by Amy Jarecki
Heat spread over Merrin’s cheeks. “It seems like forever since we saw ye last.”
“Aye, I’m not as agile as I once was.”
“And how is your rheumatism?” Niall asked.
“It hurts.” The friar smiled and patted Merrin’s shoulder. “But the good Lord has seen fit to grant me with a long life, and for that I am grateful.” He regarded the Highlander and frowned. “So this is what washed ashore?”
“Aye.” Niall moved beside the patient. “Is he from Brochel?”
Merrin’s heart stuttered with hope as the friar bent down to inspect the Highlander’s face. “Bruised a bit, is he not?” The friar pushed aside the patient’s hair. “Och, I’ll be a monk of Judas.”
That was the closest Merrin had ever heard the holy man come to swearing. “What is it?” She craned her neck around the friar’s stout frame and scanned the Highlander’s face—had she missed a red mark like hers?
“If I didn’t know better, aside from the blond tresses, I’d say he was the likeness of Laird Calum MacLeod.” The friar crossed himself. “God rest his soul.”
Merrin and Niall both made the sign of the cross at the mention of the legendary first Laird of Raasay, who died “seeking the Holy Grail” in Tortuga—at least that was how the friar told it, though the island was a fair distance from the Holy Land.
“But do ye recognize him?” Niall asked.
Friar Pat frowned. “Nay. He doesn’t hail from Raasay. Of that I am certain.”
After Merrin fashioned a pallet of straw at the side of the hearth, they moved the Highlander, which proved no easy feat. Merrin took hold of his ankles while the two men wrestled with his shoulders. If she’d known how heavy his legs were, she’d have opted to switch with Da. Merrin would have sworn the patient was hewn from stone if she hadn’t seen him bleed. But they rested him on the hay gently enough. Merrin draped a newly woven plaid across him, pleased to see her handiwork put to good use.
She insisted upon serving up bowls of potage before the friar made his return journey. Niall washed down a bite with a gulp of ale. He pointed his spoon at the unconscious form across the room. “I thought we’d try to spoon some broth into him on the morrow.”
Pat nodded. “And ale. Give him a thimble of poppy juice if he starts thrashing about. That’ll calm him.”
Merrin studied the man. He looked peaceful with his hands folded over the plaid she’d tucked around his body. “Anything else we can do for Caolman?”
“Who?” Niall asked.
Merrin bit her lip. “We have to call him something—and I found him on the caol.”
“Caolman it is, until he wakes and can tell us his name.” The friar chuckled and patted her shoulder. “Keep applying your honey poultice and cleanse it with St. John’s wort morning and evening.”
“Thank ye, friar, I’ll tend him as if he were me own.”
“Very good.” Pat nodded toward Niall. “Your da’s a better healer than I, lass. If he cannot bring the poor soul to rights, no one can.”
Chapter Three
Ian MacLeod’s eyes flew open with a violent bellow. Someone just stabbed him in the back with a scorching, sharp poker. For an instant he beheld the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life—long, luminous hair, eyes the color of blueberries, pure skin with a rosy glow to her cheeks. How can an angel cause such unimaginable pain? Have I passed into purgatory? Collapsing, Ian fell toward blackness again—falling, tumbling over and over, but never crashing to the ground.
When later his consciousness registered a door opening, he had no idea how much time had passed. He couldn’t make out the conversation, but he recognized a voice—one that took him back to his childhood, one he trusted unconditionally. Could he ever forget Friar Pat’s merry rumble?
By the grace of God, he’d made it home to Raasay. Ian’s brother, Alexander, would be near—he’d face him soon. The bond of kinship ran deep in the Highlands. Ian could sleep now.
As consciousness slipped again, his mind drifted to the woman’s unbound tresses. If only he could open his eyes, he’d reach out and run his fingers through them. The color of polished mahogany, her hair cascaded to her slender waist in luxurious waves.
A dog barked. Ian twitched, his heart thundered. He tried to open his eyes again. Where had the beauty gone? His foggy mind refused to focus.
