Fire Raven (4 page)

“There now, dearie, everything is all right. Winnie Carey is here with you now; you’re not alone.”

She took, several deep breaths, tears streaming down her cheeks, as she listened to the croon and clutched the plump hands with their comforting warmth.

“Morgan,” she repeated in a sob-choked voice. “He didn’t come.”

“He couldn’t hear you,” Winnie said. “He rode out at the wee crack of dawn, he did. He has a great deal of work to do this time of year. ’Tis the shearing season.”

The younger woman raised her hands to touch her face. “I thought ’twas still night. ’Tis so dark in this room.”

Winnie hesitated, glancing to the lead-paned windows. Morning sun streamed in. It was dim, to be sure, but only because of the clouds. She saw her patient clearly enough.

“Methinks your eyes may be a bit weak,” Winnie said, as she moved to tuck the heavy eider quilt closer about her patient. “Not unexpected after such a grievous swim in the sea. I’d best examine them straight away.”

The patient stayed silent. Her hands clutched the blankets to her chest while Winnie carefully examined her eyes up close.

“Just as Morgan thought,” Winnie murmured when she had finished. “The sea salt has inflamed the tissues. No wonder your eyes are sore. I’ll have to make some ointment for them. ’Twill be best to bandage them up for a time, too.”

A shudder coursed through her patient. “Please … no. I don’t want to be in total darkness.”

“Child, you’ll need to let my compresses do their work. Rest is what you need, plenty of rest and warmth and quiet. You’ll strain your eyes further, perhaps do some permanent damage, if you don’t listen to me.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“A lady-doctor? Whoever heard of such a thing?” Winnie laughed merrily at the notion. “I ken I’m the closest thing in these parts, though. I tend the fevers and set the broken bones and deliver the wee ones when ’tis time. My man, Lloyd, works in the stables.”

“Have you any children, Mrs. Carey?”

“Winnie, please, dear.” Winnier patted her hand again. There was a moment of silence, and she said with forced cheer, “I had a daughter. Mary Katherine was her name. She would be about your age now, had she lived.”

“Oh, Winnie, I’m sorry.”

“’Twas the blight, dear. It happened long ago. She was but two and ten. A bonny girl, my Mary Kate, with her dark hair and bright blue eyes. Your hair reminds me of hers.”

“Are my eyes blue, too?”

“Nay, dear, yours are a beautiful sea-green. You remind me of my daughter in other ways, though. She had the same shaped lips. Her teeth were straight and white, too. She was so bright, was my Katie, curious and impatient about nigh everything. I can see the same trait in you.” Winnie was pleased when her patient smiled at the compliment.

The young woman’s eyes blindly sought Winnie’s. She wanted so desperately to see the face belonging to Falcon’s Lair’s housekeeper.

Winnie sounded as wonderful as Morgan did. Just the memory of his deeply timbered voice brought a wash of comfort over her now. How rich and musical his voice was, soothing as a salve. She wished he was here to care for her again, and realized it was selfish. But she remembered the calming effect his voice and touch had on her.

“There, now,” Winnie said briskly as she rose from the bedside, “you just rest while I visit my little apothecary and mix up some healing ointments for your eyes. I’ll bring up a breakfast tray for you as well. Best keep your eyes closed until I can bandage them shut.”

Obediently, she closed her eyes, hearing the rustle of the housekeeper’s skirts as she moved to leave. “Winnie?” she called out before the older woman left.

“Aye, poppet?”

“Until we find out what my real name is, would you mind calling me Mary Kate, as well?”

Judging by her little sniffle, Winnie was pleased and touched by the request. “I would fain do so,” she said. “It seems to suit you somehow. Mary Kate. Katie. Aye, it surely does.”

Chapter Two

“’T
WILL NEVER DO
, R
ENFREW
.”

Morgan rose from inspecting the wool stores, and brushed his palms on his broadcloth breeches. “You’ve been slighting the animal’s feed again. ’Tis showing quite clearly in their wool.”

“Milord,” the heavyset, thick-jowled steward whined, “’tis too time-consuming to drive them to higher pasture this time of year. I already spend enough hours trying to find the special feeds you want. The local peasants cheat me at each turn. I’d have to go all the way to Aberystwyth every fortnight or so.”

“Then do it,” Morgan snapped. He had lost all patience with the man. Renfrew had inherited his father’s position after the elder steward had died, and proved to be a lazy, slothful worker — something Morgan would not abide did he not have such a difficult time getting any of the villagers to work for him. Were it his choice, Morgan would have sent the man packing long ago.

“As you say, milord.” Though his tone was meek, Renfrew’s eyes narrowed as his master turned to leave.

“Oh, and Renfrew — ” Sensing the malignant stare on his back, Morgan pivoted about and eyed the sullen steward one last time. “Don’t forget to bring back the change this time. I shall be counting each groat.”

Renfrew nearly choked.
How’d the high and mighty Trelane guessed he’d been pilfering the spare coins for the past few months? With the size of his coffers, the great Lord Satan shouldn’t be pinching each ha’crown!
With a resentful mutter, Renfrew bobbed his head and ducked past Trelane out into the pouring rain.

Morgan shook his head after the man departed. Decent help was almost impossible to come by in the remote reaches of Wales. Except for the few faithful retainers he employed in the keep, the rest were a surly lot he dared not trust with his life. He was certain most were afraid to cross him only because of his unsightly face. In a way, it provided some small advantage. Being the Devil Baron did have its benefits.

Chuckling at the thought, he left the storehouse and headed back to the keep. The rain still streamed down. He took his time, enjoying the cool sensation of droplets spattering across his skin where he had rolled up the sleeves of his white linen shirt.

