The Rogue (20 page)

Ian scowled. “Ye canna be serious. It’s pouring.”

Aye, and with any luck the rain would keep most inside and word that there was a Pagan in their midst wouldn’t spread as fast as he feared. “We ride, rain or nay rain.”

Muttering under his breath, Ian stomped out the door and down the stairs.

Angus soaked a rag in frigid water. Wringing it out, he whispered, “Ye are the one for keeping secrets, lass.” He shook his head as he wiped her brow. “What on earth will I do with ye now?”

He wiped her down with water, limb by limb. As he wiped the filth from her feet he wondered what had become of her delicate silver slippers. He tossed the dirty rag and reached for another, and started again with her face.

An hour later, Birdi’s fever still raged. At his wit’s end, he decided to soak all of her, front and back, and to hell with preserving her modesty. He pulled her into his arms and pulled off her shift.

His jaw went slack as he stared over her shoulder at her back. Scars—the likes of which he hadn’t seen even on friends, warriors—made lace out of her marble-white skin. Someone had taken a lash to her!

He laid her down and something deep in gut tightened.
Oh my God.
More scars marred the front of her. Fine, raised lines ran across her right shoulder, upper left arm, and left thigh. With a faint heart he dragged his gaze to her left side. The wound he’d caused had healed surprisingly well. ‘Twas now only a wee, faint, red line, but it, too, would eventually leave a scar. “Ack, lass, ye’ll never ken how much I regret hurting ye.”

He soaked another rag. As he scrubbed, he prayed. He would learn what had happened to her later.

~#~

Ian sat on the bottom step, his claymore across his lap. The fifteen men in the public room cast the occasional wary glance in his direction as he put a finer edge on his blade with a whetstone, but none spoke directly to him, though most, he suspected, talked of him. And of his friends above stairs.

Most in the room were
cairds
—tinkers—or herders come to Cairndow just for market day. They’d be leaving as soon as the sky cleared. Given the wind, that wouldn’t be long. And thank God. His friend had lost all perspective, thinking they should ride out in weather like this with a fevered woman. Which did bode well, he supposed, in one respect.

Whether his friend acknowledged it or not, Angus MacDougall was taken with his lass. It made Ian’s work—making Angus jealous and bringing him to the realization that he had his rightful bride already—that much easier.

And Birdi? She loved Angus, but he’d sensed a worrisome loss of patience within her. Why, he wasn’t sure. The woman hadn’t confided in him since doing so by the loch. That, too, he found disturbing. Women normally sought him out to worry aloud and ask his opinions. Birdi, however, was keeping her own counsel. Not a good thing, from his perspective, though it made her more intriguing.

And he still couldn’t believe Birdi was blind. He’d been with her for two days, and not once had she asked directions, run into something, or gotten lost. Until today.

He “humphed” deep in his throat, wondering how she was doing.

The door blew open and a drenched, rotund woman rolled over the threshold. Looking very agitated, she waddled over to the cluster of men in the far corner. As her plump arms waved, Ian watched the men’s expressions. Alarm registered on every face.

A heartbeat later the agitated and shouting patrons raced out the door.

Ian spit on his whetstone and again stroked the edge of his blade.

~#~

Hearing men shouting, Angus grabbed his broadsword and raced to the window. Bracing himself for the worst—finding the Gunns or raving villagers—he threw open the shutters.

To his monumental relief, people weren’t running toward the inn but away from it, pitchforks and scythes in hand.

He rolled the tension out of his shoulders, turned toward Birdi and saw he’d knocked over the bucket in his haste to get to the window. No matter. He needed more cold water, anyway. Though still fevered, Birdi now mumbled and occasionally thrashed. She was finally fighting her way out of her flaccid stupor.

He picked up the bucket and opened the door. Seeing Ian stationed at the base of the stairs, he called, “What was the racket about?”

Ian looked up. “A wolf has apparently helped himself to a few pullets.”

“Good for him.” Though he had no love for the beasts, at least this one had the sense to choose chickens instead of a babe or sheep. “I need more water.”

Ian climbed the stairs and took the bucket. “How is she?”

“Still fevered, but I think she’s getting better. I’ve no real reason. I just feel it in my bones.”

Ian forced a smile. “Bones and guts never lie.” As he started down the stair he asked, “Do ye want the broth now?”