Ian’s heart raced as he slipped deeper and deeper into blackness. More dogs growled and barked, frothing at the mouth, chasing him, snapping their teeth and snarling. Ian ran for his life, the dogs on his heels, nipping at him. He had to run faster…had to save her…had to fight…
***
Merrin sprinkled oatmeal over Caolman’s body to ensure the bogles didn’t try to take him during the night. Shifty creatures they were, always trying to play tricks. Niall continually warned the bogles would be after her if she strayed. The bogles and the evil pirates from Rona. Merrin was content to stay on Fladda, especially after the pirates had crept onto the islet and tried to steal food. When they’d cornered her, she’d feared for her life until she bared her mark and spat out she’d put a curse on them all. To her surprise, they turned tail and ran to their galleys faster than Gar could chase them down.
Niall had long since gone to bed, but Merrin held vigil beside Caolman, constantly watching his face to see if his eyes opened. During the day, his fever rose. She swathed his forehead with moist cloths. He’d begun mumbling imperceptibly, but Merrin caught words, “no” being the first and most frequently used.
Caolman grew more restless as the night progressed, his shirt damp with sweat. His head thrashed from side to side. “Janet, ye cannot give up. We’re nearly there!”
Those were the clearest words he’d spoken. Merrin leaned closer, hoping he’d say more, but he thrashed his head and garbled, making a racket.
Janet? She’d never heard Friar Pat or Niall speak that name. Lead filled the void in her stomach. Was Janet his woman? Where was she now? Had she drowned? Merrin looked toward the caol. Waves crashing on the shore always rumbled louder at night. Would another body wash ashore?
“I love you,” Caolman said as clear as day. His voice resonated with meaning, flowed like honey from a spigot.
Merrin’s heart squeezed. Often she’d dreamt of hearing those words. She slid her gaze to his face. Heaven help her, he was beautiful. If only a man would speak like that to her. Merrin wrung the cloth between her hands. If only someone would love her. But there was little chance of that.
People feared her. To outsiders she was a witch—a bana-bhuidseach. She wished she might actually be a witch, if only for a moment. She would cast away Caolman’s ills. Of course, if she were a witch, she would be a good-hearted one—if such a thing existed.
Six months shy of her twentieth birthday, she remained trapped on Eilean Fladda, where she would live out her life as an old maid. Her poor mother had died of childbed fever. Even as an infant, Merrin had been a demon. She was responsible for her mother’s death. Though Niall never alluded to it, his fanatic superstitions confirmed Merrin’s fears. Niall nailed crosses over every door and window to ensure no spirits came and stole her away and turned her into a witch.
One thing worried her continually. Merrin would most likely outlive her father. That was the natural way of things. She’d watched Friar Pat’s hair turn grey and fall out—and now the poor bald man lumbered painfully, plagued by bouts of rheumatism.
Niall turned nine and forty last winter. Though the friar had lived well beyond that, many a man met his end before his fortieth birthday—and now her father pushed a half-century. Merrin had no inkling what she would do if she lost him. She prayed for his health every night, but the signs of aging were there—the greying hair, the stooped shoulders, the weathered flesh upon his weary face.
“Who are ye?” Caolman’s deep voice was but a whisper, pulling Merrin from her thoughts.
Her gaze darted to him. Muted by the candlelight, his soft blue eyes stared directly at her, his lips s
lightly parted. She ran her hand across the scarf that covered her neck. Thank heavens, it was still in place. “I’m Merrin, the healer’s daughter.”
He swallowed and closed his eyes.
Merrin reached for a tankard of mead. “Can ye drink?”
Caolman didn’t respond.
She spooned a bit of mead between his lips, as she had done several times that day. “Drink.”
His Adam’s apple moved and then he started to shiver. Merrin placed her hand on his head. His skin was afire. Quickly, she doused the rag and pressed it over his face. He panted, sucking in arrhythmic gasps while Merrin maintained her vigil, constantly applying the cool cloth.
“No!” Caolman shouted. Merrin jerked her hands away. “Ruairi will kill ye!”
