The Healer's Gift (8 page)

“I’ve heard such promises before,” she spat. “They led to my broken heart, pierced by a blade.”

Logen’s pain assaulted her, stealing her breath.

“I’m sorry, lass. I dinna mean to hurt ye. I want ye to ken that, with time, we can—”

“Nay. I must leave. I canna live here. I canna go through that again. Send me away, please Logen. The Lowlands.” She waved an arm behind her. “Ireland.”

“Coira, nay.”

“If ye force me to live among so many, I will become the madwoman again. I canna face that. I’d rather be alone. Lonely.”

“Ye are already lonely. We both are. But not when we’re together. Can ye no’ feel it? Together, we can heal each other. I have tried to help ye. I will keep trying. No’ because the elders bade me do it. Because I wish to see ye well and strong, and aye, to be part of yer life. Will ye walk away from the chance to learn to defend yerself? Let me help ye.”

He meant every word, every syllable. He was so sincere, so intent, it pained her, even without his touch. What if he was right? Perhaps her best hope for a future free from loneliness—or madness—lay with him. And truly, what choice did she have?

“If I agree, ye must leave me be until I am ready. I...I need time.”

“I will.” His simple declaration held the ring of truth.

Coira nodded, praying she wasn’t about to make another mistake. “Then I will return with ye.”

Logen’s relief washed over her like a summer tide, warm and comforting, full of promise.

****

During that week, Logen did his best to let Coira do what she would without pressure from him. If she needed him, she knew where to find him. He observed her in various places around the keep, always busy with different people. He surmised she continued her attempts to make friends, and worked to strengthen her barriers while she was at it. But he hoped she also used her awareness to search for the troublemakers in the clan, which was precisely what he needed her to do.

Logen certainly wasn’t making any headway. True, several meetings with the elders had gone smoothly—or as smoothly as possible when they were spent hammering out discrepancies he’d found in the clan’s ledger. No one had reached for weapons, so he considered those sessions successful. If he managed to resolve even the most minor inconsistencies he’d uncovered, he would be relieved. But since several more meetings would be needed to clear away the rest of his issues with the clan’s resources, and how they’d been squandered over the past four years, the use of weapons was still not out of the question. Determining who had been responsible for some missing funds under the previous lairds likely would expose even more problems and certainly would ruffle more feathers. If he hoped to strengthen his position as laird, he must also keep discord to a minimum. Worry over how he would accomplish that and still get to the information he required kept him up at night.

He allowed his gaze to roam over the keep as he walked the battlements, then stopped to regard a group of men standing outside the smithy. He’d gotten to know them all in the two years since he’d returned to the clan. But how well? That hadn’t mattered until his life depended on it. Until his election, he’d spent most of his time away at sea with their small fishing fleet. Now, most of Logen’s old friends were dead—lost at sea, lost at Flodden, lost in the clan’s in-fighting. A lucky few had married out of the clan. Only one or two remained whom he might trust—and then only with one eye open at all times.

His had a short list of suspects, but he could not guarantee it would stay that way. Archibald, the man who led the fishing fleet, was on it. He’d been on board the day Logen had been assisted into the shallow water. Had he set up the accident? Was the problem limited to one—or several—of the other men on board that day? He’d already questioned the ones he recalled being on deck. Of course, they all professed innocence. At least one of them lied, but Logen needed a talent like Coira’s to identify which one—assuming the man felt any remorse about what he’d done.

Logen didn’t want Coira directly involved yet, not until he confirmed his suspicions, and not until she had learned to defend herself against others’ feelings. And, not until she’d had more time to gain allies among the clan. If someone exposed the secret of her ability, she would need them.

Then there was Darach. Once, long ago, they had been friendly. Close to the same age, they’d trained as lads under the same arms master before Logen had been fostered away. But Logen’s best friends and Darach’s best friends were two different sets, so in the way of young lads, they’d passed some time together only in group activities—meals, training, schooling, the kirk.

