The Healer's Gift

by Willa Blair

  “How were the families?” she asked as he stepped into the chamber.

  “As I expected. Their men are all innocent, of course, even MacMakon, who they claim acted out of concern he would be falsely condemned.”

  “They are not all innocent.” Coira gave him her impressions of each man. “Be wary, especially of MacMakon,” she told him when she finished. “Even before he grabbed the lass, he stood out. He was arrogant, amused, unworried. I hope yer men keep their guard up around him. I dinna think he expects to be held for very long.”

  “I am still going to speak to each of the men individually. All I need to seal his fate is one or two to implicate him in the killings, especially after what he did today in front of the entire clan.” Logen turned back to the door. “Thank ye, Coira.”

  “Keep Darach with ye at least. Ye are even more of a target, now that ye have moved against that man.” She placed a hand on Logen’s arm. “It will be best for the clan if ye are still here to be laird. To have this over. To heal.”

  “I couldna agree more. If his men will give him up, he’ll hang. I’ll pardon any of the rest who weren’t involved in the killings.” With that, he slipped out again.

  Coira moved to the window and stared out at the sea, unsettled to her bones. Despite the sunny afternoon, Logen’s mood had been as black as the storm clouds building up on the far horizon. Would a change in the weather signal a change in the fortunes of the clan? Only time would tell.

  Chapter 8

  Logen stared through the bare branches of the Dule Tree, the hanging tree that stood at the edge of the woods in full view of the clan’s home. He kept his eyes on the black clouds moving onshore behind the keep rather than on the man with the noose around his neck. How fitting for the sun to be lost in the clouds’ inky depths and for this man never again to see the light of day.

  MacMakon stood pale and sweating on the wagon. His bravado having fled, he clearly dreaded the order for it to be shoved out from under his feet. Logen had given that order twice already, carrying out the sentence of death by hanging against two other men for having the blood of lairds on their hands. MacMakon’s henchmen, given up by the others, had fully condemned themselves with their own boasts. One of them was the Alasdair Darach had suspected. The other was one of the men Andrew had named before he cut his own throat on Logen’s blade. Like them, MacMakon would hang from the rope tossed over the stout branch above his head until he was dead.

  “Have ye any last words, MacMakon, to atone for the lives ye have taken and the grief ye have caused yer clan? Yer kin?”

  The man spat, eliciting angry mutterings from the watching crowd. Then he threw his head back and shouted, “Dinna forget!”

  Logen refused to react to the declaration, though it confirmed what he had feared all along. While it might simply seem to be the plea of a condemned man, Campbells took that phrase as their own. Campbells were behind the deaths, using battles between MacDugall’s to clear the way for them to take over the clan and its lands.

  He signaled the men poised at the sides of the wagon. Everything after that seemed to happen in slow motion. The wagon wheels rocked slightly before releasing and turning fully. In seconds, MacMakon hanged and a woman wailed. But an ugly murmur of “Campbell” also echoed in the crowd. Logen ignored it all and waited until the body stopped kicking and hung limp. Then he turned to the crowd gathered to watch their laird’s justice.

  “I have done as I promised and brought the architect of this clan’s misery and his murderous associates to the punishment they deserved. I have pardoned those of ye who fell under his influence but did not join him in taking lives. Let this be the end of the conspiracy.” He scanned the faces before him, some pale and tear-stained, others, not jubilant, but smiling. Relieved that it was over? “The laws of the clan will be respected as long as I remain laird. Succession will be decided as it was before Flodden.” For once, the choking anguish of the memories that name evoked failed to rise in him. Aye, this day’s events had surely numbed him. “No’ by conspiracy and assassination—or Campbell interference—but by the will of the clan. If any think to follow MacMakon’s example and work with Campbells bent on taking MacDugall land, look ye at him now and ask yerself if yer ambition is worth that fate. If it’s worth the tears of the widows and children of the men he had murdered.” Logen paused, gathering his resolve. “We were injured by Flodden.” Again, he paused, tensing against the expected anguish that did not come. “But the nearly mortal damage was done by those within the clan who allowed ambition to rule them. Those days are done. Let this be the end of them.”

