Chapter 27 #2
Do I really have a brave and boundless heart? With him, it feels possible. Everything feels possible.
“Here we are.” He stops beside a hedge I’ve seen all over the place, wiry and wild, covered in cheerful yellow flowers.
“This is gorse?”
“Aye.” He pulls his knife, cutting off a small flowering tip.
“Does it have a scent?”
“Nae.”
He lifts it to my hair, tucking it in. His hand lingers.
“’Tis like sunshine. Warm, and bright, and so verra lovely.” The way he lingers over the words, deliberate and slow, implies that I’m those things.
He slides his hand to my shoulders. Then both hands to my waist. “They say you should only kiss a girl when the gorse is in bloom.” The words come out a rasp.
Every nerve in my body thrums to life. “Are you trying to kiss me?”
A wicked smile lights his face. “Are you available for kissing, then?”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
His gaze darkens. Fire ignites in his eyes. “You are.”
He leans in, his hands slowly skimming my sides. “Stop me if you need,” he whispers. “But I’ve a mind to kiss you, my Rosie-love. It’s all I’ve thought about, like a madness. Until I’ve begun to think I was born wanting it.”
When he says it, I know. I’ve been waiting for this my whole life—longer even. Hundreds of years have passed with me waiting for this.
For Callum.
He draws closer. The air between us is charged. Just a whisper of space…just an inch. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath.
He stops to gaze into my eyes, lingering there, and I see everything I’m feeling reflected back at me. We’ve finally stopped fighting the universe and settled into place exactly where we belong.
“So kiss me already,” I murmur.
He closes the final distance, his lips finding mine, no more hesitation. His growl of pleasure sends sparks surging through my veins. I melt into him. His hands slide up to cradle my face, fingers threading through my hair.
This.
This feeling of rightness, of coming home to myself. This is what’s been missing.
It’s a feeling of completion, but deeper than that, because I was and am complete on my own. It’s more that, here, with Callum, I’m amplified. Intensified. Celebrated.
He kisses me hard. He kisses me gently. Tentative, then sure. Asserting, then questioning. It’s like I’ve never been kissed before. Not truly. Not like this.
I slide my hands up his chest, fingers tracing heat and muscle, then wrap them around his neck, pulling him closer.
I’m desperate to explore, hungry for the revelation of him. My fingers skim higher, tangling into his hair, then glide back down, over his shoulders, along his arms, up again. He’s all hard, coiled power beneath my fingertips.
And yet, with me, he’s achingly tender.
I give in and let my brooding, restless mind surrender to pure sensation. My last thought before thought ceases altogether: this is more than kissing.
It’s an awakening.
I ease open the cottage door, and the creaking hinges sound like a thousand trumpets blaring. I freeze. Crap. It’s so late. It’s not like I have a curfew, but at this hour, it’s clear I’ve been up to no good.
And I just might explode from how amazing all that no-good felt.
I try again, pushing the door forward one inch at a time, feeling somewhere between jubilation and panic.
Donag is awake, standing at the fireplace with her back to me. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t turn. My joy fizzles, replaced by sinking dread. She must be really furious if she’s not even speaking.
“I’m so sorry,” I say in a rush, scrambling for a reasonable excuse. “I know it’s late, but the kitchens were—”
Keeping her face turned from me, she waves a dismissive hand. Her shoulders are hunched, like she just wants to curl in on herself. Something’s up, because usually I’d have gotten at least a glare by now. A careless minx, or the old standby, just like your mother.
As I hang my cloak to dry by the fire, I steal a closer look, registering her unnatural posture. She’s leaning against the hearth, muscles rigid with pain, breathing through gritted teeth as she waits for water to boil.
I note the butcher block table and the loose tea leaves strewn across its normally spotless surface. More leaves spill from a fold of paper, torn and crumpled, as though it’d been opened with shaking hands.
Her back is out again.
Callum says it’s worse when the weather’s wet and cold. He calls them her spells, but by the white-knuckle grip she’s got on the hearth just to keep herself standing, I’d guess they’re spasms from a long-ago broken vertebra.
“If you want to sit,” I say in a quiet voice, “I can finish brewing the tea for you.”
“I make my own tea.”
I shake my head. The woman is unbelievable. “I’m perfectly capable of pouring hot water over leaves,” I say dryly.
Donag is far from my favorite person, but she has shown me moments of kindness.
I feel bad for her, bad that my mother was the cause of so much heartache.
And it’s hard to watch someone crippled by agonizing pain.
Especially when there are things that can be done.
