by Sahara Kelly
Recently, she’d learned that she could influence her surroundings. She could not recreate a room, of course, but she could influence the way it was perceived by others.
Again, this was simply a matter of suggestion. Some people, when told a piece of cloth was black, would see it as black. Even if it was a dark blue. Hecate did much the same thing, on a deeper level, merely suggesting that a room appeared cosy and warm for example, so that guests would feel at home. She’d tried that with much success during her time in Chillendale just before Christmas, but again it had completely exhausted her.
The feelings and emotions she picked up from others—they could be worrisome. So she’d taught herself how to block them, filter them, to choose those that were important and leave the rest behind.
Of course, all her good intentions had gone out of the window when Dancey Miller-James had walked into her life and swept her off her feet. She felt the usual dart of disgust for herself when she thought of him, and now, being tired and worried about her patient, she deliberately closed that door. Old mistakes would always be there, but didn’t need to be brought into the light of day when she wasn’t up to dealing with them.
More composed, she stood, wincing a little as her leg reminded her that sitting a long time in one position was not always the best idea. Rubbing her hip, she wandered around the room, stretching a little, ordering her body to function much as she ordered her mind to focus. She needed to sort out what she’d learned and add it to what she already knew.
A soft tap on the door announced Dal, come to take over the night hours of watchfulness.
She smiled at him. “I made progress, Dal. We have exchanged thoughts.”
“Indeed, Miss Hecate?” Dal’s eyebrows rose. “This is good news. Now we can be reassured there is still someone in there.” He looked at the man lying beneath the covers. “I confess to some concern in that regard, given his lack of conscious behaviour.”
“As was I.” She rotated her shoulders, letting the muscles relax. “His name is Finn, and he’s from Ireland.”
“Excellent. Two details we did not know until now.” Dal paused. “Would that be a Christian name or a surname?”
“Hmm.” She blinked. “I don’t know. We didn’t really get that far.”
Dal put another log on the fire, then turned to take Hecate’s vacated chair. “So Mr. Finn from Ireland is here with us. Did he tell you how he came to be here?”
She shook her head. “No. His thoughts are filled with pain, Dal. It would seem his family all died before he reached them. Perhaps he was elsewhere with his brigade—we know he was a soldier from his clothing—and when he returned to Ireland, there was no one left.” She sighed. “He said they’d starved or passed away from some disease. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was typhus, since one doesn’t need to be brilliant to realise that starvation and fatal illnesses walk hand in hand.”
Dal nodded. “’Tis so, I’m afraid. Your assumptions have merit.” He looked back at the dark hair and pale face of their patient. “Perhaps the touch of your mind is enough to rouse his.”
“We shall see.” She moved to the door. “He sleeps now, and the typhus has passed, so let us pray that his rest will start to heal the parts that are still damaged.”
“A worthy suggestion.”
“Oh, one thing…” She paused. “When you have been caring for him, did you notice that lump on his head? Do you have any idea what might have caused it?”
Dal frowned. “I assumed his perilous progress through a rough forest would have accounted for it. I did not concern myself unduly. Why?”
“That was my first thought too. But upon consideration, such an accident would most likely have affected his face or the sides of his head. Not the back of it. I would venture a guess that it might well be a strike by something hard, and with great force.”
“That makes little sense, Miss Hecate,” puzzled Dal. “Unless you believe someone attacked him?”
She nodded. “I hate to say it, but yes, that is my initial assessment. What if his physical state was so poor that he could not defend himself? His body barely had enough strength to fight the typhus, let alone avoid attack. Now that he’s healthy again, we might also see bruising, perhaps. Or other manifestations of injuries that would otherwise have been readily visible. We’ll watch for them.”
“’Tis a theory, I suppose. But I cannot speak to its veracity.” Dal was nothing if not honest.
“That’s all right,” yawned Hecate. “I’ll not ask you to speak to anything, dear Dal.” She grinned. “Especially not now. I’m exhausted.”
