Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone) (10 page)

“I dunno,” Sorcha exclaimed, shaking her head. “Like the rest, the sickness came quickly. His fever began only this morn.”

“Will you take me to him?” Lìleas asked, and Sorcha nodded without hesitation. Lìleas turned suddenly, meeting Aidan’s gaze directly. “May I?” Her hand automatically touched his bare arm and he felt her touch like a pulse of lightning.

Aidan hid the shiver that coursed through him and fought the urge to move his arm out of her reach, as though her fingers burned his flesh. But his body reacted with a vengeance, hardening his shaft like a poppet on a string.

He stared at her a moment too long, unsettled, and then peered down at the slim fingers resting upon his arm. She too must have peered down because their gazes lifted at once and the sincerity in her violet eyes took him by surprise.

For a moment, his brain was too muddled to think clearly.

She was asking him to allow her to go help Duncan.

She was a noteworthy healer, he reminded himself. He didn’t trust her, but neither could he deny Duncan her healing prowess. When finally he was able to shake off his stupor, he nodded, bemused, and watched her hie away with Sorcha.

Once she removed her fingers from his flesh, Aidan felt the separation acutely—like a man whose arm had been lopped off. The sensation startled him.

“This way!” Sorcha demanded, and his lovely bride went chasing after his youngest sibling without sparing another word or glance for Aidan... as though she were completely unaware of the way her touch had affected him.

Confused, Aidan held back only another instant, then followed, half expecting a Caimbeul spawn to continue where her father left off—only picking them off one by one, beginning with the children first.

But she wouldn’t dare.

Surely she wouldn’t dare.

He picked up his pace, assuring himself that, woman or nay, if the damned enchantress dared to harm a single hair upon the boy’s head he would toss her, along with that
siùrsach
—
whore
lady’s maid—and her brother by marriage into the bonfire. Aye, and then they would turn the celebration into a funeral and burn them all upon a pyre.

Lìli struggled to keep up.

All she could think of in that instant was that a child lay ill and it could very well have been her son. She hoped to God someone would return the favor were Kellen in need and it filled her with grief to know that she would not be at his side if he called out for her in the middle of the night.

Somehow, she must find her way back to him.

As she hurried away from the bonfire, she tried to keep up without twisting her ankle. It was difficult to find her step without faltering along the rocky terrain. Hurrying behind Sorcha, she was blind to the glances Aidan’s kinsmen gave them as they hurried into the lowering night. In her concern for the child, she was oblivious, as well, to the fact that her betrothed was marching like a henchman at her heels.

“What can you tell me of the illness?” she asked Sorcha.

“No’ verra much. It begins with fever and shivers, and then I’m told, terrible sweats.”

That description could be most anything, Lìli fretted.

“So Duncan isna the first?” she asked, tripping over a small rock along her path.

Far more surefooted and rushing up the hillside like a woodland sprite, Sorcha answered without looking back, “Nay.”

“How many before?”

“Three.”

“How many recovered?”

“None.” The girl peered back at Lìli with a sense of foreboding in her clear blue eyes, though she didn’t stop, and neither did Lìli, despite that it occurred to her suddenly to worry over contagion.

“Is anyone else ill in this particular house, Sorcha?”

“Nay,” the girl replied, and finally she stopped before a small cottage way up on the hillside and threw open the door.

Inside, amidst a circle of flickering candles, a young woman with black hair sat upon her knees at the bedside of a young child, weeping softly. Lìli took in the boy’s appearance first. His hair was soaked and plastered to his face. He reminded her of Kellen, with his dark hair and long lashes that fell thickly upon high cheeks. His skin was ashy, but not gaunt, proof that his illness was not long and lingering. In spite of the pallor of his skin, he appeared to Lìli like a well-fed, healthy child. Sorcha claimed he’d fallen ill only this morn. What sort of illness came so quickly and spared no lives?

The mother’s eyes lit first upon Sorcha, but now she peered at Lìli and her eyes widened with alarm. “Nay!” she cried, rising up to face them. “
You
stay away from my child!”

“Glenna, she only wishes to help,” Sorcha pleaded in Lìli’s behalf. She stood between them to keep the woman at bay. “Remember, Una said she was a skilled healer?”

