campbell chit for one—would be a better match for the clan. At least, there we’d gain an alliance that might stop the Campbell raids. If our laird lasts much longer as laird, that is.”

What?
What did she mean, “…if he lasts much longer as laird”? Coira nearly bolted to the gate, to see who spoke, but caution held her in place. If they knew she overheard, they would not reveal anything else. She wanted to clench her fists, but that would amplify her own emotional state, which was far from the calm she’d almost achieved.

But this woman seemed to know something. Her certain tone chilled Coira in a way that even the shrill-voiced woman had failed to do. She knew something about a threat to Logen. Coira tensed and opened herself, questing, sensing as much as she could, no matter the discomfort. Aye, the soft-spoken woman was unsettled. Ambitious. For her husband? But fearful, too. That Logen would prevail? Or someone else would? She had no way to tell, short of reading the woman’s thoughts, which Coira could not do.

Her shrill companion felt quizzical, dissatisfied. Then they moved away and Coira groaned in frustration. What did the soft-spoken woman know?

She dared not follow. They would see her and know they had been overheard. And if the soft-voiced woman really did know the conspirators, realizing that Coira had overheard them might put Logen in immediate danger. Nay, she could not follow them.

But she had learned something valuable from the encounter. As she had tried to do with Logen, willing herself to serenity, or as close to it as she could achieve, seemed to have a similar effect on the women. Almost as if her own calm was contagious, she’d felt their agitation lessen slightly. Or had she simply begun the process of learning to build the walls she needed to block out such people? Either way, it was a step in the right direction.

Should she stay and finish her task? Or find Logen and tell him what she’d sensed? Nay, she didn’t know enough yet. But what she’d overheard had been fair warning. As if she needed any. The clan watched her—or some faction of it did. She dared not approach Logen too openly or she would invite more of the disdain the shrill woman had so enjoyed heaping upon her. Coira’s shoulders slumped.

To be talked about was bad enough, but to be discussed so openly and so cruelly, stung. Unbidden, tears wet her face. How could she ever hope to belong here when she could know, merely by passing nearby, how any person, in their most private thoughts, felt about her? Why had the Healer done this to her? Truly, she gave Coira no gift, but a lifelong punishment. Suddenly defeated, Coira ran for her chamber.

Chapter 4

Logen pored over the clan’s books. From the state of the records, the last lairds had given the clan’s wealth little attention, save for what use they could make of it. That would have to change, and the task would fall to him to untangle the mess they’d left behind. He’d enjoyed learning mathematics at St. Andrews, but he needed different skills for this
accounting
than anything he’d studied there. He wasn’t sure he knew where to start.

The clatter of running feet broke through Logen’s concentration. When he didn’t hear the sound of children’s laughter along with the clatter, he became concerned. The noise out in the hallway could be a welcome diversion, or it could mean more trouble headed his way. Logen stepped out of his solar just in time for Coira to slam into his chest.

“Oh!” As she bounced off, her hands flew up to cover her mouth, garbling her exclamation.

Logen reached out to steady her. “Where are ye goin’ in such a rush, lass? What’s amiss?” By the saints, she was crying! She kept her gaze on the floor, but the tear tracks on her face were unmistakeable, as were the hiccupped sobs she fought to choke back.

“’Tis nothing to concern the laird...to concern ye,” she said softly.

Logen heaved a rueful sigh. “Everything about this clan concerns me, lass. Now, where were ye headed?”

“Upstairs...to my chamber.”

She still wouldn’t look up at him. With her sensitivity to others, anything could have caused her upset.

“Come in here and tell me the problem.” Logen herded her gently into his solar and closed the door with his foot, not wanting to release the grip he had on her shoulders for fear she’d bolt. He steered her to a chair and saw her seated, then hesitated and took the seat next to her. The chair behind the table would make him seem too distant, too official.

“I shouldna be here.” Coira wiped the tears from her face and gave him a tremulous attempt at a smile. “People will talk.”

Logen snorted. After spending the last several hours trying to unravel the tangled knots of the clan’s business, he had a headache and no patience for any more nonsense. If the laird could not speak in private with the woman the clan elders had made his charge, then a pox on all of them.

Coira stood. “Ye’re irritated. I’ve interrupted yer work. I should go.”

“Nay, not with ye.” Logen waived her back to her seat. “I’m irritated with the fools who think political games and assassination are the way to bring stability and prosperity to this clan or this country. The idiots who killed for power seem to have had no ability to see to this clan’s welfare.” At her quizzical frown, Logen grimaced. He forced himself to lean back and soften his tone, despite his irritation. “Never mind. Tell me what has ye so upset. Did someone attack ye?”

“No’ directly, nay.”

“What does that mean?”

“I was working in the herb garden. Two women passed by. I felt...”

“Ach. Now I see. Ye couldna shut them out? Close them off?”

