Beauty and the Barbarian

by Amy Jarecki

  Merrin took in a deep breath and watched the maid disappear into the kitchen. She brushed her hands off on her kirtle and went to work. Bran stood on the dais like a statue, his arms folded over his massive chest. Ian had given him one task—maintain order. Ian stayed beside Merrin, fetching everything she asked for, barking at the healthy to lend a hand. But it seemed more often than not, the healthy clansmen and women cast sideways looks and curses under their breath.

  Merrin knelt down and held a cup to an older man’s lips. “Drink.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll not take it from your hand.”

  Merrin cast an exasperated look to Ian.

  He tapped the man’s hip with the toe of his boot. “Let him suffer.”

  “I cannot do that.” Merrin held the cup to Ian. “You give it to him. Please.”

  Ian’s jaw ticked, but he took the cup and knelt. “If the laird will take it from Miss Merrin, ’tis good enough for anyone in the clan.”

  “Aye?” The man coughed. “What sorcery did she use to mix this brew?”

  Ian held the cup to the man’s lips. “Ye do no’ deserve this—’tis only at Miss Merrin’s insistence I give it to ye, but I’ll no’ forget your words.”

  Merrin had no idea how much time had passed after they’d worked down the line of patients. She picked up a cloth from the table and wiped her hands. “I do no’ see Friar Pat—he was fevered afore we left for Fladda.”

  “He’s most likely on his cot in the chapel.”

  “We should have tended him first.” Merrin picked up the last ewer and swirled the contents. “We’ve not much left.”

  ***

  Merrin entered the chapel and rushed to the friar’s side. “Oh me heavens. I’m so sorry it has taken us so long to find ye.”

  He reached out a shaky hand. “Do no’ worry overmuch for me.”

  She felt his forehead. “Ye’re burning like a fire.”

  “I’ve the chills. Do ye have another blanket?”

  Merrin cast a worried look to Ian. “Fetch him a blanket—and send someone to tend him. ’Tis deplorable he was left alone.”

  Ian shook his head. “I cannot leave ye here.”

  “Do it, I say. I’ll not leave the chapel until ye return, and with Sir Bran outside, no harm will befall me.”

  Ian’s jaw tensed. “I haven’t liked the rumblings I’ve heard.”

  An icy shiver crawled over Merrin’s skin. She didn’t want to think about the taunts. Every single one needled at her heart.

  “Have they been unkind?” the friar asked, his voice weak.

  Merrin’s shoulder ticked up.

  Ian crossed his arms. “I’ll say—even after I declared sanctuary. I dunna ken why she’s bothering to help some of them.”

  Pat licked his dry lips. “Because she’s a kindhearted lass.”

  “Go.” Merrin shooed Ian away. “I’ll be right with the friar.”

  Ian gave a curt bow and took his leave.

  Merrin knelt beside Pat. “We’re nearly out of the tincture—and I need at least another batch. Do ye have the herbs here?”

  He ran his tongue across dry lips as if trying to muster the energy to speak. “Check me workshop—’tis in the garden. What do ye need?”

  Merrin counted the ingredients with her fingers. “Angelica, alder bark, anise.”

  Friar Pat closed his eyes and coughed. “I do no’ think I have the alder—mayhap ye can use willow?”

  “’Tis not as effective for the ague.”

  “But it will have to do in a pinch and will help with the fever.”

  Merrin buried her face in her palms. “I wish Da were here. He was a much better healer than I.”

  The friar rested his hand on her head. “Do no’ worry yourself, lass. He taught ye well, and now ye must step into his shoes.” He took a labored breath followed by a weak cough. “I wish I could rise from this cot and help ye, but the fever’s knocked me flat.”

  Merrin met his gaze, her chest tight. “What if it does no’ work?”

  The friar closed his eyes, but before his eyelids completely hid his emotion, the flash of fear was unmistakable. He’d tried to hide it from her. Pat coughed again. “Keep Ian beside ye—he’s right. Ye shouldn’t be alone. He’ll protect ye with his life.”

  Merrin shook her head. “I do no’ want anyone else killed for the likes of me. Ma, then Da. I couldn’t bear to lose Ian too.”

  Pat reached out and Merrin took his hand. “The good Lord reveals his path for us one day at a time. Follow it, and put your trust in God.”

