Chapter Eight
Elspeth picked at her roasted quail with carrots, mushrooms, and onions. Mr. Cameron certainly knew how to cook and season his dishes. Pity, she was not the least bit hungry.
He was leaving. She would be alone for who knew how long?
Did Mr. Cameron believe he was doing her any favors by giving her freedom to do nothing all day?
Day after day after… She was not going to do it.
She would get out of here. All she had to do was climb out of the glen. How difficult could it be?
But blast it, he was correct. Where would she go after that? Would she go to Tor Castle? Logan Cameron and his cousins would recognize her, and they would kick her out.
“Miss Woodburn?”
She didn’t realize she was staring at him until he spoke.
“Would ye have me apologize fer leavin’ and thwartin’ yer attempt to kill me?”
“If ye knew how badly I have wanted to do it, ye would beg my forgiveness.”
He laughed a little and she watched him, hating him, but…not wanting him to leave. Of course, she did not want him to leave because then she could not finish poisoning him, but there was more to it than that. More than not wanting to be alone, for she would be alone when he died.
He was not entirely unpleasant. But could she so easily put aside how he ruined her life because he was not completely reprehensible? So what if out of all the masters she had, the one she hated the most was the least hateful?
“Why are ye here alone while the rest of yer kin are at yer father’s castle?”
His smile did not change or fade when he brought more food to his mouth. “I like it better here.”
“Why?”
“’Tis quiet, and I can practice withoot a dozen pairs of eyes on me.”
Should she remind him that she watched him yesterday while he rode in circles on his horse, trying to swing his left arm?
“Did none of them offer to help ye practice instead of standing off gawking at ye?”
He shook his head, his smile intact, and just a bit warmer. “How would ye help me practice if ye were to offer yer service to me?”
“I would have ye practice moving yer arm, not just in a defensive way, but fer everything, the way ye would move it naturally. I think part of yer problem is that ye fergot how to move it. Ye need to help yer muscles remember, and ye do that by moving your arm for all things. But—” she added after a moment—“I wouldna help ye practice. Ye are my enemy.”
“Of course,” he agreed.
Then he lifted his left arm and set his hand on his spoon. His fingers did not move right away, but he pushed harder until they finally curled around the handle of the spoon.
Elspeth watched, silently, traitorously hoping for his victory.
She liked that he was taking her advice and moving his arm as much as he could and as often as he could.
But it also meant that the closer he came to regaining the use of his left arm, the closer he was to fighting and killing—likely more Covenanters.
She should have nothing to do with helping him.
Hadn’t she learned better the first time?
She looked away from his struggle an instant before he dipped his spoon into his stew and then lifted it to his mouth.
She looked up just in time to see him lowering his left arm to the table and grinning like a fool while he chewed. She’d missed it. He used his left arm.
She wanted to smile at him.
Right before she stabbed herself in her traitorous heart with one of his cutting knives. She knew where they all were, chopping knives, slicing, paring knives. Knives for cutting bread, meat, vegetables, and herbs.
“Dinna overdo,” she quietly suggested, though she did not truly give a damn if he hurt himself or not. But even as she mocked herself, she knew she was a liar.
She knew he was her enemy, but there were instances…just various instances, when she felt sorry for him for being punished so severely. It was almost like taking the leg of a dancer, the tongue of an opera singer, the hands of a poet…the arm of a warrior.
She involuntarily watched him rub his left shoulder and had the ridiculous urge to hurry around the table and massage—Och, she could not finish the thought. Best not to. Even if he was not her mortal enemy, she had no idea how to handle a man—especially a man like Mr. Logan Cameron.
He was leaving her alone, giving her her freedom, while warning her that freedom out in the world was not safe.
It made her gaze linger on him while he finished his stew, alternating both hands to feed himself.
She could see the struggle in the fire of his eyes, the set of determination in his jaw, and she was torn between wanting to help him and knowing she should prepare some food for him to take home to Tor Castle.
This was her last chance. She would put a hint of wolfsbane into the stew he’d prepared. One bite was all that would be needed to kill him and anyone who ate. She didn’t even have to be there.
“How do ye know the ways to help someone heal?” he asked. “Are ye a physician?”
“Are physicians’ slaves?” she scoffed.