  Coira stood at the back of the crowd, pale and with a sheen of sweat on her face, but still on her feet. After sacrificing herself for the sake of the lass, most the clan had opened to her and now accepted her. While she met with more friendly greetings and fewer hostile moods, large crowds still troubled her. The tension surrounding this day’s events must be excruciating. He had ordered her to stay in the keep, but she’d insisted on being here. The rest of the clan would bear witness. So she must as well, or she would lose what ground she’d gained with her detractors. Logen had no argument for that.

  And she would warn him if someone tried to start trouble. At Coira’s nod, Logen moved into the crowd and made his way through its midst. He knew a dirk, hell, an eating knife in the throat, could kill him. A week ago, this would have been a foolish risk. But today, when Coira’s nod assured him she sensed no murderous moods, he took at worst a calculated risk.

  Entering the crowd, moving among them, might be a simple gesture, but it was far from casually done. Logen had to demonstrate trust in his people if he expected them to trust him, especially after they just witnessed three men being hanged on his order. He kept his pace measured and his expression solemn. Even if this put an end to the clan’s troubles, it was no time for smiles and friendly greetings. People moved aside and allowed him to pass. He took his time walking down the hill from the Dule tree toward the keep, in silence.

  But then a murmur started up in the rustle of people moving along behind him. A voice shouted, “MacDugall!” In seconds, others took up the cry until the vale echoed with it. “MacDugall!”

  Only then did the cleansing rain begin to fall.

  ****

  Coira didn’t like Logen’s mood. Dark clouds, blood-soaked boggy ground, lightning and thunder, all those images came to mind when she neared him. He’d been quiet in the days since the hangings, interacting with the clan as he must and calmly accepting their thanks and congratulations—along with the recriminations of those few closest to the conspirators. But Coira could sense his deep, dark unhappiness.

  It worried her. She had experienced that sort of desolating sadness herself, and it grieved her to see Logen suffering from it. Especially now, when he had rid the clan of the murderous thugs who’d terrorized it for years. He should be pleased to have succeeded and survived when others had failed and died. He finally had men around him whom he could trust and the open support of his people.

  What plagued him so?

  She made her way to his solar just as the sun touched the horizon. As she expected, Logen sat at the table, staring out the window at the gathering gloom. She closed the door behind her and latched it. She wanted no interruptions.

  Logen barely glanced her way as she took one of the chairs and moved it directly into his line of sight. Only when she blocked his view of the window did his focus come back from the far distance to settle on her.

  “Ye are grieving,” she announced without preamble. “Why?”

  She felt a flash of annoyance run down his limbs and watched his hands clench in his lap. Annoyance, she supposed, was preferable to deep, dark depression, so she went with it. “I’m not leaving until ye tell me why.”

  He rubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw. “Not being able to hide anything from ye does have its disadvantages.”

  His voice was gravelly from disuse, but it heartened Coira he responded to her at all.r />
  “Get used to it. Is this about the hangings? The guard, Andrew, who died in the woods? Or both?”

  Logen sighed and sat forward, placing his elbows on the table and running his hands through his tangled hair as he bent his head.

  She had no doubt he knew her well enough to know she would persist. He might as well answer or she would sit here with him until he did.

  “Both.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I havena killed a man since Flodden.” He kept his gaze averted. “I thought I had the horror locked away, but it all came back after the hangings.”

  “Ye did what had to be done. Ye had the right of it.”

  He lifted his head and met her gaze. “Aye. But that doesna make it any easier. Absolution from the priest hasna helped. Seeing to the welfare of the dead men’s families hasna either. I dinna ken what to do to make amends for all the death and dying.”

  “Ye werena responsible for Flodden. Nor for these men. They chose their own path. Their own fate, by their actions.”

  “But I had a hand in all of it.”

  “Someone had to. Ye were strong enough to see to the welfare of the clan.” She glanced at the window just as the last sliver of the sun’s disk slipped into the sea. “This is a gloomy time of day. Ye shouldna be alone.”