Darach, former playmate, was now the arms master. He’d be a formidable opponent in a fight, but, so far, “accidents” seemed the succession method of choice.

As if thinking about him summoned the man, Darach stepped out of the keep. Logen considered confronting him as he watched him cross the bailey. Why not? It had to be done, sooner or later. Before he could reconsider, Logen descended the steps down to the bailey and hailed his quarry.

“Aye,” Darach answered, approaching him. “What do ye need?”

Logen studied him for a moment. Darach was battle-hardened, though not at Flodden. In the time Logen had been gone, the clan had fought many skirmishes with other clans along the coast—McColls, Stewarts, and Campbells—with greater success than the king had enjoyed on the Borders.

“How long have ye been the clan’s master at arms?”

“Seven years. Why do ye ask?”

“Why did the auld laird no’ take ye with him to fight with the king at Flodden?”

Darach frowned. “He left me in charge of the keep. Had he taken all his best men, who would have kept MacDugall safe from raiders?”

Logen nodded. A reasonable answer. “And when he and the men with him didna return?”

“Connal became laird, as was his right. Too bad he was too weak for the job.”

“How do ye mean?” Did he hear satisfaction in Darach’s tone? Alert for trouble, Logen glanced around, but they didn’t seem to be attracting much notice from anyone passing by. Their voices were low and their tones, up to now, had remained cordial.

“Ach, he’d barely sprouted a hair on his chin. The wolves started circling him the day we got the news.”

“Which wolves?”

“Well now, as I recall, most of them are gone. Each time the leader of the pack changed, men died.”

To Logen, it seemed Darach’s tone hardened with that statement. He paused, frowning, as he considered his response. He could think of nothing to say that would avoid the coming confrontation. He needed to know if he could trust this man. “Then who’s the surviving wolf? Ye?”

“Me?”

“Aye. Ye’re certainly skilled enough to best almost any man here—fair or foul.” Logen didn’t dare look away from the arms master. If Darach decided to challenge him here, he would quickly be fighting for his life.

Darach reared back. “What are ye accusing me of?” His angry tone left no doubt Logen was in for a fight if he persisted.

Logen noticed movement over Darach’s shoulder, near the keep’s wall. Coira! She stared at him, her expression wide-eyed, pleading. How long had she been trying to get him to notice her without attracting the attention of others to herself? When their gazes met, she shook her head. What did that mean?
Don’t provoke him
? Then she took a step back and smiled, still turning her head slowly from side to side. Ach, no’ this man, then.

“Naught, Darach. I would like yer assessment of the men left in the clan. Who might be capable of the killings? Who remains so ambitious for the lairdship? Ye ken all the men better than I yet do. Advise me, if ye will.”

Darach’s demeanor changed instantly, from affronted and angry to thoughtful. As his stance relaxed, Logen breathed a sigh of relief. Over Darach’s shoulder, he saw Coira nod and walk away.

One suspect eliminated, then. How many more to go?

****

Coira moved away slowly, concerned that Logen would take her assistance moments ago as a sign she’d changed her mind about continuing to search for the conspirators despite the pain it caused her. Yet, she felt flush with relief. Logen had understood her signal. The arms master was not one of the men he needed to fear, and the man could be a powerful ally if Logen handled him properly. His confusion at Logen’s questioning had been genuine. So had the mounting storm clouds of his irritation when he thought Logen suspected him of being behind the murders in the clan. When Logen requested his aid, the soft rain of his relief and pleasure allowed Coira to draw a breath. Aye, with her help, the laird had gained an ally.

She reached the gate to the walled garden and fumbled with the latch. Stuck again. She could hear clanging from the smithy—the blacksmith was hard at work and would not be pleased to be interrupted. But an errand for the healer had led to her being in the bailey in the first place, on her way to the walled garden. If she didn’t collect the leaves the healer wanted and return very soon, the healer would come looking for her. She didn’t want to fail, or to anger one of her few allies. She needed to open this gate and the damn latch would not release. She gave it a final tug, then pushed at the gate with her shoulder, hoping to reseat it. No luck. She was still struggling when Logen caught up with her.