He did not answer, and after a moment without him saying anything, she finally put her useless spoon down.
“I used to accompany my father’s physician when he visited the ailing and afflicted of Dunley village.
I learned much from him. I am certain he, and all the folks of that village, would be rolling over in the dirt if they knew I would consider helping ye. ”
His dark eyes shone with a light from within. “Ye are considerin’ it?”
“Aye, but I have a condition.”
She was sure that if his scandalously sinuous smile was a weapon, he would have killed her six times already. Nae! Cease! She had to keep her head on straight.
“I willna leave.”
Elspeth blinked at him. How did he—“How did ye know that was my condition?”
He breathed out deeply and laughed. “I didna know until just now.”
Elspeth felt her cheeks go up in flames. “Well, now ye know. What is yer answer?”
“I agree to yer condition.”
That was it? It was that easy to get him to stay? Instead of thanking him, she told him to spread the butter over his bread with his left hand. Then she helped him clean the breakfast bowls.
“Ye said ye used to help yer father’s physician care fer the sick. What were ye like then?”
Elspeth looked up at him from the bowl she was dipping in the stream. Did he truly want to know what she was like before he took it all away?
“My father often said that I was too compassionate fer this harsh world. He was correct—and finally the harsh world taught me to be cold like everyone else.”
“’Tis a difficult thing to be compassionate,” he remarked under his breath, almost as an afterthought.
How would he know? She thought, but she did not speak it out loud. He was sorry for looking at her and causing her such heartbreak. He had not mentioned his own heartbreak.
“Are ye wed, Mr. Cameron?” she asked him with the backdrop of a great mountain framing him.
“Nae. I havena met a lass I want to spend my life with.”
She did not want to admit that his face was unforgettable. But she had never forgotten that man, beaten and bloodied in her father’s dungeon. “A cause fer those lasses to celebrate, nae doubt,” she murmured.
She amused him, she thought sourly when he chuckled. Something else she had not anticipated. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Taking jabs at him was satisfying. More so because he could take it, even found her amusing.
“Can ye shoot an arrow?” she asked, finishing up washing her bowl. “Practicing will strengthen yer arm,” she added when he shook his head.
“I am still considering helping ye, Mr. Cameron. But if I do, ye will have to do as I say in terms of practicing and healing yer arm.”
“Aye, Miss Woodburn, I will do as ye say.”
She wasn’t sure why when he spoke—or what he said—made her insides burn like the fiery pits of hell. Why his declaration, spoken on the soft whisper of a promise, made her want to promise him the same thing.
Mayhap it was not the best idea to ask him to stay. It was a selfish condition, made out of fear of being alone. She was a coward. She could have poisoned his family. Now she was dealing with the consequences.
“When we go back, ye will practice nocking an arrow.”
He nodded but looked doubtful.
“I have nae doubt ye will see it done in no time at all, Mr. Cameron,” she reassured him.
She didn’t realize he was staring at her, and when she did, she looked away, hiding her fiery cheeks.
“Miss Woodburn,” he said with a slow, salacious smile, “careful ye dinna make yerself vital to me.”
She felt her blood draining from her face. What was she to say to that? However would she make herself vital to him? She would be careful never to do it.
“Mayhap, we should head back.” She rose, gathering the bowls.
Her foot slipped on the wet rock and she flailed backward.
Before she fell into the water, she was caught in the crook of an arm, stopped instantly from disaster and left looking up into luminous, soulful dark eyes, a strong, straight nose, slightly, sweetly curved lips.
She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t.
It seemed he could not look away either.
His gaze traced the contours of her jaw, her chin, and lips.
When he looked into her eyes, she held her breath.
Then, like one waking from a deep sleep, in which he was enjoying a pleasant dream, he smiled at her and then swung his gaze away and pulled her up.
Firmly on her feet again, he released her waist and stepped away.
Elspeth almost took a step toward him to stop his departure. Of course, she stopped herself instead, but the sudden cold that washed over her made her shiver.
“Ye are all right, lass,” he reassured gently, more confident in her inner strength than she was.
She nodded, agreeing with him. Still, she took a moment to gather her wits and not sway on her feet.
“Let us get back, aye?” he said, turning away before she answered.