Easy, sensible things that don’t involve the skin of a dead animal.
I’ve made a balm that might help her. Cooking in the castle kitchens—specifically, using Campbell’s tiny silver pepper pot—gave me the idea. It’s a lot like the one I mix for Poppa.
Farmers are self-reliant penny-pinchers, and his Farmer’s Almanac has a natural remedy for practically everything.
Beeswax for lip balm. Castor oil as hair conditioner.
Apple cider vinegar bug repellent. Honey, cinnamon, and horseradish mixes into a killer cold medicine. For the flu, it’s catnip tea.
And, to cure winter’s aches and pains, mix a balm from black pepper oil.
Even without my modern ingredients, it was super easy to make.
The hardest part had been pilfering enough peppercorns, a careful process that took weeks.
I ground them with a mortar and pestle—just enough to release the oils—tossed that in a skillet with some beeswax, and warmed the mixture over a low flame until the pepper oil was evenly infused.
I set it aside to cool and—voila—a halfway decent arthritis cream.
“I had an idea,” I announce. “I was messing around in the kitchen and—” She turns to glare at me, lip curled with suspicion, and I quickly mutter, “Never mind.”
“Never mind what? What’s that look on your face?”
“I made a thing…” I should just come out with it. I’ve been carrying the stuff around for days, and no surprise why I’ve been too afraid to broach the topic.
“Made what thing? Speak your mind, girl, or let me be.”
I suck in a breath and dive in. “I made you a cream. For your back.”
“Just now?” She smirks her distrust. “And how’d you ken I’d have the pains this moment, eh?”
I’m so done with this. So. Done. I’ve tried to be nice to Donag for Callum’s sake. But ironically, it’s his kiss that’s armored me with courage enough to face her sneering.
This time, I sneer right back. “No, I didn’t make it just now.
It’s from a while ago. I make a similar balm for my grandfather’s bursitis.
I thought it might help you. I was going to give it to you, but listen to yourself.
You’re not exactly the easiest woman to talk to.
Can you blame me for not bringing it up sooner? ”
She remains silent, giving me the most peculiar look.
An exasperated sigh explodes from me. “Wait, don’t tell me. I know what you’re thinking. I’m reminding you of Janet, right? We’re soooo annoying. Well, guess what? I’m not my mother. We are nothing alike.”
Donag nods. “’Tis true.” Stunned, I pause my tirade. “You’ve naught in common with your mum. ’Twas Gregor who had the vinegar coursing through his veins.”
“Is that a good thing?” The words barely make it past the sudden tightness in my chest. I never expected to feel anything about Gregor. But now, here he is, ghosting through my blood, shaping me in ways I never knew. A man I’ll never meet, but whose echoes live inside me.
Donag smirks. “And what else? Though I imagine ’twas also his downfall. He was all backbone and boldness. You get that from him. Nae from Janet.”
It’s my turn to gape.
“Well then, where is this cream?” She thrusts out an impatient hand. “Give it to me.”
I dig it from the pocket of my skirts, but when I don’t hand it off fast enough, she simply snatches the tiny jar from me.
Her hands tremble as she opens it. She sniffs it, sneezes, then gives me a hard look. “Trying tae poison me, is it?”
The accusation has me finding my tongue again. “Trust me, I know my way around a kitchen. If I wanted to poison you, I’d use something a lot more efficient than pepper.”
It was the wrong thing to say. The woman’s scowl deepens.
“Look,” I explode, caught between laughter and frustration. “It goes on your back, not in your mouth, though it wouldn’t hurt you either way.”
“How d’you ken of my back?”
I gesture to her curved posture. “I recognize the signs from my grandfather. And your groaning could wake the next village.”
A strong emotion skips across her face before she masks it again. I recognize that from Poppa, too—the same mix of shame and injured pride.
Sympathy stabs me, and I sigh. “Don’t worry.
I’m sure nobody else can tell. I only noticed because of my grandfather.
He has a bad hip and an aversion to complaining, which means I’ve gotten in the habit of spotting the signs.
Plus the man is skeptical about medicine, so I make creams for him instead. ”
She sniffs the balm again, this time twitching her nostrils wide. “I smell beeswax.”
I nod. “I infused it with pepper. Back home, I use essential oils, but Campbell’s got a pretty little pepper pot that served well enough.”
Donag grins at this bit of thievery, and I take it as a sign to continue.
“Go ahead, try it. It won’t heal you completely, but it’ll work better than some gross seal pelt.”
She scoops a wad onto her fingers, then pauses to glare at me.