by Lily Baldwin
She shook her head. “Take her to the bed,” she said, reaching to place her hand on Catarina’s forehead, but Quinn stepped back out of reach.
Planting her feet wide, Abigail put her hands on her hips. “I will not be the one who sells her soul. Ye have my promise.”
He locked eyes with her. He saw strength in their violet depths.
“’Twill not be me,” she vowed.
What choice did he have? He stepped forward then. “She has burned like fire for nearly two days.”
She stroked her fingertips across Catarina’s dry forehead. “Place her on the bed.”
He turned and hastened across the small room in three long strides and laid her down on the pallet. “Catarina,” he whispered in her ear. “Come back to me.”
Her head jerked from side to side. “Quinn,” she said.
He clasped her hand. “I am here, my love.”
“Quinn,” she called out, this time louder. Her amber eyes flashed open. “I didn’t do it, Quinn. I didn’t kill Henry.”
He eased his thumb across her brow. “Hush, my love. I know ye didn’t. And one day so will everyone else.”
Catarina’s fearful gaze held his for several moments longer. Then her lids dipped, and soon she was swept away, once more lost to fever.
A loud crash snaked his eyes away from Catarina to where Abigail sifted through pots on the table, sending what she didn’t need to the ground in her haste.
“Where is the blasted Willow Bark?” she cursed. Then she threw up her hands. “Of course,” she said. Her bare feet padded toward the door. He watched her bend down. When she straightened, she held up her slipper for him to see. “I ran out of room in my satchel the last time I went foraging.” She tilted the slipper over her open palm and out poured bits of plant.
Smiling, she said, “Luck is on our side. ‘Tis already crushed.” Then she added the handful of herbs to the steaming pot. Giving the mixture a quick stir, she returned to her table and set to work, mixing herbs and crushing roots. At length, she returned to the pot and added some of her potion to a bowl of mossy greens. Then, using her fingers, she kneaded the contents. “Ouch,” she squealed, pulling her hand out. She waved her fingers around. “Hot,” she explained to Quinn, not that he hadn’t figured as much already.
Kneeling at the foot of the bed, she unraveled Catarina’s bandage and brushed at Quinn’s dried poultice. “What is this mess?”
He explained the mix of herbs he had used, but she shook her head. “’Tis useless without heat.”
When she scraped away the remainder of the poultice, a yellow ooze began to seep from the wound. Fear instantly gripped Quinn’s heart when the odor reached his nose, for he knew something foul laid waste to her body. His heart began to race. If only he had acted sooner.
“Please,” Quinn said, grasping Abigail’s arm. “She must live.”
Abigail frowned. “She is still here. She can hear you and sense your fear. Hold tight to your faith, and do as I say. Now, add some more water to this bowl to reheat the herbs.”
He went over to the pot and dipped the ladle past the surface of rose petals to the reddish liquid below. When he withdrew the spoon, a new scent filled his nose, pungent and bitter. He imagined it held the strength of a sword that could cut away the poison from Catarina’s body. After pouring the steaming potion onto the herbs, he knelt once more beside Catarina and offered Abigail the bowl.
She winced, taking a handful of the hot mixture and squeezed out the extra juice. “’Tis hotter than the fires of hell, but that is good. The heat will draw the poison from her veins.” Then she pressed the poultice to Catarina’s foot. Catarina jerked, but Quinn reached out to steady her leg.
“’Tis too hot,” he snapped.
Abigail shook her head while she deftly wrapped Catarina’s foot in clean linen. “’Tis just right—hot enough to hurt but not to blister.” Then she stood up. “I’m going to make a tisane now.”
Quinn stayed by Catarina’s side and held her hand while he listened to Abigail clatter about the room. It was not long before she came back with a steaming cup.
“Get behind her and tilt her head back a little,” she said. “We’ll see if we can get her to drink any. Just a tiny sip is all we ask,” she said to Catarina.
After precious little of the hot liquid made it down Catarina’s throat, Abigail set aside the cup and felt Catarina’s bandage. “It has cooled,” she said. “We must start, again. The secret is in the heat.”