She shook her head. “I havena the skill. Although there were a few moments when I thought I’d managed to make them...dimmer somehow.”

“Ye must seize on that, then.” There was a downside to knowing what everyone thought of you, Logen realized. Despite how useful it would be to know who hated him enough to plot against him—or didn’t care about him but wanted their own faction in power enough to kill him—drowning in those sensations all the time would wear anyone down. “Are ye sure what ye sense was directed at ye? Ye just misunderstood my irritation. Perhaps they...”

“They were talking, too. I heard their cutting remarks.”

He rubbed his jaw. “Ach, I’m sorry for that.”

“There’s naught ye can do.”

“Save cutting out their tongues?”

Even without possessing a special sense such as hers, Logen could easily read Coira’s shock. Then she picked up on his amusement, because she relaxed for the first time since he’d seated her.

“Ah, ye jest.” She sighed. “Although the idea does have some merit.”

“Ye must learn to protect yerself from the emotions of others. I’ll help ye, if ye wish.”

Her shoulders lifted with tension as she sat forward. “Why would ye? Ye have more than enough to do as laird.”

Logen sighed and fought to keep his dismay from her. The last thing he wanted to tell her was that the elders had made her his charge, so he
was
responsible for her. And
felt
responsible for her. Nay, bad as that was, it was only the next-to-last thing he wanted to tell her. The last thing was to confess his interest in her was personal, affectionate, sensual. Aye, she’d sensed it. But saying it out loud? It was much too soon for that. And given her experience in the highlands, he expected she’d be wary of anything other than friendship from him. From the sound of it, pursuing the last laird had nearly destroyed her. Aye, and nearly killed her.

She shifted in her chair. “I dinna need yer pity, laird.”

Logen winced. He needed a wall around his feelings, too, it seemed. “I dinna feel pity, Coira. ’Tis dismay over the difficulty of what ye need to learn to do.” Aye, she could sense what he felt, but not why. And truly, he did not lie. “The unknown.” He glanced toward the window, thinking.

“Ye forget, I can sense what ye’re feeling, no matter what ye call it. I ken it.”

He needed to divert her. “Can ye do now what ye did with those women? Can ye block me out?” He indicated the area between them and moved a hand up and down. “Build a wall between us?”

She frowned, but settled herself and closed her eyes. “I’ll try.”

“What do I need to do?”

Her brows drew together again. “Naught. Give me a moment...”

Logen willed himself to calmness.

“Nay! Dinna do that,” Coira suddenly exclaimed. “Think about what had ye irritated when I arrived.”

Logen glanced toward the ledger on the table and the stack of papers—scraps, mostly, littering the surface around it—and groaned.

“That’s better.”

The twitch of her lips into a satisfied smirk only served to increase his irritation. Better that, he supposed, than quailing under how much she had at stake if this didn’t work. In comparison, his task seemed trivial. Nay, not trivial. The incompetence of his predecessors had consequences, too, for the clan as well as for him.

He risked a glance in her direction. Her frown gave away nothing but concentration. He stood quietly and moved around the table. If she wanted him irritated, he might as well accomplish something with the irritation. With a sigh, he opened the ledger and bent to work.

****

Coira built dunes along the pounding surf of Logen’s irritation until they stretched as far as her mind could see. Then she built them higher. His irritation still hid behind them, the roar muted, the wind blocked.

It worked! But could she maintain the barrier without focusing all her concentration on it? She opened her eyes and glanced around, surprised to see that Logen had changed his seat. She hadn’t noticed. That pleased her. A dune crumbled and some of the roar came back as Logen frowned at his ledger and made a note on the side. Coira closed her eyes and rebuilt the barrier, then opened them again.

Logen glanced up and met her gaze. He smiled.

Coira’s heart stuttered to see it, but her barrier held.

“Did ye do it?”

“Aye, I am. But I want to try something else.” She stood, turned away from him, and moved to the window. “Keep working.”

She held the essence of the dune wall in the back of her mind while she studied the activity in the bailey below Logen’s window. Then she moved to the bookcase and pulled a volume from the shelf, noting its weight, the texture of the binding, the dust along the top. Logen muttered an oath behind her, but the dunes held.

Sweet relief filled her. She could do this. At least here, isolated in Logen’s workspace, for a time. But in a crowd? Or facing hostile emotions directed at her? That would take more practice. She needed a harder test. She replaced the book on the shelf and moved back to the table. Logen set his work aside and faced her.

“I want to touch ye, to see if my barrier will hold.”

“Take my hand, then.” He held his arm out.

Coira took a deep breath, brought the dunes to the forefront of her mind and took Logen’s hand in both of hers.

The dunes dissolved and the roar of the angry surf crashed over her. Coira pulled away from Logen and shuddered. “Too much.”

“I’m sorry. I...these records were poorly kept.”

Was it only irritation with his task she felt? Or was there something else angering Logen as well? “Please, I’d like to try again.”