  Merrin ground her teeth. She wanted to help, to tend the sick, but they hated her. If only everyone could recover quickly—mayhap they’d even stop their cruel remarks. But she couldn’t fail, and she wouldn’t put Ian in a position where he’d be forced to fight to defend her.

  How she would do that, Merrin had no idea. But one thing was for certain—once she was assured the clan was no longer in danger, she would not remain to await their ire.

  ***

  Ian could have hit something when he discovered Sir Bran had deserted his post outside the chapel door. He’d been gone far longer than he’d wanted—practically every blanket in the castle was in use. He’d finally had to take the plaid from the foot of his bed. Blanket clutched under his arm, he pushed inside.

  God’s teeth, Merrin was nowhere in sight.

  He darted to the alcove. Friar Pat hadn’t moved. The holy man dozed, but his body shook with fevered chills. Ian draped the plaid over his body.

  The friar’s eyes opened. “Thank ye, Ian.”

  “Where has Merrin gone?”

  “The workshop.”

  Ian pulled the blanket to Pat’s chin. “She should have waited until I returned.”

  Pat nodded weakly and closed his eyes.

  “I’ll send someone to tend ye after I’ve had words with Merrin.”

  Ian dashed through the door and headed to the garden. Bran stood guard outside the friar’s workshop. He loved the clan’s henchman like a father, but the decision to allow Merrin to leave Pat’s side needed to be addressed. “I said no’ to leave the chapel until I returned.”

  Bran cast his thumb over his shoulder. “Aye, but did ye say it to her? I either let her come out here, or tie her to the altar, she was so determined.”

  Ian stammered. Bran was one of the few men for whom he was forced to lift his chin to meet eye to eye. Known throughout the Hebrides as a man who could not be bested, the henchman was the difficult to argue with. Ian took in the stretched seams across Bran’s chest. ’Twas best not to challenge him to a test for strength. Not today, anyway—especially knowing how headstrong Merrin could be.

  Ian tugged up his belt. “I’ll go talk to her—why do no’ ye go check on your bairns?”

  Bran shook his head. “I—”

  “Go. I’d like to speak to Merrin alone.”

  “Very well. I will no’ be long.” Bran clapped Ian’s shoulder. “Ye’ve a good lassie there. I’ve never seen a woman work harder than she has today.”

  “Aye, and ’tis not over yet. Do ye ken what will happen if the ague worsens?”

  Bran’s expression turned grim. “The problem is, it very well could. Many a man has lost their lives to it. I saw it meself in the South Seas.” Bran shook his head. “And they’re blaming it on the lass.”

  Ian returned the clap, resting his hand on Bran’s shoulder. “We’ll weather it—or it may be you and me against the entire clan.”

  “I pray no’.”

  Bran headed down the path and Ian peered into the workshop. Similar to Niall’s, a lean-to with three walls, this one had a bit of lattice covering about three-quarters of the front opening, with ivy winding its way through the gaps.

  Merrin bent down, inspecting the contents under the shelves. The blue kirtle she wore hugged her bottom. The feminine curves presenting to him robbed Ian of the chastisement he’d intended. Yearning heat spread below his navel. He stepped inside. Oh how delecta
ble it would be to raise her skirts and take her right there in the holy man’s workshop.

  Heady fragrances of mint and rosemary flooded his nostrils as he walked toward her. “Merrin.”

  She stood with a jolt, nearly dropping the jar in her hands. “Ian, I need your help.”

  He puzzled. Was she not going to apologize for deliberately going against his wishes? “Ye agreed to stay in the chapel.”

  She set the dusty container on the table. “Aye, but ye took so long—and Bran was there.” She craned her neck and smiled. Damn, she was so adorable when she did that. Ian’s anger fled.

  “I sent him to check on his children.”

  “Good. ’Twas the right thing to do. I certainly do no’ need two brawny knights guarding me.”

  Ian chuckled. As a lad he’d always held Sir Bran in high esteem. His chest swelled to be compared to him as an equal.

  Merrin blinked, her eyes endearing like a baby seal’s. She used a cloth to wipe the dust from the jar. “There’s a note inside this container, but it smells like it could be alder. ’Twas hidden so far back, I wonder if the friar forgot he had it.” She reached inside and pulled out the note. “Can ye read it?”