Ack! He’d forgotten about the broth. Lady Beth swore by it, had shoveled bowls of it into his liege as he recovered. “Aye.”

Ian mumbled, “Be right back,” and Angus returned to the room to find Birdi, lips parched, curled in a shivering ball. “Merciful Mother!” He hauled her onto his lap and reached for her cape. He obviously had no intuitive bones. God, he loathed being in over his head.

Mayhap the village had a healer. He’d send Ian out to ask. It would leave them unguarded, but only for a short while. Surely he had the skill to hold off a mob intent on burning Birdi at the stake for a short while.

A minute later footsteps sounded on the stairs and Ian called, “‘Tis just me.”

He came in and dropped the bucket at Angus’s feet. His gaze immediately riveted on Birdi’s exposed back. “My God, who did that to her?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll kill the bastard as soon as I find out.” Angus shifted Birdi’s cloak a bit to better mask her nakedness from Ian. “Is the broth ready?”

“Aye, the publican’s wife is bringing it up along with some bread and cheese for ye.”

“I need ye to quietly ask around after a healer. I’ve done all I can to help her—”

“Nay.” Birdi, to his surprise, again croaked, “Nay.” She then licked her lips. “Drink.”

Relief flooded him.

Ian said, “I’ll get it,” spun, and nearly collided with the publican’s wife, who stood gawking in the doorway. He took the tray from her hands, mumbled, “Thank ye, mistress,” and closed the door on her. “Here.” He set the tray on the end of the bed and studied Birdi for a moment. “Do ye still want a healer?”

Angus, scowling, lifted Birdi’s chin. He still didn’t like her color, nor had she opened her eyes. For all he knew she was speaking in her sleep. “Aye.”

Birdi flopped a hand against his chest. “Nay, An...gus, please.”

She knew he held her! Hadn’t spoken in her sleep after all. “As ye wish, lass, no healer, but ye need to take some of this.” He held the bowl of broth to her parched lips.

After watching Birdi swallow a bit, Ian murmured, “I’ll leave ye be for now. Call if ye need anything.”

When the door closed, Angus whispered, “Woman, I dinna like fashing quite so often, not in the least. At the rate ye’re going, I’ll be white-headed by the time we reach home.”

“How many...” she cleared her throat, “seasons are ye?”

“Nine and twenty.”

Birdi managed a wee smile. “So auld.”

He kissed her hair, now damp and tangled as it cloaked her front. She still felt fevered. “I need to cool ye off again.”

He stood and laid her down. When her hands moved to cover the jet curls at the apex of her thighs, he shook his head. “‘Tis naught I’ve not seen before.”

Lids half closed, she whispered, “When a woman’s sick, she isna well, and ye should not tease.”

He grinned then and draped her cloak over her. “I still need to cool ye down.” He dipped a rag in the water.

Her gaze—as cool as the water—never left his visage as his hands moved in gentle circles from her smooth face to the column of her neck and down onto her scarred arms. Her top extremities finally cooled, he pushed the cloak down to her waist and found himself staring at the perfect twin globes with rose-frosted tips pointing straight at him.

God Lord, he hadn’t had a problem earlier, had run cold water over them as if they were merely ant mounds. But now, she watched and...

Birdi, her skin pebbling, asked, “What has ye fashing now?”

If she didn’t ken, he had nay way of explaining it.

Careful not to touch her there, he pulled up the cloaked and cleared his throat. “Roll onto yer side. I need do yer back.”  Retreat was often a man’s only ally.

“As ye lust.”

Aye, in the basest sense of the word.

Birdi rolled, putting her back to him. As his wide hands stroked her back with cold water, she shivered again. “I’m sorry lass, but this needs to be done or yer brain will cook.” Or so Lady Beth had warned as she’d tended his friend in similar circumstances.

“Ye have gentle hands,” Birdi told him.

“Thank ye.” He glided over the fine crisscrossing lines on her back. “Birdi?”

“Hmm?”

“When did this happen?”

“What?”

“The marks on ye back?”

She rolled then, flat onto her back, and clutched the cloak to her chest as if it were body armor.

Understanding she felt embarrassment, he still wanted to know, so he could beat the shit out of the one who’d done it, should the opportunity arise. “I ken ‘tis hard to speak of it, lass, but we need to. ‘Tisna right a lass should suffer such. The man needs to be punished for lashing you.”

