Chapter Four
You can’t, Cailean almost said.
The words danced on the edge of his tongue, the all too familiar unease with anything mystical welling up in him, but he bit back the words.
Rose watched him steadily, awaiting his response. She had a disconcerting gaze—clear and direct as though she could see right into his soul.
He blew out a breath. “There is a sickness on Barra, one that is afflicting my people badly. We have tried everything, every healing technique my people know of but naught seems to make a difference.”
As he spoke, the fear he usually kept so tightly controlled bloomed in his gut like a poisonous flower.
What if it could not be stopped? What if this were a curse from the old gods as Maggie claimed or a punishment from the new one as Beatrice believed?
What if there was nothing any of them—not even a MacFinnan spellweaver—could do?
Rose rested her hand on his forearm. Her touch was warm and soft and sent a strange little tingle up his arm.
“What are the symptoms of this sickness?”
He cleared his throat, resisting the urge to step away, break the contact. He wasn’t used to being touched. “Fever to begin with, then delirium, seizures, and finally death.”
Her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head in thought. “Has it ever afflicted the island before?”
“Not in my lifetime although there are accounts of such things in the past. Do ye know what it is?”
She shook her head. “Not without examining the patients, although I’ve treated things before that sound similar.”
She sounded so calm. So assured. Could she really help them? He felt a strange sensation uncurl in his chest and it took him a moment to realize what it was.
Hope.
He stepped back, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “Aye, well, before ye do anything, getting into dry clothes is probably in order.”
She laughed softly, a light sound like spring rain on a pond. “Yeah, I’m not sure the drowned-rat look will catch on.”
It looked just fine on her in Cailean’s opinion. Her damp clothes, though odd, clung to her in all the right places.
He coughed. “Come with me.”
He turned and led her through the doors into the main hall of the keep. It was quiet at this time of day, but come evening it would be boisterous and full to the rafters—even more so than usual he suspected as everyone would want to get a look at their unexpected guest.
He called over a maid. “Mable, escort Rose up to one of the guest rooms and see she has everything she needs. When ye are ready, come find me and I will take ye to the infirmary,” he added to Rose.
She nodded. “I will.” She hesitated for a moment and then said, “Thank you, by the way.”
“For what?”
“Rescuing me.”
He flashed an amused smile. “I wasnae about to let harm come to a MacFinnan spellweaver, was I? Ye might have turned me into a toad.”
She waggled her fingers. “If you don’t behave, I still might.”
He found himself grinning despite himself. Rose MacFinnan had an easy-going, down-to-earth way about her that was impossible to dislike. She was, he realized, nothing like what he expected. Warm, funny, and bonny to boot.
“I’ll leave ye to it.”
He turned and strode away. It had been a most strange day. He needed to work off his pent-up energy. He took the steps down to the courtyard two at a time and strode towards the armory, shouting for some of his men to attend him.
He felt the need to swing a weapon.
*
Rose soon realized that Dun Mallach was a maze. She’d followed Mable up two flights of steps, through several long corridors and numerous small antechambers, and she no longer had any idea where she was.
The place was large and drafty, but scrupulously clean, with tapestries on the walls and runners along the floors taking away some of the austereness of the stonework. It looked, Rose thought as she trailed along behind Mable, like something straight out of a Hollywood movie set.
Mable finally stopped outside a large, shiny wooden door. “Here we are,” she said, giving a curtsey. “The best guest room in the castle, Lady MacFinnan.” She clasped her hands in front of her and stared at the floor, clearly nervous.
Rose stifled a sigh. Was this how things were going to be? Didn’t these people realize that she was just plain old Rose MacFinnan, a thirty-something divorcee who lived alone, ate microwave dinners, and loved detective movies?
“There’s no need to curtsey,” she said Mable. “And please call me Rose. Lady MacFinnan makes me sound like some old spinster.”
Mable looked up and managed a small, shy smile. The girl looked to be around seventeen or eighteen and had flaming red hair tied back with a scarf. “As ye wish… Rose.”
She opened the door and Rose followed her into what could only be described as an apartment. It was not a room but a suite of rooms, decked out with dark wooden furniture and upholstered in the same-colored plaid that Cailean wore.
