The Rogue (Castle Blackstone #2)

Chapter 15

A lthough his gaze was fixed on the horse pull, Angus’s thoughts were on Birdi and her reactions going through the market. Lord, ‘twas like being a lad again, seeing it again for the first time through her eyes. And Lord, was she funny. And her expression when she saw that litter of pigs was priceless. Aye, and the way people stared at her in awe! None would ever have guessed she wasn’t a lady born. She carried herself straight and proud, smiled easily and often. And her laugh; it rang pure and clear, drawing the eye of every man within hearing. Aye, given a different set of circumstances—a different rearing—she would have made a perfect chatelaine for an ambitious man. Just the sight of her dressed in rich brocades and fur was enough to steal a man’s breath and make him weak at the knees. Aye, so why was he giving her up?

Pondering the possibility of his talking Lady Beth into training Birdi, he felt a drop of rain and turned to ask Birdi if she was ready to go.

She was gone.

Heart in his throat, he scoured the crowd. “Birdi!” Receiving no answer, he plowed his way through the tightly packed clansmen. “Birdi!”

Where the hell is she?

“What’s amiss?” Ian stood at his back.

“Birdi’s gone.”

“Dinna fash. Something in one of the stalls might have caught her eye, and she’s milling about there.”

Angus quickened his pace, his focus shifting from right and left as he examined every doorway he passed. “Nay, she wouldna.”

“She’s a woman, Angus. Of course she would.”

Teeth gritted, he hissed, “She wouldn’t, because she’s blind.”

Ian grabbed his arm and spun him. “She’s what ?”

Angus wrenched free and took off at a jog, claymore banging at his back. “Blind! Blind as a bat, as a burrowing mole, as blind as Lizzy’s auld dog.” Chest heaving, he came to an abrupt halt before the market stalls. “God’s teeth, where the hell could she have gone?”

Ian shrugged and looked about helplessly.

Angus gave the marketplace another quick scouring and growled, “Ye take the right, I’ll go left. Bellow if ye find her.”

Angus ran. He’d been frightened a time or two in his life but never so often or to such a degree as he had since meeting Birdalane Shame. And when he found her, he’d paddle her fine hurdies raw and blistered for the aggravation she was putting him through. Aye, and take great pleasure in the doing!

After checking every open doorway, he tore past the entrances of short mews off the main road one after the other, calling out her name. He’d raced past the last before the sight of vivid blue registered in his mind. He turned and raced back.

There, at the end of the mews, before a pile of rags and a closed stable door, squatted Birdi. He took a deep settling breath, not trusting he wouldn’t grab her up by the hair and throw her over his knee. He didn’t bother keeping the menace out of his voice as he growled, “Birdi?”

When she didn’t respond he strode down the mews, and found himself face to face with a pathetic-looking stranger, a woman the likes of which he hadn’t seen since his time in France, when he’d boldly—and foolishly—toured the waterfronts, determined to drink himself into nightly stupors trying to forget all that he had done in the name of king and country.

The frail, hollow-eyed woman held a babe in her lap, its fragile parchment skin the color of roasted pumpkin, its dark eyes sunken into a seemingly too-large head. Its legs called to mind those of a stork’s. He kenned what ailed the babe; he’d seen this child time and time again after crops and cattle had been destroyed by war.

The babe was starving to death.

Birdi, head bent, tears streaming down her cheeks, ignored him. She was totally focused on the babe, one hand on its head, the other resting on the babe’s bloated belly.

“Ack, Birdi, lass…”

She’d apparently found a babe to replace the one she’d lost. It wasn’t uncommon for desperate women to offer their babes up for sale. ‘Twas often the only way to keep them alive.

He dropped to one knee. As he wrapped his arm around Birdi’s shoulders, he heard her whisper, “…please, Mother of All, Goddess, please I beg thee,” and his heart stuttered.

The blood drained from his head and he rocked back onto his haunches.

Oh my God . Birdi was pagan.

