The Healer's Gift

by Willa Blair

  Logen floated for a moment, then got his feet under him and stood, water sluicing down his broad chest as he brushed wet hair out of his eyes.

  “Wha’ the hell?” A voice drifted down from the deck. “What was that?”

  She saw Logen glance upward and announce, “I’m fine.”

  Tightly focused on him, Coira sensed his chagrin and anger as he struggled to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him when he hit the water. He was a master sailor. Surely, it was not like him to trip in the netting on deck. The way he studied the faces at the rail looking down at him told her he was trying to decide who, if anyone, had arranged his accident.

  If someone had arranged it, they had failed. His neck wasn’t broken.

  She suddenly longed to go to him, but dared not move. Not in this crowd. She could not be seen as trying to gain the favor of another laird after the last one had rejected her. No good would come from appearing either desperate or calculating. So she stayed where she was and continued collecting slippery fish in her basket, all the while keeping one eye on Logen as he splashed his way ashore.

  She forced her attention to the men on the boat, but no sense of them came to her. Were the men’s emotions too muted now for her to detect? Too far away? Then why could she sense Logen’s? And why had she sensed cold hatred just before he fell?

  Elizabeth jostled her when she picked up her basket. Coira glanced down, suddenly noting her basket was full, too. She couldn’t linger any longer. They must join the line of people making their way back up the cliff path. She took her time leaving the beach, moving slowly, pausing to greet anyone who made eye contact with her. She spoke to anyone Elizabeth spoke to, glancing about as if enjoying the day and the activity, but keeping her attention on Logen. She saw him working another small-boat catch and laying out nets to dry.

  If she hadn’t felt so uneasy, the play of muscles under his wet shirt and the rough strength of his grip as he tugged heavy nets across the sand would have fascinated her. He worked comfortably with some of the men, as though nothing had happened to put his life at risk only a few minutes before. But she saw him glancing around and realized he was keeping watch, too. Logen’s gaze met hers just as she and Elizabeth started back up the path from the beach. She nodded, but he simply bent back to his work as if satisfied to know where she was.

  “That was odd,” Elizabeth remarked when they were far enough up the path to be away from other ears.

  Though she knew what Elizabeth had in mind, she asked the expected question. “What was?”

  “Ye ken exactly what I mean. I’ve never seen Logen fall like that in my life. He was born to be on the water. And this close to shore, in the shallows?”

  Coira’s belly tightened at the memory of Logen’s fall. “An accident, surely.”

  “Or not.”

  “It’s done and he’s fine.” Coira shook her head. They shouldn’t be discussing this here. “I wouldna think on it any more, if I were ye.”

  “Aye, well, I’m sure he is...thinking on it, that is. If someone did that, they’ll try again.”

  Coira clutched her basket tighter to her middle as a chill ran down her back. “I believe he’s aware of that.”

  “For his sake, I hope so.”

  They reached the top of the path and paused. Coira looked down on the scene below. Another birlinn had beached and Logen was in the midst of the activity, pulling nets, offloading fish and gear. Nothing alarmed her, so she let Elizabeth guide her back to the kitchen with their share of the catch. But she vowed to speak to Logen, later. She must warn him not to dismiss his fall too easily.

  ****

  Logen stayed at the beach once the catch was offloaded to secure the boats and help pull them up above the high tide line. It was good, honest work. The kind he understood. The kind that taxed the muscles and relieved the mind. The kind he’d done all his life, with nary a concern it could all change one day. Oh, he’d always known a man could die at sea in a sudden storm, or lose a limb or a life to drowning, a shark, or countless accidents. But he’d never envisioned himself beached, at least not until old age robbed him of the ability to do the heavy work, or to tolerate the cold and wet for weeks at a time. Those days were comfortably far in the future and never troubled him. He was a man in his prime, too young to worry about such.

  Now look at him, worried that going out on the boats was too risky. He’d thought most of the fishermen he’d worked with the last two years supported him, but clearly that was not a valid assumption. And it was all too easy to make someone disappear into the ocean.

