Authors: Heather McCollum
“I’ve never doubted that you’d find a way,” Hugh said.
Caden strode back toward the bailey. Ten houses finished for another day. When his fury welled inside him, demanding an attack based wholly on revenge, he’d remember the faces of the wives and children. When Meg stared at him with those big trusting eyes and he thought for a moment about keeping her, he’d remember his people. They made him accountable, made him who he was. His people made him The Macbain.
…
“Here it is,” Meg said. She pulled the heavy key from her leather bag and handed it to Rachel. They sat in two wooden chairs close to the dancing flames of the hearth in their room. They sat completely alone since Nickum had begged to escape.
“Isabelle left you this?” Rachel ran a finger over the iron scrollwork in the handle of the key.
“Yes. The pattern is not really a pattern at all.”
“’Tis odd,” Rachel said. “My sister liked to leave clues and guesses about. She liked games when she was a girl.” She focused back on the key. “A chest to unlock, perhaps.”
“I think she secreted the proof away that she mentioned in her letter.” Meg pointed to the parchment lying open on Rachel’s lap.
“Why did your uncle give you your mother’s letter now?”
“Really, it was Aunt Mary, although Uncle Harold didn’t stop her.” Meg fiddled with the edge of the woolen throw over her lap. “It was right after the anniversary of my birth and Uncle Harold received a letter from my father saying he was coming to claim me. That it was past time I was married. He wrote he had a match in mind but wanted to ascertain that I was free of witchcraft first. That was when Aunt Mary said that one of my mother’s patients had brought the letter with the journal and key after I’d come to live there. They didn’t want to frighten me with the letter, so they held it back until now.”
Rachel squeezed Meg’s hand. There was gentle strength in her grasp, warm and full of power. “So you ran away.”
Meg looked down at her lap. “Do you know how they test for witchcraft?”
“Torture, for the most part.”
“They examine you, prick any bumps or birthmarks to see if you bleed. They dunk you in ponds or see if you burn.”
“Meg,” Rachel whispered. “I tried to get her to come back to Scotland with me after your birth.” Her eyes filled with regret, like little pools of blue. “She was so sad there until you came into the world. Then she spent her days pouring her love into you.”
Silence weighted the air between them while the fire crackled and spit and warmed their legs.
“Harold kept you safe,” Rachel said, as if coming awake again. “Always liked him, and that wife of his has spirit.”
Meg felt a stab of homesickness. “Aunt Mary is fierce. When I was a young girl and she gave me the healing journal, she said I had to learn to read so I could hear my mother’s advice on how to fix people.”
Rachel pointed toward the book. “And you think Isabelle wrote clues in it.”
“I’m certain.” Meg flipped the pages open. “Each of her descriptions has a little something extra and some of the descriptions are obviously not correct, like where one would find an abundance of garlic.” She pointed out discrepancies and odd sounding descriptions as she read the words. “I don’t know what it all means. ‘Find this plant in a cave, a cold cave with many paths and a warm heart in the middle.’”
“You know Gaelic?” Rachel asked.
“My mother asked my uncle to make sure I learned it. I think she wanted to make certain I would understand her clues.”
“Harold speaks it as well?”
Meg shook her head. “Whenever a Scotsman came through, Uncle Harold would ask him to give us both some instruction. Then we studied on our own. Although I’m not very fluent.”
“Oh, I’d say you translated that quite well,” Rachel said.
“Caden.” Meg’s voice quieted and she cleared her throat just a bit. “He translated it on the journey north.” She tipped her gaze back down to avoid her aunt’s stare. The steely look heated the crown of her head as she bent to read.
“Was the journey north long?” Rachel asked.
“Five nights, not counting the one Nickum saved me from a pack of wolves.”
“Wolves?”
“Yes, right before I ran into the skirmish and met Caden.”
Her aunt’s eyes froze Meg’s breath. Meg tried to smile. Her cheek twitched and it came out lopsided.
Rachel’s face softened. “He is a handsome man, Meg. Strong and most likely virile. God makes them that way here in the Highlands. When you meet my Alec you’ll see.”
Meg shook her head. “Caden and I…there’s nothing between us.” She stared at the page, though her eyes didn’t see any of the words.