They carried on like that for some time, changing Catarina’s poultice and bandage and plying her lips with tisane. After they finished yet another cycle of each remedy, Quinn knelt once more and reached for Catarina, bringing her partway into his arms. Movement near the pot, caught his eye just as Abigail dropped fistfuls of white and pink blossoms into the brew. Soon a new scent filled the room. It reminded Quinn of a springtime meadow.
“What will ye do with that?” Quinn asked.
Abigail shook her head. “’Tis not medicine of the kind yer thinking. She’s not going to drink it. But the sweetness of the air might keep the foulness from her dreams. It’ll coax happy memories from her mind.”
Quinn looked down at Catarina. He thought about what her youth must have been like living in the Redesdale fortress with Bella.
“I can see ye inside the great hall with yer family, sitting at the high table in all yer finery,” he whispered in her ear. “Bella said yer parent’s loved each other dearly. I imagine their chairs at supper would have been close together so they could touch. I think ye would have sat on yer mother’s side, and Bella on yer father’s.” He smiled, imagining her as a carefree lass. “Ye must have loved the market. I wonder if ye ever touched any of the fabric I brought back on La Vierge. So many bolts of satin and silk. Perhaps yer hand grasped what my own had held. I wish I could take ye there, to the Berwick market of our youth—not that I could afford to buy ye satin and silk.”
“I do not want satin or silk.”
His heart quickened as he lifted his head and looked into her amber eyes.
She smiled weakly. “All I want is you.”
He clasped her cheeks, his heart pounding. “Her fever is breaking,” he called to Abigail. Then he wrapped his arm around her.
Abigail crossed to their side and smiled down at Catarina, feeling her brow. Quinn looked up at Abigail expectantly, but her mouth pressed in a thin line, and she shook her head.
He scowled at her. “She just needs something to drink,” he said and grabbed the cup of water. He lifted Catarina’s head, and this time she swallowed the water down.
“Ye did well, lass,” he said.
Catarina’s lips upturned, a mere hint of a smile, before her eyes closed.
He dropped to his knees. “Catarina? Wake up, Catarina.” He did not want her to close her eyes again. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Tears stung his eyes when his lips touched her fiery skin.
Abigail’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. He looked up into her flooded violet eyes. “There must be more we can do,” he said.
She swiped at her tears and threw her shoulders back. “Indeed, there is. We can hold fast to hope and work until we drop.” Then she pointed to the table. “Grind up more arrowroot. I’ll add more peat to the fire. Do not give up, Quinn.”
“I’m a MacVie,” he growled. “MacVies never give up.”
Chapter Twenty Five
Stephen sat at a long trestle table in the common room of the Bunkford Inn, just south of Mathas, alongside Jarrett, Aldwin and the rest of the Ravensworth knights. When they had first entered, Rupert banished the other peasant travelers from the room with a few biting remarks. Now, the once bustling table was dead quiet with the exception the occasional scraping of knives or the gentle tap of a goblet of beer being set down. Glancing sidelong at Rupert, Stephen reached inside his bread bowl and pinched a hunk of roasted venison from the thick gravy. Rupert sat in a large, high-backed chair, staring into the wide hearth. The bread bow
l on the side table near his arm remained untouched; however, the same could not be said for his drink. Stephen cringed when yet again Rupert impatiently motioned to a lad holding a large jug in the corner. The boy hastened to Rupert’s side and filled his goblet, which Rupert proceeded to down. When the boy started to move away, Rupert clamped his hand on his forearm, causing the boy to wince.
“I did not dismiss you,” Rupert snapped.
The boy’s face twisted with pain. “Forgive me, my lord.”
Rupert held out his goblet to be filled once more. Then with a careless flick of his fingers, he dismissed the boy who scurried back to stand on the opposite side of the room.
Stephen balled his hands into tight fists as he continued to watch Rupert from the corner of his eye. He simply could not believe the change in his brother. Dark circles shadowed Rupert’s eyes. His hand shook each time he brought his goblet to his lips. He did not engage the men. He only sat, staring at the dancing flames, his lips moving as if he spoke, but to whom, Stephen could not even guess. With his own muttered curse, Stephen pushed away his half-eaten supper, having now lost his own appetite. He dipped his fingers in the wash bowl and was soon joined by the other knights. Then before Stephen knew what was happening, Jarrett stood up and piled their bread bowls together and started toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Rupert said coldly.