Ruairi? Merrin had heard that name. He was the most notorious chieftain in all the Hebrides. Legend had it he’d sold his soul to the devil for everlasting life—making the Isle of Lewis a living hell for his clansmen. The ancient chieftain would never die. Had Caolman deceived him—mayhap swindled or cheated? Merrin’s hands trembled and she looked to the window. There could be far more than bogles and fairies after Caolman’s soul. Crossing Ruairi MacLeod would mean no one was safe—not even on the tiny islet of Fladda.
She mustn’t tell Niall. He might insist they throw poor Caolman into the sound and watch until he drowned.
***
Merrin stirred at the tip of Niall’s boot rocking her shoulder. Daylight streamed in through the window. The rooster crowed. She clasped her hands to her head. Had she been hit with a mallet? Her temples throbbed as if she’d been bludgeoned.
“And what are ye doing asleep out here beside him?” Niall said “him” as if Caolman robbed them of their last farthing during the night.
Merrin stretched and shook out her skirts. “I must have drifted off. He had the sweat all night—fevered he was. I haven’t been asleep for long.”
“Ye should have gone to bed. The Highlander’s mind is deep amidst his troubles. He wouldn’t have noticed whether ye were dousing his head with a cool cloth or no’.”
Merrin headed to the hearth and reached for an iron frying pan. She wouldn’t tell Niall Caolman woke—she wasn’t even certain he had—though his voice sounded so clear. “Who are ye?” Besides, he was sleeping without a care at the moment
Niall poured two tankards of ale. “I’m away to Brochel after I break me fast.”
Merrin cracked four eggs into a bowl and added cream. “When we’ve a patient to mind?”
“Ye’ve got him well in hand. Besides, we’re low on oats.”
She poured the eggs into a pan and stirred. “It seems we’re always low on something, and every Wednesday, too. Ye’re making a habit of it.”
“And why not? Ye’re old enough to fend for yourself for a time.”
She set a basket of bread on the table. “Aye? I tend the herbs and livestock while ye go about with the clan at the castle?”
Niall tore off a chunk of bread. “A man has needs.”
Merrin turned her attention to the eggs, flipping them furiously. Of course Niall would need more than her companionship. Holy fairy feathers, she yearned for companionship with someone her own age. But that could never be. She used a potholder to lift the pan off the grill and spooned a mound of eggs onto Niall’s trencher—a bit too vigorously.
He gave her a sideways glance and shoved the rest of his bread in his mouth. “Sit down and break your fast.”
After serving herself, Merrin rested the hot pan on the table where Gar couldn’t reach it. She raised her spoon. “I should like to go to the castle with ye one day.”
“’Tis too risky.” Niall shook his head. “Even with your neck covered, they still ken who ye are.”
Merrin pushed her eggs around her trencher. She’d lived in isolation all her life, yet it was still lonely. She couldn’t eat. “Will I always be a monster?”
Niall reached over and smoothed his hand across her hair. “Ye’re no demon. When I lost your mother, the clan was so angry—the women screaming for your death. But ye were too beautiful to put under the knife.” He kissed her forehead. “They’re all wrong about you. Ye’re an angel. I just dunna ken how to prove it, and it would kill me to see ye burned or worse.”
Merrin shuddered. “Merciful Father, what’s worse than being burned?”
Niall’s face grew dark as if he’d seen horrors beyond Merrin’s imagination. “Never mind that.” With a belch, he stood and headed for the door. “Give your patient a bath. The cottage reeks of him.”
“Caolman.”
“What?”
“Ye ken, we’re calling him Caolman until he wakes and gives us his name.”
“Right.” Niall shoved a bonnet over his head. “Do no’ wait up for me.”
“Will ye be back tonight?”
“Most likely on the morrow.” Niall strode outside, slamming the door behind him.
Merrin pushed up from the table and dashed to the window. Father had a spring to his step. Clearly, visiting the castle brought him amusement he couldn’t find at home. So many times he’d told stories of pipers and fiddlers. She’d listen to him play his flute and imagine the cottage filled with people dancing and drinking ale—just like Da described it. If only she could go along. She’d hide behind a curtain and watch—if Da would allow her to do so.
Caolman moaned. With a gasp, Merrin faced his pallet. Bathe a man? Da really asked me to do that? Am I expected to strip him bare? Mayhap I can cleanse him beneath his clothing.