“Oh my,” Rose said, looking around at the opulent sitting room. Beyond, she spied a bedroom, and a smaller room with an iron tub which she guessed must be the bathroom. “This is gorgeous. Tell me you have a coffee maker and it will be perfect.”
“A what?”
Rose waved her hand. “Never mind.”
Mable crossed to a large trunk. Flipping open the lid, she began taking out various items of clothing, holding them up, and glancing at Rose, and then either putting them back or laying them on a chair in response to a set of criteria she didn’t bother to explain.
“Would ye like me to help ye dress?” she asked when she was finished.
Rose eyed the clothes Mable had picked out. There was a long, royal-blue velvet dress, a corset to go underneath, several petticoats, and some undergarments made of linen.
Oh, hell. Was she really expected to wear that? Why hadn’t she insisted she go back to her house and pack some things before following Lir? She really had not thought this trip through.
“Um… I think you’d better,” she replied. “Otherwise I’ll be here until midnight.”
She peeled off her sodden clothes and dropped them into a basket by the door then dried herself with a large cloth that Mable handed her, before gingerly beginning to don the clothes provided.
They smelled of lavender and, to her surprise, fit Rose perfectly.
Mable clearly had a good eye for such things.
“You seem to know what you’re doing,” Rose observed as she held up her arms to allow Mable to tie up the bodice of the dress.
“Aye, my mother was maid to Lady Mary, the laird’s wife, and I was in training to take her place.”
“Lady Mary? I’ve not met her yet.”
Mable didn’t answer for a moment but then said quietly, “I’m afraid Lady Mary passed. Four winters ago.”
Rose put her hand over her mouth. “Mable, I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me.”
Cailean had lost his wife? Catriona had lost her mother? And here she was, griping about having to wear unfamiliar clothes.
A sudden wave of compassion went through her. What must it be like for Cailean trying to raise a daughter alone as well as lead his people? No wonder he was a little surly.
Finally, Rose finished dressing and did a little twirl, determined to lighten the mood. “Well? How do I look?”
There were no mirrors in the room, for which she was grateful. She suspected she looked ridiculous. Dresses were not her thing. They were impractical and just got in the way. Most of the time she could be found in a flannel shirt and a pair of dungarees.
“Beautiful, my lady… um… Rose,” Mable replied.
Rose grinned. “Flattery will get you everywhere.” She clapped her hands together. “Right. I’d better go and find Cailean.”
“I’ll show ye.”
Together, the two women left the room and made their way back through the keep. Mable said not a word the whole time and Rose was content to look around as they went, taking everything in. It wasn’t every day you found yourself in a real Scottish castle.
They stepped outside and Rose saw that the clouds had cleared a little, letting through the late afternoon sun. The breeze was blowing from inland, bringing with it the scent of late flowers and also something colder—the smell of snow from up in the mountains, perhaps.
Autumn had just been taking hold of the landscape when she’d left home but here, at this more northerly latitude, it had already begun to bite, and from here she could see that the hills beyond the keep were turning to golds and browns.
Winter would not be far behind, and the last thing these people needed was a sickness sweeping through their population right when they should be gathering in the harvest and laying down stores to see them through that winter.
From somewhere nearby she heard a rhythmic clack-clack-clack, like the sound of wood striking wood. It was towards this sound that Mable led her.
They passed through a gate and came out beyond the walls, into a wide square of flattened grass with wooden seats along one side, although nobody was sitting in them right now.
A large rack stood at one end full of weapons: spears, swords, bows, and horrible-looking spiky things that Rose had no name for.
The clacking sound was louder here and she tore her gaze away from the weapons rack to find two men to her left maybe twenty paces away.
They were both stripped to the waist and were fighting with staffs—the source of the noise.
She didn’t recognize one of the men—he was older, with black hair turning to silver—but the other she most definitely recognized.
Cailean hadn’t noticed her and Mable standing there, his attention fixed wholly on his opponent.
He’d tied his hair back with a leather band and his smooth features were set in a fierce scowl of concentration as he hit and parried and danced, moving as lightly as a ballet dancer, despite his size.
And nobody should be allowed to have a body that fine, all smooth skin and sculpted muscle.
Rose found herself staring and pointedly looked away.