“Then rest.” He settled himself into the chair. “We are warm and comfortable. All is well.”
“Very good. I will.” She opened the door and looked back. “And a good night to you both.”
She walked to her room and sighed with relief as the glow of the fire welcomed her into her personal sanctuary. The scent of sage and thyme greeted her, familiar friends who travelled with her down paths that others might not even realise were there.
Slipping into her nightclothes, Hecate knew she should simply scramble into her lovely bed and sink into blissful sleep. But something was nudging at her mind, a half-formed thought, perhaps, or an idea that required pursuing. Her scrying bowl sat ready on a low table by her window, and it drew her as surely as if it had called her name out loud.
Cut from dark stone and smooth as silk, it was filled with fresh rainwater, and stood between two candles cradled in small crystal candlesticks. She lit them with a taper, then sat in front of them, watching the surface of the water ripple slightly at her movements. When all was once again still, she opened the lid of the small box that sat off to one side, and removed an elegant glittering shard of amethyst crystal. It was her favourite piece and the one she’d found worked best for scrying.
Placing it in the exact centre of the bowl, she took a cleansing breath and cleared her thoughts, focussing only on the shades of lavender and purple emanating from the crystal. It was a familiar process and in only a matter of moments she felt peacefulness sweep over her. As if a door had opened inside her mind, she grew aware of her surroundings in a different way, connecting to the elements, alert to the slightest wisps of sound, and calmly absorbing all these sensations with an expanded sense of her reality.
As she sank deeper, the surface of the water blurred, and she slowed her breathing, letting her body completely relax as her mind took over and watched as pictures began to form.
It was him. Finn.
He was riding, his face joyful, holding a huge flag which billowed out behind him. Then his body bent forward, his expression changed to one of serious intent and he spurred the horse, galloping furiously into a dusty cloud of something…a battle…flashes of steel, flying dirt, bodies—so many bodies—and Finn riding pell-mell over the chaos, shouting now, lifting the flag high.
She lost sight of him as the battle raged on, the flag vanishing into the massive eruption of soldiers and swords and cannon fire.
Her heart thudded and she fought to slow the pace, lest she lose this vision, this glimpse into Finn’s past.
It was too late. The battle vanished, but another image began to form…this time, Finn was laughing with a mug of ale in his hand. He was bare to the waist and looking across the room at a bed. His eyes were merry, his hand slipped to his breeches…and Hecate gasped as he unfastened them, letting them fall to the floor over his bare feet.
Nude, he put the tankard down and walked slowly to where an equally nude woman awaited him, her limbs sprawled languorously over the tumbled linens, her head hidden by the pillows.
Hecate sat transfixed. Finn, healthy and well fed, was a beautiful sight. Sleek muscles were well-defined, his legs strong and firm, his shoulders wider than she’d imagined.
And he was aroused, too. Such matters were not a surprise to her, since she had long studied nature and the human body. Those studies had helped her understand some of the healing processes she used, an
d had also educated her on the business of begetting a child. So Finn’s nude body and his aroused cock caught her attention but did not shock her as much as intrigue her.
He jumped onto the bed, making the woman bounce. She laughed and Hecate felt the excitement that rolled over her at his touch. God, would she feel that same thing if she were touched like that?
It seemed almost improper to have discovered this moment in her vision, but she was helpless to look away. Finn pushed the woman’s legs wide and settled himself between them, touching her breasts, running his hands over her skin and finally positioning himself to thrust within.
Hecate almost felt it—the stretching penetration as he entered the woman’s body to be greeted with a cry of pleasure.
She tried to clear her mind, but the image was there, inexorably filling her thoughts, showing her the pleasure to be had between a man and a woman. Between Finn and a woman…
His buttocks were firm and the muscles flexed as he began to move, in and out, sliding his hands to her thighs and gripping them, pulling the woman into his strokes.