  Ian turned the parchment toward the ray of light streaming from the entry. “’Tis in Latin.”

  “Oooh. That sounds old.”

  Ian chuckled. Latin was the language of kings—one all nobility across Christendom could use to communicate, no matter what language they spoke. Fortunately, he’d paid some attention to his mother’s lessons. “It says Jesuit’s Powder, the year of our lord fifteen-fifty-one.” He glanced at Merrin. “This powder is thirty-three years old.”

  A lovely crease formed between Merrin’s brows. “Jesuit’s Powder? I do no’ think I heard Niall mention that.” She pointed to the note. “There’s something scrawled on the other side—did ye see it?”

  Ian turned it over. “Ah, this must be the friar’s hand. ’Tis in Gaelic.” He read. “Calum plundered from a Spanish ship. Bark of the cinchona tree. Unproven.”

  Merrin narrowed her eyes. “Cinchona bark?” She drummed her fingers to her lips. “Niall mentioned it—said he’d like to lay his hands on some. Yes, I remember—it was not long ago. He said a passing merchant mentioned it on one of his Wednesday visits to Brochel.”

  “Do ye ken why he wanted it?”

  “He said it was touted as a miracle cure.”

  “For what?”

  Her shoulders ticked up to her ears. “I’m such a mutton-heid, I didn’t ask—it could be rats bane for all I ken.”

  “But ’tis a cure, aye?”

  Merrin looked at the jar and dipped her finger inside.

  Before she put it in her mouth, Ian grasped her hand. “Nay.”

  “I wouldn’t give anyone something I didn’t try first.

  Ian glanced to the jar and dipped his finger in as well. “I’ll try it, then you.”

  Merrin shook her head. “Together.” Simultaneously they tasted the tiniest morsel. Merrin clicked her tongue on the top of her mouth and looked to the rafters. “’Tis bitter.”

  Ian stuck his tongue out then spat. “’Tis awful.”

  She looked at the other jars lined up on the table. “Me tincture is missing something. I think we should add a few spoons of Jesuit’s Powder to the mixture. If they show improvement, we can add a touch more.” She pointed. “We’ve plenty of angelica and anise, but even his cache of willow bark isn’t enough. We need a miracle.”

  “And Niall thought this might be it?”

  She bit her bottom lip and gave Ian an insecure look. “Aye, he did. Mayhap Niall is giving me a sign.”

  “Then ye must try.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The sun had set when they left Friar Pat’s workshop. The few servants who tended the kitchen fire scattered like cockroaches exposed to light when Merrin stepped inside with Ian.

  “We’ve work to do,” Ian barked. “I cannot believe this.”

  “Never mind them. We made the tincture without servants on Fladda, we can do it again here.” Merrin pulled a linen apron over her head and tied it back. “We need plenty of wood. Get every pot boiling we can. We’ll make as much as possible.”

  Together they worked quickly. Ian took cast-iron pots to the well and filled them while Merrin ground the herbs to a fine powder. The kitchen at Brochel was well stocked and large. Even the hearth was tall enough for her to walk inside. A large iron grill sat atop the embers, which made it easy to stir all three brews at once.

  Ian handled all the heavy lifting and Merrin measured, poured and stirred. One batch was nearly ready when Bran arrived.

  Merrin stopped stirring for a moment. “How are your bairns?”

  “No change.” With dark circles beneath his eyes, Bran looked as tired as she felt. “At least no one else has come down with it—Enya’s keeping the sick ones separated.”

  “Good.” Merrin tapped her spoon on the edge of a kettle. “This one’s ready.”

  Ian picked up a ewer and dipped it in. “We’ll take this new brew to Alexander and Ilysa first.”

  Merrin held up her hands. “Only after I taste it.”

  “I’ll do it,” Ian said.

  Merrin snatched a cup from the counter. “Nay, Ian. The healer must.”

  He reached for another cup. “Then we’ll both taste it, just as we did in the workshop.”