Jarrett froze and slowly turned around. “To the stables, my lord.”
“I did not ask you.”
Jarrett dipped his head in apology. “I was taking Jasper and the dogs the bread bowls, my lord.”
“To feed their failure?” Rupert snapped, his face turning red. “I think not.”
Stephen prayed Jarrett had the sense to sit down. He had already planned on ensuring Jasper and the dogs were fed, but not until after Rupert had retired to his room. Stephen’s shoulders seized as he watched Jarrett open his mouth to speak, but in the end, he remained quiet. The tension eased from Stephen’s body. Of course the men wished to protest against Rupert’s cruelty, but Edgar’s death had rattled them all, and rightly so. As much as the men wanted to champion Jasper, they would not do so if the penalty was death.
Rupert leaned forward in his seat, his face contorted with rage. “Burn the bread, all of it. I do not feed laziness. When they find me the girl that is when they will eat.”
Jarrett did as he was bade and tossed the hollowed bread into the fire. Then he turned away from Rupert and locked eyes with Stephen. Stephen could see the fury, brimming behind his friend’s eyes. His own hands clenched tighter. Rupert was out of control—but the reason for his aggression and folly still remained a mystery.
Without question, Stephen wanted to find Catarina and Nicholas, but he would not kill innocent men to do so. He watched as Rupert’s head dropped, his chin resting on his chest. Then it bobbed back up again. It was clear he fought sleep. Stephen pressed his lips together in disapproval. More than anything, Rupert needed sleep. The night before Stephen had once again listened to Rupert pacing the floor, and what little sleep he had found had been riddled by night terrors. Stephen could still hear Rupert’s screams echoing in his mind. It was his brother’s ceaseless nightly torture that kept sympathy firmly rooted in Stephen’s heart. Rupert suffered. Stephen knew not why, but he did not doubt that his brother’s pain was very real.
Having made up his mind to advise Rupert to retire for the night, Stephen stood, but then a knock sounded at the door and in sauntered a comely serving maid with chestnut hair and pretty, green eyes. She smiled and curtsied to Rupert. “My lord, a man has just arrived at the inn. He wishes to speak to ye. He says he has information ye’re sure to welcome.”
Rupert turned, and Stephen glimpsed the glint that suddenly brightened his brother’s dull gaze. His lips twisted in a cruel, greedy smile. “Show him in, damn it. What are you waiting for?”
The maid’s eyes grew wide, and, in a frenzy, she turned and opened the door. “Come in. Come in,” she blustered.
To Stephen’s surprise an old codger shuffled into the room. He wore a tattered tunic, hose littered with holes, and a pair of old brogues that a strong gust of wind could blow apart. But what caught Stephen’s eye was his hat. It had a wide brim with tall feathers of all colors poking out from the top and a ring of heather around the crown. Beneath the hat was a wizened face with droopy eyelids. As he shuffled farther into the room, his lips slowly upturned in a gummy smile. Stephen waited for the man or Rupert to speak, but they simply stared at one another for several moments.
Finally, Rupert’s fist came down on the arm of his chair. “Speak,” he snapped.
The old man did not flinch nor did he hurry to answer. He scanned the room, looking all the men in the eye. When he locked eyes with Stephen, Stephen saw he truly was unafraid. Mayhap, at his age he was too close to death to fear it.
Very slowly, the old man turned back around, giving Rupert his full attention. “I ken something ye’ll pay coin to hear.”
Rupert shrugged. “That depends on the information. Out with in. I am not in a patient mood.”
That gummy smile appeared again before the old man said, “If ‘tis all the same to ye, my lord, I dare not speak until I feel the cold coin in my hand.”
Rupert slid to the edge of his seat, his eyes flashing with anger. “You are lucky I do not break every bone in your ancient body.”
The old man chuckled. “Ah, but then ye wouldn’t know where the lady is that ye’ve been hunting all over the Highlands for, now would ye?”
Rupert’s hands clawed the arms of his chair. Stephen stepped closer, ready to throw his sword up in the old man’s defense if need be. But Rupert sat back as a slow smile parted his lips.
“Pay the man,” he said, gesturing to Stephen. “I want to hear what he has to say.”