The woman was lovely, but Lìli did not wish to anger her for she was quite tall and thickly built. “Nay!” the mother persisted, and then attempted to sidestep Sorcha to get at Lìli. “She will kill us all given the chance—just like her Da!”

Lìli started at the accusation. Until this instant, she had not precisely placed herself in these people’s shoes. All her life she had felt persecuted by these folk, despite having never known them. Their curse had followed her like a devil’s hound. But for once, she considered what her father might have done to earn such hatred—a hatred so impassioned that they would curse a man’s firstborn child. Until this instant, she had considered herself a casualty of men’s politics, and whatever her father had done only typical for men playing at war. But like Rogan, her father could be cruel. She realized that better than anyone. However... war brought out the worst in both sides, did it not? She was as much a victim as any other.

The young mother glared at her, and Lìli resisted the urge to shrink back out of the cottage door, somehow sensing it would gain her little respect among these folk.

In her hysteria, the woman shoved Sorcha aside. “I said nay!”

Lìli swallowed. She would not fight this woman, but neither did she intend to leave if she could help the poor boy. Her gaze fell to the child lying abed, examining him from afar while the mother railed at her, saying what Lìli had no clue for her attention was now on the son.

A rush of cold air blew in as the door opened once again and a deep voice boomed from the doorway. “Enough!” The woman hushed at once. “Allow her to tend the child,” Aidan demanded.

“Nay, Aidan!”

His tone brooked no argument. “If she can help, Glenna, allow her to do so.”

To some degree, Lìli was accustomed to that ambivalent look, for so often her patients were torn, needing help, yet fearing her nonetheless. Very often, if she could speak with them alone, they soon came to realize that she was simply a woman, nothing more. Trading kindness for animosity had always served her well. No matter what their differences, they were both ultimately the same—mothers who worried for their children.

Reluctantly, Glenna stepped aside.

Grateful for Aidan’s interference, Lìli moved past the worried mother and bent at once, putting her hand to the boy’s forehead. His fever raged, burning his flesh. Forsooth, but she could have baked an egg upon his cheek so hot was his skin to the touch! She peered up at the mother, looking beyond the hatred to the terrified woman behind the dove gray eyes. “Did his belly trouble him at all?”

The woman wrung her hands, peering at Aidan for reassurance. She turned to look at Lìli and for a long moment simply gazed at her. She must have read the truth in Lìli’s gaze—that she simply wished to help—because she shook her head at long last.

“Could he have eaten something sour?” Lìli persisted.

The woman shook her head again, and then came forward to stand beside Lìli, her motherly concern outweighing her enmity. “Nay,” she said. “He was fine. He simply said he felt cold. Then the fever followed. There was no vomiting, nor did he move his bowels, but he has been shivering just so for hours.”

Lìli nodded, lifting the boy’s shirt, inspecting his belly.

“No rashes,” the mother offered quickly, understanding instinctively what it was that Lìli was searching for. Lìli glanced at his hands, and then his feet, and then felt the area beneath his arms and about his neck. There were no telltale bulbous, but his skin was damp and the bedclothes were soaked with this sweat.

“No bites either?” she asked the mother.

Glenna shook her head no, her eyes full of anguish, and then she knelt beside Lìli, grasping her son’s hands into her own. “He’s my only son. His Da is gone. He’s all I have. Please,” she begged.

The child slept the sleep of the dead, as though he were already gone. But his breathing, though quick and shallow, was steady, Lìli noted. “How long has he been this way?”

The mother sniffed back a sob. “Hours now. I have not left his side.” She peered up at Lìli. “I wanted to go for help, but dared not leave him alone.” She peered back at her son. “Thank God for Sorcha!”

Counting the woman’s cooperation as a small victory, Lìli asked, “Has he eaten or had anything to drink since he became ill?” While many believed it was best to sweat out impurities and not to introduce the possibility of more, Lìli knew through experience that the sick craved water, and she believed God would not allow a body to crave something it should not have.

“Nay,” the mother replied.