Hecate felt herself dampen, her body responding enthusiastically to the vision of Finn’s thrusts.
She fought it, tried to extricate herself from the scene of passion playing out before her psychic eyes.
But it was too late.
The woman cried out—a sound that rang in Hecate’s ears—and as she found her release, she arched and lifted her head from the pillow. Her head turned and she stared directly at Hecate, whose breath caught in a giant choking gasp.
The woman beneath Finn?
It was her.
Chapter Four
Finn awoke the next day
There was light, and he was in bed, warm, and not in pain.
That information made its way through his sleep-raddled brain and brought comfort in its wake. He wasn’t sleeping on the forest floor, or trying to avoid rodents in some drafty stable.
He wasn’t cold.
“You have joined us, Mr. Finn. That is a very good thing.” A man’s voice spoke softly, while a hand rested on his forehead. “And no fever to speak of. I believe you are now well on the road to recovery.”
Finn struggled to open his eyes again, squinting at the blurry sight of a dark and bearded face, topped by a turban and a jewel. He tried to speak, but his mouth and throat seemed not to want to work correctly. He managed a croak of some sort.
“Here, this will help.”
The man slid an arm behind his shoulders and lifted him, then held a cup to his lips. Finn automatically sipped, the liquid warm and sweet, slipping down his throat like manna from Heaven.
“Thank you,” he whispered, no longer feeling like his throat was lined with gravel.
“Once more, I think…”
The cup returned and this time Finn sipped eagerly, moistening the dry tissues of his mouth. “Good.” He pulled back, licking his lips.
“How do you feel?” The dark face watched him.
“I…I’m not sure.” He lifted a hand to his head. “Where am I? Everything is a little foggy…”
“Which is just what we expect, Mr. Finn.”
A new voice, a woman, entered the conversation. Somehow, she sounded familiar, but he still fought to focus his eyes and she stood at the end of the bed, a blur in blue with golden hair.
“Where am I?” he asked again.
“You’re at Doireann Vale, sir.”
Which told him nothing.
“He just woke, Miss Hecate,” said the man at his bedside. “He has had a drink of the honey water.”
“Excellent, Dal. Thank you. I will take over now.”
“If you need me, just call.”
“Of course.”
Finn listened as the rustle of clothing and the squeak of the chair springs told him that the man had risen and the woman was going to take his place. Perhaps now he could see her a little better.
“There now. I expect you’re worrying about many things, Mr. Finn.” She reached out and put her hand on his forehead.
He wished people would stop doing that. It was somehow rather undignified.
“Where am I?” He turned, seeing her face clearly for the first time.
She was…intriguingly beautiful. Those words were all he had, as he stared at the oval face, the delicate ivory skin with a touch of rose on the cheeks, and eyes that could have come straight from a fairy tale. Her lips were full and pink, her teeth white as she smiled at him. Surrounding her amazing features were tumbling curls of tawny gold, loose and free. He swallowed. “Who are you?” Then he blinked as a terrifying thought crossed his brain. “Am I dead? For surely you must be an angel.”
She chuckled, a sound that brought a similar curve to his lips. God, she was extraordinary.
“You’re not dead, let me reassure you of that. And I am the owner of this house. My name is Hecate. Hecate Ridlington, and I’m no angel. Just ask my family.”
Her name…something…somewhere… He shook his head in frustration. “I cannot remember…”
“That’s quite all right,” she soothed. “You have been very ill, Mr. Finn. You had typhus. But now you have recovered, physically. The emotional toll will take longer to resolve.”
He thought about that. “You call me Mr. Finn. Are we acquainted?”
She cleared her throat. “Er, yes. It was…um…well, you’re from Ireland, we think. And you were wearing a uniform. We had to call you something, so we decided on Mr. Finn.”
“I’m Irish?” He gazed at her unfathomable eyes.