She frowned. “‘Twas not a man, but a woman.”

Oh, dear Lord. Her mother?

His blood ran cold, though he shouldn’t have been taken by surprise. The woman had given Birdi an atrocious name, neglected to even kiss the lass, and now this. What manner of beast was she?

Realizing Birdi stared at him, he cleared his throat and placed a hand on her forehead. She felt cooler. Mayhap, he wasn’t so bad a physician after all. He raised her shoulders and reached for the bowl of broth. “Drink.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I dinna like that.”

“Who said ye were supposed to? Drink.”

The bowl empty, he lowered her back to the thin lumpy mattress. Were she at Blackstone she’d be lying on thick ticking, her head resting on a down-filled pillow, and his woolly warm blankets would be smothering her.

And Castle Blackstone’s priest would be hovering just outside the door. “
Humph
.”

 ~#~

Teeth chattering, drenched to the skin, Robbie Macarthur eased behind the smithy’s stable. He grinned for the first time in days, seeing a huge white head draped over one of the stall doors. The MacDougall’s stud. They’d finally caught up with the bastard and their stolen spae!

Dinna get too comfortable, laddie. Soon ye’ll be heading south.

B
irdi awoke to cool sunshine. She sniffed the air. Winter was on its way. Turning to the light, she saw Angus stretch before the open window.

He’d come up behind her after the healing had been done, but she couldn’t recall more. Had the woman kept their secret? What thoughts and questions now ran through his mind? And how many days had she been lying here? She had only scattered memories of broth, of freezing as Angus scrubbed her with careful hands, of his rocking her back to sleep whenever she woke screaming.

“Has the rain passed?”

Angus turned and smiled. “Aye.” He came closer and knelt beside her. His chest was bare, and she longed to reach out and touch it.

Placing a hand on her forehead, he asked, “How do ye feel?”

“Like a cow sat on my chest.” Seeing his brow furrow, she grinned. “Dinna fash, Angus. I’ll be right as rain come the morrow. Did I miss sup?”

“Aye, several.”

She groaned, suspecting as much, and tried to sit. Angus wrapped an arm about her and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

“Are ye hungry?”

“Aye.” She could eat that cow. “Where is Ian?”

“Downstairs flirting with the help.”

Relief flooded her. If neither Ian nor Angus had run off it meant Angus hadn’t seen any of the healing and the woman she’d helped had kept her word. That she hadn’t spoken to any about what Birdi had done. Her secret was safe.

Wondering how the babe now fared, she raked her hands through the matted hair clinging to her face and her fingers caught. Knots. One of these days she really needed to find herself a good pair of shears. Mayhap Tinker had some...

Kelsea’s missive!

Her gaze raced around the room, looking for her gown. Seeing a huge splash of vivid blue against one wall, she pointed to it. “May I have my gown, please? I’m cold.”

“Of course. I’m afraid it’s a bit wrinkled.”

Wrinkled, sminkled. Who cared, so long as the missive Kelsea had written still remained in the pocket?

When Angus laid the mass of blue on the foot of the bed, she had all she could do to keep her hands in her lap. “Thank ye.”

“Do ye need help?”

“Nay.” She cleared her throat. “I mean nay, thank ye, I can manage on my own.”

He grinned. “Then I’ll leave ye to it and go find us something to eat.”

The moment the door closed, Birdi yanked the gown onto her lap and frantically searched through fold after fold. When one hand slipped into a deep pocket and touched paper, she heaved a relieved sigh. She cautiously pulled the missive out and unfolded it. Within still lay a golden coin, enough Kelsea had told her, to send the missive to Tinker.

She brought the letter close to her eyes and squinted at the inked squiggles. Oh, how she wished she could read.

“Ye have no need to ken such, so stop nagging me.”

“
But the bairns in the village do.” She’d watched them use sticks to write in the earth. Had crawled on her belly out into the open after they’d left to study their marks.

“Aye, and what good has it done them, or me, for that matter?” A hand caught Birdi’s ear. “Now go and fetch more berries or ye’ll have naught come winter. Go.”

Birdi sighed. Someday, she’d learn. How, she wasn’t sure, but someday she would.

She folded the paper around the coin and put it back in her pocket, then donned the gown.