No doubt, that was a good part of his exhaustion, Lìli was certain. “Have you any
vin aigre
?” she asked. Lìli used the bitter concoction for many things, but it seemed to help rid the body of infections at times like this. Indeed, if she held any sort of magic at all it was the knowledge of the
vin aigre
potion, for it cured all manner of ills.

The woman nodded, looking confused. “A fresh batch, but ’tis yet unfiltered. I was going to begin preserves for the winter store.”

“Even better,” Lìli assured her. “The mother of
vin aigre
is the best part. Bring it to me,” she bade the woman. “Along with water.”

“Water?” the mother asked, looking even more confused.

Once again Glenna turned her gaze to Aidan, looking for his direction. He had yet to come fully inside, but now he let the door close behind him, shutting out the night air as he met Lìli’s gaze, assessing her. There was nothing she could do if he chose not to trust her, and he had no reason to do so, but she hoped he would. Her eyes pleaded with him.

With the door closed, the candles no longer flickered uncertainly. Their flames burned tall and strong, illuminating the room somewhat better. Lìli straightened her spine, waiting for Aidan to decide, but it seemed she waited an eternity while he made up his mind.

“Do as she says,” he commanded finally.

That was all Lìli needed to hear. She was aware of his lingering gaze, but she had nothing to hide—at least not at the moment. She would never harm an innocent child, no matter what threat loomed before her—in truth, not even to save her own son, for what manner of monster would that make her?

Killing Aidan dún Scoti was not the same.

At least that’s how she confessed herself.

She glanced at the pot hanging in the hearth. “Is that empty?”

The boy’s mother was still gathering the items Lìli had requested. She placed a bucket of water on the table. “Aye,” she said, seeing the direction of Lìli’s gaze. “’Tis clean as well since he has not eaten since yestermorn. I had no stomach for food myself. Retrieving this bucket of water was the last thing he did for me before he became ill, and then he had no thought for food or drink.”

Lìli rose from the child’s bedside, taking the small bucket of water from the table where the woman had placed it. Reaching inside, she inspected the sides, looking for slime—any indication the water had been sitting too long. She found none, but just in case she took the bucket to the small pot hanging over the hearth fire and poured the water inside the cauldron, saving a little to bathe the child. It sizzled as it settled into the bottom of the iron pot. Beneath the cauldron, the fire was already burning hot and she lowered the pot into the flames.

“What are you doing?” the woman asked now, her voice fraught with worry. Lìli took a little bit of the
vin aigre
from the cask on the table. Making sure she scooped up as much of the unfiltered cider as she could, she poured a goodly amount into the pot, and then looked at Sorcha and said, “Do you recall the smallest of the coffers brought into my cottage?”

“Aye,” Sorcha said.

Thinking only of the child lying abed, she sent Sorcha after a small dark brown pouch that contained various medicines.

“What is she doing?” Glenna asked Aidan once more. “She is making a brew to poison my son!”

Lìleas turned to look at the woman, meeting her gaze directly, her eyes full of compassion. “You have my word, Glenna, I’llna put anything in your son’s mouth I am no’ willing to drink myself. Dinna worry, I have used
vin aigre
many times in just this way.”

Aidan watched her closely.

She was behaving like a worried mother herself.

He couldn’t fathom what this new sickness was. The illness had only begun since his return from Chreagach Mhor—first one fell ill, then another, and another followed. The malaise took their young and old so swiftly that there was scarce time to build their pyres before the fever took them. Next, it would seize the healthy among them, withering their numbers as not even their enemies had managed to with their bloodthirsty blades.

Glenna’s eyes continued to plead with him, beseeching him to intervene—begging him not to take the side of his Scot’s bride...

In Aidan’s mind’s eye, he saw Padruig Caimbeul looming over his father’s lifeless form, his long gray beard splattered with blood. They had come to Dubhtolargg under the guise of friendship, supping at their tables and partaking of their
uisge
and then all together had risen up in the middle of the festivities and slaughtered half their clansmen while their noses were still deep in their cups. It was the gravest of transgressions amongst Highlanders, and yet the Caimbeuls had done so with impunity, as though they felt justified in re-enacting the betrayal that had originally brought Dubhtolargg its name.