  Who had yanked the net and tripped him, knowing he would fall into shallow water? Nets didn’t move by themselves, and the timing was too perfect. That was no accident. But who ever had done it was a good actor. The faces peering down at him as he spluttered to standing in the hip-deep water all seemed genuinely surprised at his fall.

  He had to get the clan in his corner, or at least firmly under his control. He needed trustworthy allies, but more than that, he needed to discover who was conspiring against him. How else could he guard against the innocent expression of a friend, a man he’d worked and lived with for years, who would try to break his neck?

  He timed his ascent so the entire path was clear; saddened he had to be concerned about a companion pushing him off near the top. But that kind of fall, unlike the one he took from the boat, would surely kill a man. He needed eyes in the back of his head, and ears that could hear every word uttered by his people. Most of all, he needed to identify the man—or men—bent on sending him to the same fate as his predecessors.

  Inside the hall, the smell of smoke, brine, and fish permeated the air. Today’s haul had been enough to keep them fed for a week or more. If the weather and their salt supply held, he’d send the boats out again in a day or two. He wanted a good store of dried and salted fish against the coming winter when storms would keep the boats ashore.

  But first he wanted to rinse off the salt water and change into some dry clothes. He headed to his chamber after collecting a bucket of hot water from the cook. Inside, a small fire kept the room warm enough for him to strip to his skin, now prickling from the drying seawater. He wished he had someone to wash his back.

  Of all the women in the clan, the one whose face kept appearing in his mind was the one he could not become involved with. His charge. Coira. Why did she fascinate him? Because she was an enigma? Or beautiful? Or just a new woman about the keep?

  With a growl, he tossed a rag into the bucket, then wrung it out. The hot, clean water eased his muscles and relieved the prickles on the skin of his face, neck, and shoulders. Would her touch be soft and tentative? Or firm as she washed the sea salt from his body? He dipped the rag again, then stood over the bucket and wrung the cloth out behind his neck. Warm rivulets ran down his back and buttocks, and he imagined her fingers trailing there instead of droplets of water.

  Then he wiped down his chest to his belly, pausing before moving lower. Would she be so bold as to touch him there, too? To trail the warm rag across his skin? Or grasp him firmly with it and stroke away the salt? His cock twitched at the thought as droplets ran down his thighs. He squeezed more water into the curls below his navel, shuddering at the warm, wet sensation, imagining her hands, her mouth, there instead.

  Nay, this was foolish. He’d been too long without a woman; that was all. The scare today had his blood up. He quickly washed down his arms and legs, ignoring the need that clawed at his belly. Then he dunked his head in the remaining warm water to rinse the salt from his hair, slicked back the wet strands, and reached for another rag to dry off with.

  Someone knocked at the door, then opened it without waiting for a response. He had a brief impression of a lithe build and chestnut hair before recognition slammed into him.

  Coira!

  “I came to...oh!”

  Logen clutched the scrap of cloth to his unruly groin.

  Her hand clapped over her open mouth as she stared at him.
r />   “What are ye doin’ here?” Had his longings somehow summoned her?

  Coira whirled and presented her back to him. “I came to warn ye. I dinna think yer fall was an accident.”

  Logen pulled a shirt over his head and reached for his plaid, wrapping it about his waist, not bothering to be neat about it, as he considered her statement. He didn’t think it was an accident, either, but why didn’t she? He buckled a belt in place. “Ye can turn around now, and tell me what ye think is so urgent that ye must enter my chamber without leave.”

  It amused him to see her peek over her shoulder. Did she think he would lie and remain unclothed? For what purpose? To embarrass her further? Not that she didn’t deserve it.

  “Well?”

  Slowly, she pivoted, pink still blossoming across her cheeks and nose. “I owe ye an apology. I shouldno’ ha’ surprised ye the way I did.”

  “True,” Logen agreed. “Ye couldha found yerself with a dirk to yer throat.” The thought made him queasy, especially after what he’d been picturing before she burst in. “Dinna do that again.”