She smiled again. “I believe you are, although there’s barely a hint of it in your speech. Dark hair, those long black eyelashes…blue eyes put in with dirty fingers, as my mother would have said.”
“Ah. So you live here with your family?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I live here alone, but for my housekeeper, and Dal. The man you met when you first awoke. He is my personal guardian, also my friend, and were it not for him, I would not be alive.”
“Then I must be grateful to him also,” said Finn politely.
“Indeed. He has also cared for you during your illness.”
“You said typhus,” Finn managed to pursue a line of thought. “And yet I am cured?”
She nodded. “I have some knowledge of herbs and potions, Mr. Finn. The old country ways of restoring health that have little to do with leeches or bleeding. Thankfully my medicines worked and the typhus passed without claiming another victim. But I must caution you—as yet, you are not strong. Now that you are awake, we must begin to help your body rebuild.” She tilted her head to one side. “So I will ask you a question now. What is your name?”
He froze, still held captive by those wondrous eyes. But then, as his mind tried to sort itself out, he frowned. “I…” He concentrated, trying to pierce the mists that seemed to be hiding so many things inside his head. “I—I can’t remember…”
A look of sympathy crossed her features. “’Tis all right. These things take time.”
He closed his eyes. “Why? Why have I no memories? Just blurs…the sound of guns…I was in a battle. And then…nothing. Just a sense of sorrow.”
This time, when a soft hand rested on his forehead, he didn’t mind. It was comforting and stayed there for a few moments. Amazed, he felt his frustration and fears drift away, leaving him calm.
She removed her hand and he opened his eyes. “What did you do?”
Looking away, she shrugged. “I merely hoped you might relax.”
She shifted her skirts, as if to stand, but his hand shot out and grasped her forearm. “’Twas more than that, Ma’am. Your touch changed how I felt.”
Her gaze met his, the teal blue and gold depths revealing little. “I have some healing skills, as I mentioned before. And quite often healing begins with the mind and continues on to the body.”
He continued to hold her down on her chair. “Are you a witch?”
Her chin lifted. “That is a word that can mean many
things, Mr. Finn. Do I have…abilities, let’s say, that others do not? Yes, I do. They help in healing, as you know, and in how I view the world around me. They have helped in that I was able to encourage others to store food, since I sensed a very bad year ahead. That has come true, as you will soon recall, once your memories return.”
She met his gaze, without blinking. “Am I a witch? I do no harm, nor will I ever use what talents I have been blessed with to hurt anyone. I am simply a woman who has senses more finely tuned than others. I am neither unique, nor a witch. I have a large family who understands and loves me for who I am.” She removed his grasp from her sleeve. “So there it is. If you feel you are unable or unwilling to remain here at Doireann Vale during the time of your recuperation, I will ensure that you are conveyed to wherever it is you’d prefer to be. We do have a physician in the village. He might be able to recommend a place where you can receive the care you need.”
She stood, shaking out her skirts.
Finn got the strongest impression he’d hurt her feelings somehow. Which thought was magnified by the sudden arrival of a very large black cat on the bed, who stared at him from huge green-gold eyes. Finn blinked.
“Bub, get down. You’re not helping matters at all.” She frowned at him.
Finn couldn’t help but chuckle. It was rusty and short, but it was there. “Forgive me. I intended no insult.” He shot a quick look at the cat. “And if you’d reassure your familiar, here, I’d appreciate it. He looks like he’s about to see if I might be a tasty dinner.”
A musical laugh greeted his words. “This is Beelzebub. Not because he has underworld origins, but because he’s a very cheeky devil sometimes.”
Finn nodded. “I gratefully accept your hospitality, Miss Ridlington. Indeed, until my memories return, I do not know where else I could go and I have yet to learn where I am.” He paused, curious to see that the cat had decided to sit closer, moving against his hip and settling himself on the covers. He looked back at Hecate. “My memories…they will return…won’t they?”
“I hope so,” she answered. “I really hope so.”