  She didn’t like the idea of Ian tasting her brew—God only knew if there would be some sort of adverse reaction when the cinchona tree mixed with the other ingredients. She didn’t expect anything bad, but Niall had always cautioned her to be careful. Do no’ use too much of a new herb and increase the dosage gradually…

  Dear Lord, help us. Merrin closed her eyes and sipped. The hot liquid scalded her tongue as it went down. It was definitely bitterer than the last lot, barely palatable.

  Ian blew on it, sipped his and swished it around his mouth.

  “Well?” Bran asked.

  Merrin held her palms out to her sides. She felt fine—no dizziness, no blurred vision. “I’d like to take it to Friar Pat first.”

  “But me brother is our chieftain.”

  Bran took Merrin’s cup and swallowed the rest. “’Tis a good idea. He’d want to try it afore we give it to Alexander.”

  ***

  Ian was relieved to see the serving maid he’d sent to tend the friar was still there. He’d been furious at the clan’s reluctance to help with anything where Merrin was concerned. She stood when they came in, but swayed a bit.

  Merrin eyed her. “Are ye well?”

  “Not so much.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her arm and cast a worried look at Ian. “Did ye bring the ague upon us all?”

  Ian stepped between them. “Can ye no’ see she’s trying to help? Do ye no’ understand that without Miss Merrin the sickness could overcome the entire clan?”

  The maid hung her head and scratched a bump that looked like a mosquito bite on her hand. “Mistress Bethag says—”

  For the love of God, how did the clan come to rely on the word of windbag who was reputed for her ability to twist a trifle rumor into a momentous scandal? “Do ye know Bethag to be a gossip?”

  “Aye,” she whispered.

  Ian placed his hand on her shoulder. “I suggest ye try thinking for yourself. Would a woman such as Miss Merrin have returned from Fladda if she wanted to see us all fall to the ague?”

  The woman coughed weakly. “Nay.”

  “Of course not.” Had he finally gotten his point across? Please, God, make it so.

  Merrin poured a tot of the tincture into a cup and offered it to her. “Drink. It may stop the sickness from becoming worse.”

  “Merrin?” the friar called from his cot in the alcove.

  Merrin dashed to his side. “How are ye, father?”

  “Mayhap a bit better.”

  Merrin felt his forehead. “Ye’re still fevered.” She beckoned Ian. “We’ve a new brew. I found some Jesui
t’s Powder in your workshop.”

  His face blanked as if he couldn’t recall it. “Jesuit’s Powder? I think Calum brought it back from one of his adventures.”

  “Aye,” Ian said. “Ye left a note in the container.”

  His breath caught. “I recall—’tis the bark of the cinchona tree. Impossible to find in these parts.” He swiped a hand across his brow and closed his eyes. He shivered, still gripped by chills.

  Merrin knelt beside him and held the cup to the friar’s lips. “Ian and I have both tried it. Drink.”

  Pat could barely swallow. Merrin glanced back to Ian. “We must pray.”

  Ian bowed his head and recited the twenty-first psalm, then silently he offered up prayers this new tincture would work. The first one had been administered with little effect. If they didn’t see signs of improvement by the morning, things could become very grave.

  Merrin stopped by the serving maid on the way out. “How are ye feeling now? Any change?”

  “No different.”

  “Any worse?” Ian asked.

  The lass shook her head.

  Ian and Bran escorted Merrin to the laird’s chamber, where they found him much in the same condition as the friar. Though his condition hadn’t worsened, he was still fevered and in and out of consciousness. After administering the tincture to Alexander, Merrin handed the cup to Lady Anne. “We must all drink me new tonic. I do no’ want to see another soul sick, and it may ward off any further bouts of ague.”

  Lady Anne drank and passed the cup to the serving maid.

  Ian put his arm around his mother’s shoulders. “Ye look exhausted. Let the maid tend him.”

  His mother shook her head and cast a worried glance to the bed. “But he’s my son.”

  “Aye, anyone can dampen a cloth and place it upon his forehead.” He tipped up her chin. “Please, Mother. I cannot bear the thought of ye being sick as well.”

  By the hour of the clock on the mantle, it was well past midnight when they left the laird’s chamber.

  Merrin turned to Bran. “I want to check on your bairns, and then we can tend the rest.”

  “I’d like to see them as well,” Bran said. “It isn’t often I’ve seen Lady Enya distraught, but she was fraught with worry when I was last there.”