  “I dinna plan to. But I had to see ye without the rest of the clan being aware of it.”

  “And why is that?”

  She paused, and the look she gave him left no doubt she thought him daft.

  “Few of them trust me. If something were to happen to ye, as has happened to the lairds before ye, I would be blamed.”

  Logen pursed his lips. She was right, painful as it was to admit. “That would be convenient, aye.”

  “I think someone made ye fall. From the boat. It wasna an accident.” Her words came out in a rush, as if she thought he’d be swayed by their velocity.

  Logen frowned. “Why do ye think that, lass?” Could she have learned something he’d been unable to uncover for weeks in the short time since she’d returned?

  Suddenly, she twisted and placed a hand on the door, cocking her head, then turned back to him. The rosy pink fled her face, leaving behind wide eyes and pale, translucent skin. “I canna tell ye.”

  “Ye dinna ken? Or ye willna tell me.” Surely, she could not be involved. Could she?

  Her nervous swallow was so obvious, Logen would have laughed except she had tensed like a bowstring drawn to its breaking point, her body rigid, her arms tucked close to her sides. His frown deepened. He stepped toward her, but for every step he took, she retreated until her back was to the door and she had nowhere left to go. What did she fear?

  “Coira, I willna hurt ye. It doesna matter what ye have to tell me.” His earlier lust evaporated into concern for the frightened lass before him. He was tempted to stroke her cheek, to bring some color back to her countenance, but he reached instead for the hands she clasped before her so tightly that her knuckles were white. Cold. Her hands were so cold. What was going through her mind to upset her so? He wrapped his fingers around hers to warm them and was rewarded by seeing the tense line of her shoulders drop, just a little.

  “Someone kens I’m here,” she whispered. “I felt the same cold hatred just now that I felt right before ye fell.”

  “Someone’s out there?”

  Her eyes widened. He moved her aside, more gently than his haste dictated, and yanked the door open, but the hallway outside was empty. No one lurked there. He waited a moment, listening, but all he heard was Coira’s rapid breathing. He shut the door, softly, and turned back to her.

  “Tell me.”

  He kept his tone low and light, but she shuddered and stepped away, shaking her head.

  “What did ye mean when ye said ye felt the same cold hatred ye felt before I fell?”

  She moved to the hearth and stared into the glowing embers. “I shouldno’ ha’ come here.”

  Logen went to stand behind her, trapping her between the heat of the fire and his body’s warmth. She shivered, but did not try to move away.

  He gave her a moment to collect herself, then gripped her shoulders and turned her to face him. Her tremors had subsided and a hint of color was returning to her skin as he studied her. “Do ye have the Sight?” It made sense, after what she’d said. “Did ye See who caused my accident?”

  He’d spent four years fostered with the MacKyrie clan, whose young Seer, Ellie, had been a familiar presence in the clan’s everyday life. The idea of such a talent did not trouble him. But apparently, it troubled Coira, who blanched yet again. “Dinna fash,” he told her. “I dinna fear such things. If ye have the Sight, ye can help me.”

  Coira shook her head and lowered her gaze. “I do no’ have the Sight.”

  “Ach...”

  “’Tis something else,” Coira continued, cutting him off. She took a deep breath and pursed her lips, as if taking a moment to decide whether to continue. “I can feel what others around me feel. Strong emotion, especially.”

  Like his lust, when she burst in the door? Logen felt heat rising in his face. No wonder she’d reacted the way she had. Not just from his nakedness, but from the fire that burned within him. For her.

  Coira gasped and tried to pull back, but he refused to release her shoulders. “Ye are embarrassed. Angry,” she told him. “And there is heat of a different sort...”

  Logen got hold of his emotions—and the rising tide of his lust—with a deep breath. “I am but a man, Coira. I will do my best to…remain calm.” She could read emotions? “How well can ye do this? How sure are ye of what ye sense? From how far?” He released her and took several steps back. “From here?” At her nod, he moved to the opposite side of the room. “Here?”