She’d never even seen Niall bathe. On the odd occasion when he filled the tub, he’d made her close the door to her room and remain within until he called her—not that she wanted to see her father naked. Merciful Father, that would be disgusting. She took a step toward the sleeping Highlander. Odd. The idea of seeing him naked didn’t disgust her in the slightest.
Merrin prepared a basin of water and scented it with rose oil. She knelt beside Caolman. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. Gently, she fingered the collar of his shirt. Salt crusted on her hands. She raised the blanket and looked beneath. A bit of seaweed stuck out from his belt. Truly, his clothes were so full of salt, his skin must be chafing. Perhaps they needed washing more than he did.
Gar pattered beside her and sniffed under the blanket. He licked the errant seaweed and shook his head, flicking his tongue in and out until the salty morsel dropped to the floor.
“Tis not nice is it, laddie?”
With a whine, the dog returned to his mat in front of the hearth.
“Ye see that.” She stared at Caolman’s closed eyes. The bruising beneath had cleared some. “Ye even stink too much for me mangy mutt.”
With a sigh, she folded the blanket and loosed the laces of his shirt. She tugged it up one side at a time until it finally freed over his head, practically knocking her on her backside with the last fervent tug.
Merrin lathered the cloth and ran it over his brow. She hummed as she caressed his eyes and ran the cloth through his hair and around his neck. She sang the words when she slid the cloth across his chest, trying her best not to ogle the muscular, taut flesh. Caolman shivered. Merrin sucked in a sharp breath at his response and apologized.
His nipples grew erect, as hers did when cold. But his chest was nothing like Merrin’s. The sinew beneath his skin stood proud, masculine. Merrin swirled the cloth down to his banded abdominals, which constricted against her touch. She stopped singing and stared at his chiseled muscles. A longing washed over her, so intense it made her entire body ache. How could a mere man, a stranger, fill her with yearning? Merrin’s mouth went dry and she steadied her breathing. Heaven help her, he was beautiful far beyond anything she’d ever imagined.
Regaining control, she continued the song and tenderly reached beneath him to wash his back. Merrin could have sworn Caolman rose ever so slightly. Once she’d gone over every inch of his upper body, she rocked back on her heels and stared at his belt buckle. The palms of her hands perspired an
d she hummed to calm her nerves. At near twenty years of age, it was time she learned all that made a man different from a woman. Her fingers trembled as she slid the belt from its buckle.
***
Ian shivered violently when the cold cloth swiped across his chest.
“Apologies, but the cool water will help your fever.”
The woman’s dreamy voice soothed him, as did the rose oil she used to scent the water. When she began to sing, Ian’s flesh tingled. Is this heaven? She hummed at first, then her voice grew stronger, more self-assured. She lifted his arm, singing a woeful ballad about a lover lost at sea. Her voice was clear as a warbler’s call, yet it carried emotion much akin to someone who had endured tragedy and pain.
Her deft fingers caressed him ever so gently, as if bathing a bairn. The throbbing pain in his back ebbed as he relaxed with her heavenly ministrations. She pulled her hands away for a moment, once again humming. If only she would keep touching him and never stop. Not now. Ian tried to open his eyes—heard himself moan.
“Forgive me, but me da says a bath. Ye need to be washed there too and I cannot very well avert me eyes.”
Her soft lilt mesmerized him. His belt was pulled taut and then released. Struck by the sensation of floating, Ian had an inkling she’d exposed his manhood, but he hadn’t a mind to wake. His nakedness was as natural as breathing.
The cool caresses resumed, this time along his lower abdomen. His skin enlivened, aroused by her touch. In a swirling pattern, she moved lower. The woman no longer hummed. Her breathing became labored.
“Ye’re beautiful,” she whispered, her small hand sliding between his legs.
Ian had no control over the moan that escaped his throat. With languid strokes, she cleansed every inch of him, but her breath caught when his erection shot to rigid. “Merciful Father, Ye’re like a stallion with a mare in heat.”
Ian opened his eyes. She pulled her hands away, gaping at his hard manhood. He tried to speak, but his tongue was dry and swollen in his mouth. He moaned again, his eyes closing. Licking his lips, he managed, “Do no’ stop.”