Her aunt chuckled softly and began to hum. Together, they continued to study the journal while Meg spent the rest of the day avoiding the subject of Caden and how he meant nothing to her.
The next morning Meg requested a bath. Lake scum and road dirt still coated her skin.
“Ye’ve been ill, lass,” Evelyn protested.
“I am well.” Meg moved her shoulder under the poultice wrap. “And I am desperate to smell like my old self. I even brought a bar of soap.” She pulled the lilac-scented bar from her leather bag.
“’Tis nearly winter,” Evelyn tried once more.
“I’ve yet to see someone die from bathing,” Rachel said as she dragged a brush through her long, gray-streaked hair.
Evelyn murmured low and frowned. She made the sign of the cross across her chest before she left the room.
“Did you see that?” Meg asked her aunt.
Rachel tossed the brush on the bed and began to plait her braid once more. “They all do it here, except for your Caden.”
“He is not
my
Caden.” Meg frowned and glanced at the door, then back at her aunt. “Does it bother you?”
“There are rumors that I am a witch because of my talent to heal. Those who do not know me are frightened by the power. Their little signs give them the courage to interact with me, I suppose.” Rachel shrugged slightly.
“Are you… I mean no disrespect, Aunt, but what you do, what you did to help me… Are you a witch?”
Meg’s aunt finished tying a leather cord at the end of the long braid. She held her hands flat, parallel to one another, and a blue light began to glow between them. “I’ve had this power since I was a child. I had a mother who taught me how to use it. I’ve never worshipped anybody but God, our Lord and our Savior Jesus Christ, child.” Rachel held the light easily, contained between her hands. “Our power is a gift from God, as we are gifts from God.” With that she laid her hands together as if praying and the light disappeared.
“My mother—”
“Also had this gift, though she rarely showed it. I remember that after you were born, your skin was very yellow. Your mother held you in her arms and I saw the blue light wrap around you. And then you were all pink and healthy and Isabelle was exhausted.” Rachel tipped her head. “Aye, my sister knew how to use her gift, but she was very careful not to let anyone see.”
“Maybe my father saw.”
“Never.” Rachel placed hands on Meg’s upper arms, forcing her to see the truth in her stare. “Rowland Boswell lied, Meg. Lied to ensure your mother would never be heard.” She lowered her voice. “You also have your mother’s power, though I suspect you don’t know anything about using it.”
Meg remained still.
“You aren’t evil, child. Special, yes, but not a witch. Not evil.” Rachel smiled then, as if her words solved everything.
Could her blue light and the ability to assess people’s illnesses and hurts be a gift and not a curse?
“Aunt Mary taught me how to use plants to heal, but if I could do more… Could you…?” Meg pursed her lips for a second. “Would you teach me? How to use this…
gift
to help people?”
Rachel’s happiness engulfed her whole face, making the years wash away and a radiant woman stand before Meg. “I’ve always wanted a daughter to teach.” She nodded, her eyes shiny pools of restrained joy. “Aye, I will teach you how to use your talents to heal.”
Evelyn pushed into the room and waved in two men carrying buckets of water. They placed the iron buckets against the fire to warm.
Donald came behind them with a bathing tub and set it on the floor near the hearth. He grinned at Meg. “Ye look fit,” he said, but it came out like a question.
“Fit and better smelling after this bath,” Meg said. “Thank you all for bringing it up.” Her gratitude included all the men who flushed and bowed before leaving.
“Donald,” she called as he left the room.
The man poked his head back in around the corner, his brows raised. “Aye?”
“Hugh—how is his arm?”
“Well, I believe,” Donald said. “Haven’t heard otherwise.”
“Thank you,” she said, and Donald disappeared. She turned to her aunt. “The man’s arm was completely severed during the skirmish. I took care of him with herbs and clean wrappings along the trip back. I should check on him.”
“Ye’re hurt,” Evelyn said as she coaxed the fire into a blaze and stirred the warming water. She stood and wiped hands on her apron. “I’ll return with several bathing sheets.” She shook her head. “Taking a bath in the autumn and wounded,” she muttered as she strode out the door.
Rachel shooed Meg toward a chair and took up a brush. Rachel ran it down the length of her wavy tresses.
Meg moved her shoulder under the poultice. “I’m not
very
wounded.”