  “I could sense yer surprise and anger when ye fell, even from up on the beach. But no’ the reaction of the men in the boat. Why?”

  He gestured her to a chair and sat opposite her; needing to know more and determined to discover what she knew. “Ye felt cold hatred, ye said. Whose?”

  “I dinna ken. The beach was so crowded, and it was just a quick sensation of icy wind.”

  “And satisfaction when I fell?”

  “I dinna think so. I didna get anything else.”

  “There shouldha been disappointment,” he mused. “Or even more anger, when I gained my feet, still unharmed, aye?” He gave her a disarming grin, until he recalled she would see through it.

  Could she be the advantage he so desperately needed? If she could see through him, perhaps she could see what others hid behind smiles and loyal demeanors.

  Chapter 3

  Coira shook her head, disappointment swamping her. Her own? Or Logen’s? “If there was, I missed it.” Had her fear for him in that moment drowned out any other sensations?

  Logen rubbed his chin with one hand. “Perhaps there wasna anything to miss. If the person turned away and didna see me fall, or if the reaction of the crowd masked it...”

  “Aye.” Coira sat up straighter. Could that be the reason? “Many people all at once make...noise. Nonsense. It can be annoying, even painful. But it is sometimes easier to bear than the strong emotion of one person.” Ach, why had she said that last? Logen had certainly been experiencing strong emotion when she burst in on him. The last thing she needed to do was remind him. And judging by the way he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, not to mention the chagrin coursing through him, she had just done exactly that. “But I can help ye, I think.”

  “How?”

  “Perhaps I can find the cold hatred person. Or others who bear ye ill will.”

  “Ye say they dinna trust ye. How will ye know if those feelings are directed at me or at ye?”

  He had a point. “I must learn to use this new ability. Surely, there is a way.”

  “New? What do ye mean? Where did it come from?”

  “I think the Lathan Healer did this, when she healed the knife wound...”

  “What? What knife wound? Who attacked ye?” Logen surged out of his chair, knelt beside her and put a hand on her arm. “Perhaps ye’d best tell me everything.” His concern swamped her. She pulled away and he allowed it, rising and resuming his seat.

  Coi
ra sighed. Could she? Recalling her past was like thinking about another person. A hateful person who had nothing to do with her.

  “I...I’ll try. What did my Lathan escort tell ye?”

  “That ye were ill and involved in an incident, but everyone was well. That they sent ye home to heal. I thought they meant from illness, no’ from a stab wound.”

  “We didna ken each other, ye and I, before ye went to foster, then to war.” She saw him wince at that word—war—but the horror that swept through him nearly made her swoon. Her stomach roiled at the misery he radiated. Too late, it occurred to her, Logen had survived Flodden. His wounds, from what he’d been through, were deeper than hers. Yet here he was, trying to help her.

  “Oh, Logen, I’m sorry.” She reached out and took his hand, heedless of her need to block his anguish. She held her breath as the anguish turned to agony. It was too much like what she had felt before the Lathan Healer had saved her. Her fists clenched, as did Logen’s, his grip crushing her hand. But the pain of the bones in her hand grinding together brought her out of their shared thrall. She fought down the pain, trying to breathe slowly to ease the discomfort.

  His jaw muscled jumped, and she felt his iron control clamp down on his pain, sending it...away. How did he do that? Or had she?

  “I am sorry.” He gently kneaded her hand, soothing her tensed muscles, then released it. “My demons are my own. I regret inflicting them upon ye.”

  “Ye didna do it for spite, Logen.”

  “But I did it. Ye felt what I feel. That’s naught a woman should ever bear.”

  Despite the remnants of Logen’s pain still coursing through her, her lips twitched with amusement. “We women are stronger than ye ken.”

  “Perhaps,” he answered drily.

  Coira frowned at his skeptical tone.

  “Go on with yer story.”

  “Ye dinna believe me? Listen, then, and perhaps ye will.”

  At his nod, she took a breath and continued. “I used to be a different person. Vain, quick to anger, ambitious. I think the laird who took over after...”