  She moved behind him and rested her hands on his shoulders. Instantly, his torment crashed over her like a storm-tossed wave. She slipped down, drowning in it, but she let it consume her and used its power against it. It seemed to take hours, but might have been only moments before she felt Logen’s shoulders drop beneath her hands and heard him sigh.

  “How do ye do that? Ye soothe me and take away the worst of the pain.”

  “It’s my gift.” Damn it, her voice had cracked.

  “And yer burden.” He straightened and turned in his seat to regard her. “Ye are pale as a seagull’s breast. I’ve hurt ye again.”

  “Nay, ye have pleased me, by releasing the misery ye were clinging to.” She stroked a hand along his face. “Ye are dear to me, Logen, and I willna have ye hurt if I can relieve ye.”

  “Ye can do that, aye.” He pulled her into his lap and wrapped strong arms around her. “And more, if ye are willing.”

  Coira leaned into his shoulder and rested her head against his neck. “We’ve been through a lot, ye and I. Our time together seemed easier than when we were apart.”

  “Aye. I told ye that weeks ago. But ye allowed yer fears to isolate ye.”

  How ironic she’d begun by comforting him, and now he did the same for her. “I willna, any longer, Logen.”

  His kiss pulsed against her lips, a living thing, warming her body and firing her blood. Coira moaned into his mouth and gave herself over to the power of their passion for each other.

  The cold disheartenment she had sensed consuming Logen fled, replaced by heat searing each place they touched, down along his arteries and veins, to the throbbing hardness at her hip. But it also flowed like molten metal from the smith’s forge to her own inner core, turning her blood to steam and making her muscles flaccid.

  “I promised ye a bed...” Logen whispered as he nuzzled her ear and let his hand drift from her cheek to palm her breast.

  Coira arched against him. “Aye, ye did. Silk sheets and furs piled high, I seem to recall.” She turned her head to meet his lips with hers, then nipped at the corded muscle at the side of his neck.

  “We have the fire.”

  “We dinna need those flames. The fire burning within us is more than enough to keep us warm.”

  Logen growled and stood with her in his arms. He carried her to the hearth, grabbing a plaid off of the back of a chair and tossing it onto the floor before he knelt and laid her gently upon it.

  Coira could only imagine how she looked, but in the flickering firelight, Logen appeared to be made of light and shadows as he bent over her. The power of his arousal stole her breath. His need for her. His fear that she would turn him away.

  She sat up and touched his face with a trembling hand. “I need ye, too,” she told him, hoping with those few words to allay his fear. If he truly understood how she came to be here, he would know what it cost her to say that out loud. She’d nearly died the last time she gave her heart to a laird. But Toran Lathan had not been hers. He’d never been hers. She’d been too wrapped up in her own dreams, her own ambitions, to see it.

  The man before her now was not the same at all. His touch, the desire in his eyes as he regarded her, told her that Logen would love her deeply, powerfully, and lastingly. He already did.

  “I ken ye do, Coira. Ye feel what I feel. Ye needna fear for the future. I am yers.”

  “Aye, ye are mine, as I am yers, through all the tides to come.”

  Logen bowed his head, touching his forehead to hers as he held her face in his hands. “Before ye came, I could only see one fate for myself and the clan. Death. Dishonor. Destruction. Ye changed all that. Ye have given me and our people a new life, a future that was nearly lost to us. Whatever burden ye still bear, be absolved. Ye have surely atoned for it.”

  Coira froze. Her breath stilled as the horror of that night washed over her.

  “Ach, lass, I’m sorry. I’ve brought back terrible memories. Ye’ve gone cold as ice.”

  Could she tell him? Should she? Surely he needed to know the depths to which she had sunk. And might be capable of again. But she risked everything they now had. His feelings for her. Her place in the clan. Tears welled in her eyes as she contemplated throwing it all away. But he needed to know. The memory stabbed as sharply as the blade that had narrowly missed her heart.