“Coira, ye are certain about him?”

“Ye didna run to catch me, I hope?”

“Nay, we didna talk that long. But he gave me a name, Alasdair. A man he has come to suspect, though he lacks proof.”

Coira shrugged and hoped she wasn’t about to do something she should not, and commit herself to Logen’s search. “I dinna ken him, but if someone points him out, perhaps I can—”

“Aye,” Logen interrupted.

Coira realized she could hear and sense someone approaching.

“Let me help ye with this latch.”

Logen’s tone sounded so impersonally polite she nearly laughed. Instead, Coira breathed a sigh of relief at the reprieve. Why did she keep offering Logen help after she’d told him she could not bear to do it?

The person passed behind them as Logen worked the latch, then lifted the gate a fraction by the handle, and unlocked it easily. “The problem isna the latch,” he told her more loudly than necessary. “The top hinge needs to be reseated in the wall.”

“The smith willna be pleased to hear that.”

“Nay, but he will fix it. I’ll tell him about it on my way back to the keep. Do ye think ye can close it by yerself?”

The person had surely passed out of earshot, but Coira kept up the masque, in case they had paused to eavesdrop. “Aye, I think so. If not, I’ll get help. I ken fine what will happen if anyone leaves it open. The healer’s and the cook’s plants will be fodder for coneys and such. The whole clan will suffer.”

“Good lass.” Logen lowered his voice. “Have a care. If Darach is correct, this Alasdair is verra dangerous.”

Coira frowned.

“I’m glad ye changed yer mind, Coira. I need ye to help me.”

“I ken it, Logen, I do. But I havena changed my mind. No’ really.”

Only one man. If he was indeed the man, or one of the men, Logen sought, couldn’t she try? She sighed. “He willna ken I am there.”

Logen nodded. “And ye’re sure about Darach?”

“He doesna hate ye. Ye confused him, then momentarily insulted him when he thought ye accused him, but his relief and pleasure when ye asked his advice were genuine.” She thought back a moment. “Something concerned him, but what, I canna say.”

He pulled open the gate and ushered her through, his warm hand heating her skin through the wool on her back. “A topic for another day, then. Thank ye, Coira. I couldha made an enemy of him had ye no’ given me a sign.”

She felt a chill when his hand lifted from her back and he turned to go. A deep wave of sadness rolled against her, stilling her breath for a moment as she tried to absorb it. He kept something locked away, amid the pain and horror of his memories of Flodden. An anguish so deep, she wondered if he realized it was there.

Coira shivered. He was much like her. Too much. Her anguish, tragically, had not remained hidden.

What would happen if his pain also escaped his control?

Chapter 6

“I’ll enjoy being away from the keep for a day,” Elizabeth told Coira the next morning as she pulled on her cloak and picked up her gather basket. “Though we may not need to wander far into the woods if we find what the healer needs nearby.”

An enjoyable day, indeed, Coira thought, prepared to follow Elizabeth and get away from the rest of the clan. With only Elizabeth and the healer for company, she should not need to build her dunes to protect herself. Without the confusion of many other people around her, she might even practice building the dunes against each of them, and see what else she could learn. Could she affect their emotional state as she had seemed to do with the shrill and soft-voiced women? With Logen? “Where are we to meet the healer?”

“At the gate. But first, we must stop by the kitchen for food and ale to take with us.”

Elizabeth led her out, chattering as they walked. Coira greeted the cook, then stood by as Elizabeth explained what they needed. Within moments, they were on their way to meet the healer.

When they stepped out into the bailey, Coira glanced around. This early, only a few people were about, intent on their morning chores. She looked up, and wasn’t surprised to see Logen already on the rampart. He took his duties seriously.