After Donald returned to fill the tub and left the room again, Rachel helped Meg undress. Her eyes skimmed Meg’s stomach, stopping on the birthmark at her navel.
“The dragonfly. I wondered where you had it hidden. Your mother’s was on the bottom of her foot. All the women of our line have one.” Rachel slid back her sleeve to reveal her own small brown birthmark. “The mark shows we are…special.”
Special, as in being more than human? As in being a true witch? Meg shivered at the implication and stepped into the warm water. Her aunt certainly didn’t seem like an evil witch. She used her powers to help people. There was no darkness in that. Maybe her strange power was something other than a curse to be hidden.
Rachel unwrapped the poultice from Meg’s shoulder.
“This will mark me also,” Meg said, in awe of the healed hole over the spot where her shoulder connected to her chest. White puckered skin covered a hole, the size of an arrow shaft. She ran fingers gingerly across her shoulder to touch the other puncture mark on her back.
“The scars will fade in time.” Rachel helped Meg lower into the water. The heat infused her muscles, coaxing them to relax in a warm embrace.
Evelyn walked in carrying a stack of cloth as Meg leaned her head on the lip of the high-backed tub.
Meg moved her shoulder around. “A miracle,” she said. Out of the corner of her eye, Meg noticed Evelyn move her fingers across her chest and kiss her cross.
“A miracle from God,” Rachel added with a wink.
Meg closed her eyes, giving into the languid pleasure of the warm water. “Ahh,” she sighed. “Never underestimate the healing power of cleanliness.”
…
Caden pushed through the double oak doors into the keep. He shook his head, dotting water droplets against the stone wall of the entry chamber. After an hour of training his men in the autumn heat, the frigid water of the loch had cooled the familiar fire in his limbs. If only it had cooled the fire in his loins that reignited each time he thought about Meg. He frowned and strode into the great hall.
One woman sat before the fire, her fingers toying with the ebony queen on his father’s old chess game. Several of the kitchen servants peeked out from the back entry.
Caden walked to the hearth, where Rachel Munro stared up at the tapestry above the granite mantel and tapped the playing piece back in place.
“Ironic,” she said. “The woman who started this bloody feud generations ago had Meg’s coloring. Auburn hair. Even greenish eyes.”
Caden glanced at the woven images of the tapestry he’d memorized as a child sitting beside his father while he and the council planned raids and victories against the Munros.
Rachel’s pensive gaze moved to Caden. In the firelight, her eyes sparked. “And now a woman will end it.”
He held his frown. Did Rachel Munro want the feud to end? Did she resign herself to the fact that her niece was worth more than stubborn pride and vengeance?
“Alec Munro will agree to a peace for her?” he asked.
Her eyebrows rose with the hint of a shrug. “My husband is not the agreeing type.”
The knot tightened in his gut but he kept the practiced mask of indifference. “He will agree to return our cattle he reived and give us half his harvest for burning ours.”
Rachel’s lips thinned. Her voice was low but strong. “Munros had nothing to do with the burning of your fields.”
He watched her steely eyes until she blinked, but she didn’t turn away. “Our cattle were seen being driven away by Munros.”
“Reiving cattle and burning fields are very different offenses.”
Caden continued to pierce her with his gaze. Even in her seated position, Rachel Munro held her ground as firmly as if she were an armed warrior.
“Offenses meant to starve a clan into submission,” he said low, the beast of fury held in check only by his growing respect for the woman’s courage.
She huffed and turned her eyes to the fire with indignant stubbornness. She was a good match for Alec Munro. “Meg is well. I must return to Munro Keep on the morn.”
“Without your niece.”
She flipped her hand in the air as if his statement was foolish. “Of course.”
Caden looked quickly about the room to make certain Meg was still above. “You will tell Alec that I desire peace. I will return his dear niece alive and a maiden.” Rachel’s snort interrupted him, but he continued. “When our cattle are brought back with a wagon of grain.”
Her attention returned to him. The anger had left replaced by something that resembled weariness. “And is my sister’s daughter important enough to Alec to cause him to break his oath to see the Macbains punished—?”
“Punished for a dispute over one woman that happened nearly a century ago.”
“Alec was raised with the tradition of hate.” She shook her head and picked the white queen up. “I think he’s actually frustrated with your sudden weakness,” she said lowly. “There is no glory in beating a starving dog.”