  “I threatened a wee lass that night. When I stabbed the Healer and was nearly killed in turn. I was—”

  “Out of yer mind with grief and fear. I ken the feeling well.”

  How could she make him understand? “Nay, no’ like this. I held a knife at the throat of a bairn to force the Lathan and his new bride to come to me. To lure them within the reach of my blade. Just like MacMakon.” She choked on that name, then forged ahead. “I never intended to harm the lass, but if they hadna obeyed me, they wouldha forced my hand.” Coira choked on a sob. Not their fault. Hers. “Nay, not they. ’Twas all my doing. My choice.”

  Logen’s hand stroked up and down her back. “When the tide turned and the battle was lost, those few of us left alive to escape the field slogged knee-deep thru blood and gore and entrails. Bodies lay where they’d fallen, steaming in the chill rain. I kept slipping in the muck. The mud sucked my boots from my feet, but that gave me purchase to climb the hill behind us where the last of us gathered to try to make our way back over the border to Scotland. Warm muck was something newly dead. Cold muck, if I was lucky, was merely mud, wet from the rain. Or it might be something dead long enough to cool. A Scot, an Englishman, a Frenchman, a horse, after a while, they were all the same—bloody body parts. Gore the likes of which I hope never again to see or smell in this life. The cries of the wounded haunt me, still. I knelt to slit the throats of several who were gut-stabbed or whose legs had been cut out from under them. Whose arms had been hacked off at the shoulder. I could do nothing more for them. I pray no one could have, for I killed many that day, even after the battle ended. I dinna ken if they were ours or theirs—everything was wet, matted, and soaked in blood. Likely, some were little older than yer lass. I’ve never told this to a soul. I was out of my mind, too, trying to climb that hill, slipping and falling into the dead and wounded, the blood and gore. I was fighting for my life, as were ye.” Logen’s deep voice stilled. Tears streaked his face, their tracks catching the firelight.

  “Ye didna kill her, Coira. Ye let her go. She was saved. As were ye. The Lathan Healer did many wondrous things that night, including bringing ye back to yer senses, no’ just saving yer life. She gave ye a gift. Ye have used it to save mine. And this clan.”

  Coira nodded. She could do nothing more. Her throat had closed so tightly, she could barely draw air to breathe.
<
br />   “Let me take ye away from here. Away from these painful memories. Come.” Logen stood and offered her his hand. She took it and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

  “Where?”

  “My chamber? I have a fire, a bed, silken sheets and furs piled high.”

  “Ye still want me after the awful thing I did?”

  “Did ye no’ hear me, lass? What ye did, I did a thousand times worse, for the same reason. To survive. If ye’ll have me after the horrible things I’ve done, let me give ye some peace, as ye do for me. We can spend tonight caring for each other.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “And the day after that. Through all the tides to come.”

  ****

  Logen led Coira to his chamber, her trembling hand warmed in his. He had gone past caring who saw them. They were meant to be together. To get here, they’d both fought horror-filled battles with others and worse ones within themselves. They both needed the surcease the other could provide. In the morning, he would see the priest and post the banns. A formality only. No matter who might object, he would marry this woman. Together they would keep each other and their clan safe from the pain of the past. The uncertainties of the future.

  But tonight was for loving and finding peace…after passion.

  He paused at the threshold of his inner chamber, dominated by the massive bed made by his great grandfather. “Are ye certain, Coira, that this is what ye want?”

  The glimmer of firelight—or was it tears?—in her eyes gave him the answer before she spoke. She let go of his hand and slid soft fingers up his arm. “I am.”

  Logen kissed her, then scooped her up and placed her gently on the side of the bed. He continued his assault on her senses, dropping kisses from her lips to her throat, then kneeling before her to remove her boots. Coira leaned back on her elbows and moaned as he slipped his hands up one leg, then the other, to roll down her stockings. He held the arches of her feet in his hands and kissed each toe, each instep, and each ankle. Then he pushed her skirts up and kissed his way to the inside of her knees. There he paused, savoring the heat of her flesh, the womanly scent of her body.