The babe beneath her hands shivered. It opened its mouth and then wailed. Not strongly as a proper babe might, but wail it did, its wee fists batting the falling mist. The mother, tears now streaming down her face, cooed and hushed the babe as she snatched it up and cradled it to her chest.

Birdi wavered and fell against him. As he steadied her, he felt heat. My God, the woman was burning up, near to melting with raging fever. Had she touched the babe and contracted something?

The shock of his discovery that she was Pagan forgotten, he tipped up her chin to see her face and a cold sweat exploded across his chest. Birdi’s magnificent eyes were now as vacant as the babe’s had once been, staring skyward, unblinking. “Birdi! For God’s sake answer me. Can ye hear me?”

In response she whispered, “Give her…coins.”

Angus scooped Birdi into his arms. He had to get her inside, get water into her, get food into her, do something. As he rose, she clawed at his chest with surprising strength. “The coins. All…will be…for naught…if she canna eat, the babe canna suckle.”

In no mood to argue—not willing to examine what he’d heard while sweat careened down his back and chest, with blood hammering in his ears—he tossed the frail woman a fistful of coins. He then turned. The woman called, “Bless ye!” as he ran with Birdi toward the main roadway.

As he rounded the corner he saw Ian emerge from a nearby building. “Ian!”

His friend came at a run, took one look at Birdi, and asked, “My God, man, what happened to her?” His hand reached for his dirk. “I’ll kill the son of a whore.”

“I’ve no idea, but we need to get her inside.” The mist had turned to an all-out rain.

“This way.” Ian raced ahead some thirty feet to the only two-story building on the now muddy roadway. He held the door wide as Angus angled Birdi through the doorway.

Following behind, Ian ordered, “Up the stairs, Angus. Second door.”

The whitewashed room, its low ceiling made lower by thick round beams, held only a bed and a chair. ‘Twould serve. It was warm and dry, the two things Birdi most needed.

Having had to hunch to get through the doorway, Angus remained stooped as he crossed the room to the sturdy-looking, pine-post bed. He lowered Birdi onto thin ticking.

Leaning over his shoulder, Ian asked, “What can I do?”

Angus ran a shaking hand over the stubble on his jaw. Think, man! Think! What had Lady Beth done when Duncan lay at death’s door with a raging fever? He pictured the sickroom, pictured Beth keening over his friend, and it all came back.

“Fetch a bucket of cold water and rags.”

“But she’s—”

“Dinna argue, man, just do it!”

As Ian reached for the door, Angus amended, “And broth, hot broth.”

His friend gone, Angus looked down at Birdi. Her cheeks were flushed, her body still. Her breathing was shallow and uneven. Merciful Mother of God! What was wrong that she’d sickened so quickly? And what had she done or given to that babe?

Having no answers and desperately needing to do something, he knelt at Birdi’s side and started to undress her. He pushed off her cape and struggled with the pearl band about her head until he realized it was secured to the cauls. He pulled pins, got her headdress off, and her hair cascaded around her. He then studied her gown. Seeing no opening in the front, he rolled her onto her side and found no opening in the back. “Shit! Over the head then.”

He shoved the weighty brocade up to her waist. That done, he hauled her to his chest, pulled her arms free, and yanked the two-stone weight over her head. Wondering how she’d borne so much without slumping, he tossed the gown onto the floor and carefully lowered Birdi back onto the mattress. She now wore only a thin cotton shift over her snow-white, pebbled skin.

The door burst open, and instinctively Angus wrenched out his dirk. Seeing Ian, he muttered, “Ye scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry.” Ian dropped a bucket beside the bed and handed him a fistful of rags. “The broth will be ready in a moment.”

“Thank ye.”

Looking as upset as Angus felt, Ian asked, “What else can I do?”

“Stand guard below.” Pagans were about as welcome these days as the plague, and the woman Birdi had spoken with had worn a cross.

“Has she spoken? Told ye what happened?”

Angus shook his head. “Not yet. I need to tend to her now. Let none above stairs, and keep your ears open.” He studied Birdi. “The moment her fever breaks we’re leaving. I’ll let ye know when to make ready the horses.”

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.