Reaching the keep, Morgan dashed up the curving, narrow stone staircase. He slipped through the servant’s entrance, arriving in the rear of the huge kitchen where delicious baking smells wafted down the open hall.

Morgan peeked around the corner and spied Cook, her homespun skirts swishing furiously from side to side, as she removed the soiled rushes into a corner with a broom. With a quick sleight of hand, his fingers darted out to snatch a berry tart, but before he spirited it away, something hard smacked across his knuckles.

“Ow!” Morgan nursed his injured hand. Cook set aside her broomstick and plunked the tart back on the trestle table.

“Shame on ye, milord,” the big woman said mildly, rearranging the pastries to suit her fancy. “Ye know yer nae to sample dessert before the main course.”

“Ailis, when will I ever get the best of you?” Morgan complained. “You caught me every time when I was a lad, too.”

Cook smiled, pleased with herself. “’Tis said a mum sprouts an extry set of eyes in the back of ’er ’ead for each babe. I’ve bore eight, ye know.”

“Ahh, that explains it,” Morgan muttered, but flashed Mrs. Taggart a good-natured grin before continuing on his journey. In his own home he never thought to hide his disfigurement; now a stranger had been brought to Falcon’s Lair, and he realized he should take some precautions.

Morgan hesitated in the great hall, wondering where he might hide for the rest of the day, just as Mrs. Carey appeared in her cloak and hood. As if reading his mind, she gave him a determined look.

“Oh, there you are, milord.” Winnie waylaid Morgan before he could escape again. She tugged on a pair of thick wool gloves as she spoke. He eyed her warily in return.

“Morgan,” he reminded her.

“Aye, milord. Now, I just finished giving our patient a good scrubbing and now I need your help. ’Tis as you thought. The girl’s eyes were burnt by saltwater. I don’t have the proper herbs to make the salve I need. I’ll have to go find some fresh.”

He shrugged. “You have my permission, Mrs. Carey.”

“Lud, I know it. The girl needs nourishing broth in the while. I’ve prepared a tray in the kitchen. You can take it up to her.”

Morgan felt a flush rising on his neck. Irritation made him speak more curtly than usual. “Surely that won’t be necessary, Mrs. Carey. Where are Gwynneth and the other girls?”

“Remember, you gave them permission to attend the Beltane celebrations at Cardigan this year. They’ll be gone a whole week, they will.”

“Damme. I forgot.” Morgan was chagrined by the reminder. “Well, what about Cook?”

Winnie clucked her tongue and shook her head. “By now Mrs. Taggart’s elbow-deep in lamby pies for our supper. ’Twill only take a moment for you to feed the child, milord. She’s as weak as a newborn kitten and won’t eat more than a bird.”

Morgan knew when he was beaten. He sighed and said, “You’d best pray my demonic face doesn’t scare her into becoming a halfwit, Mrs. Carey.”

The housekeeper sniffed her disapproval of his comment “First of all, I doubt ’twould, for she’s more common sense in her little finger than you have in your whole head. Second, she can’t see a thing yet, poor mite. I’m sure ’tis probably temporary, but she’s awful scared, is our Kate.”

“Kate?” Morgan was surprised. “Did she remember who she is, then?”

Winnie seemed abashed. “Forgive me, milord. She just reminds me so of my own Mary Kate. She asked if we might call her Kate until she remembers her own name.”

“Well, if you’ve no objections, I guess ’tis acceptable for now.”

Winnie flashed him a grateful smile. “Now get along with you, milord.”

“Morgan,” he reminded her, for the hundredth time in less than a week. Too late, he saw the mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“Go along then,
Morgan my boy
. The poor waif must be starving. I’ll be back shortly, rain permitting.”

“You’ll be soaked,” he warned her. “Don’t catch a chill. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Oh, go on with you.”

Still, Winnie beamed at the praise.

“W
HO’S THERE
?” K
ATE CRIED
out. She heard his footsteps ringing across the stone floor of the chamber, and her head jerked in Morgan’s direction.

“’Tis Morgan again. How are you feeling?”

At the sound of his voice, the newly christened Kate visibly relaxed. She sat up against the pillows, looking lovely to Morgan’s aching eyes. Her freshly washed hair spilled over the white muslin gown like a tempestuous dark sea. The same sea held the truth of her identity and teased him with its secrets whenever he looked out over the shimmering water.

“I’ve brought you something to eat,” he said, tearing his gaze away from her heart-shaped face. He hadn’t taken a good close look at her features before. Aye, she was beautiful. Flawless, in fact. Despite the fading scratches and bruises, she was still a beauty. He felt a nervous tic start in his left cheek as she turned her eyes toward him. Was Mrs. Carey certain her patient couldn’t see?

A moment later, Morgan had his answer. Kate blinked her emerald green eyes as if to clear them, but no revulsion showed on her face — yet. Morgan set the tray down on a table beside the bed with an audible clatter.

“Oh!” Kate exclaimed, starting with surprise. She looked abashed. “I’m sorry. The noise frightened me.”

“Forgive me. I’m a man, you know. We’re renowned for being clumsy.” Morgan forced a smile into his voice, though smiling was the last thing he felt like doing. He was anxious to escape the room and the disturbing presence of the beauty in the bed.

“Please, won’t you have a seat? At least, I assume there’s a chair somewhere in the room.”

“Several,” he confirmed, pulling one up to the patient’s bedside. “I can only stay a moment. I’m headed out again to the pastures.”

“Winnie mentioned something about shearing. Have you many sheep to tend?”

“Aye, several thousand.” Morgan read the genuine interest in her expression and was taken aback. No women he knew feigned interest in agriculture. Was she the daughter of a local serf? Unlikely. He had spoken to her in Welsh once or twice, yet she seemed not to understand him.