Stephen pressed several silver pieces into the man’s gnarled hand. Bony fingers tucked the coins away before the old man looked Rupert square in the eye. “This morning I drove my wagon to Mathas. I saw a man on the side of the road. He held a woman in his arms. He, himself, looked ready to fall over and die, but she looked all the worse.”
Rupert jumped to his feet. “Was it her? Was it Lady Catarina?”
“Even with her sickly pallor, I knew her straightaway from yer description. Dark skin, black hair. Even my old eyes saw her beauty.”
Stephen came forward then. “She is sick?”
The old man turned stiffly to meet Stephen’s gaze. “Aye, riddled with fever, she was. I took them to the village to Miss Abigail’s cottage. She’s a healer and a good one at that, though I don’t think it’ll matter much. Judging by how sick she was, they will not be leaving anytime soon, unless she departs from this world to go to another.”
“What brought the fever on?” Stephen asked.
“A nasty gash on the sole of her foot had begun to fester. I didn’t see the wound itself, but her fever was bad. I doubt she’ll live to see the dawn.”
Rupert stood up. His face shone with glee.
Stephen dreaded to hear the answer to the question he could not avoid asking. “What do ye wish to do, my lord?”
Rupert smiled. “Nothing for now. God is punishing her. This is His will—He does this on our behalf. We will wait the night and ride out in the morning to see if she lives or not.”
“Suit yerself,” the old man said. He scuffed his heels as he slowly turned around and started to make his way toward the door.
Stephen looked away from the old man to Rupert who was sitting once more, staring at the flames dancing in the hearth. But an instant later, his head jerked around. He called out to the old man. “Do me a service?”
Slowly the codger turned back, flashing his gummy smile. “Only for a price.”
Chapter Twenty Six
Quinn jerked awake. He was on his knees at Catarina’s bedside, his head resting on his folded arms. He looked up. His breath caught when his eyes met Catarina’s sleepy gaze. “I did not mean to startle you,” she whi
spered.
Hair clung to her forehead. He watched a bead of sweat drip down her temple. A smile so wide it ached spread across his face. He jumped to his feet, looking for Abigail who still slept, her head resting on the table. “Abigail, wake up,” he called. When she did not stir, he crossed the room and gave her shoulder a shake. Slowly, her head lifted. Her violet eyes squinted up at him. “Her fever broke,” he said.
Abigail shook the sleep from her head and hurried to Catarina’s bedside. Slowly, a smile curved Abigail’s lips. “That is the power of love,” she said. “No finer medicine in the world.”
Quinn knelt beside Catarina and clasped her hand. Her breaths were coming deep and even.
“Where am I,” she said weakly.
“We’re in the village of Mathas,” Quinn said.
Abigail chimed in then, “Aye, and in my cottage. My name is Abigail. Ye gave us quite a scare, my lady.”
Catarina smiled at Abigail, but then turned back to look at Quinn, her brow drawn. “I am so sorry. I should have told you when I first cut my foot.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Nay, lass. There’s no need to be sorry.” He brought the back of her hand to his lips. “My heart is full with the sight of ye. I thought I was going to lose ye.”
She smiled. “Not this day. That I promise you, Quinn MacVie.”
“I believe ye,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.
Abigail stood then and crossed to the door. Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders she said, “I am going to fetch more Willow Bark. Yer head is going to start to pound soon. Ye’ll want some relief from the pain.”
“Thank ye,” Quinn said before turning back to Catarina.
After the door closed behind Abigail, Catarina said, “Are ye not worried that she might tell someone about us?”
Quinn shook his head. “She could have left at any point during the night. There’s no reason to believe she will do so now. Let me get ye some broth.”
He crossed to the pot and ladled some of the steaming brew into a wooden bowl. Then, supporting her head, he helped her sip it down. After she drank the last drop, he stood to refill the bowl but froze when a knock sounded at the door. He motioned for Catarina to be silent. Grasping the hilt of his dirk, he crept toward the window. With his back pressed against the wall, he lifted the hide just enough to glimpse sidelong out the window to the door. His tense shoulders relaxed when he spied a tell-tale hat with tall feathers and a ring of heather. He lowered his blade and turned back around, smiling at Catarina.
