by Aileen Adams
Anne chuckled humorlessly. “I am the one who took risks. Not Liam. And he—”
“There, there,” was all Shana would say, patting Anne’s shoulder. “Do not trouble yourself. Perhaps if you speak to Drew, and to Rufus, they would see the reason in bringing Liam here. Rufus is a generous man, and you would know as much if you dared meet him.”
Anne blushed, turning her face toward the wall. “I ought to do just that, I know. But Drew is hardly generous.”
“He has you here. In his home.”
“To work for him. Nothing more.”
“I am not so certain of that.”
Anne chuckled again. “Ye dinna know him as I do.”
“Perhaps not, Then again, you do not know him as I do.”
“How do you know him, then? What is there that I do not know?”
Shana went to the door and opened it, allowing a breath of fresh air to stir the staleness inside the small room. “There he is now. Coming from the barn.”
Anne stood and joined her there, the two of them watching as he led an ornery steer outside. The beast was many times his size and angry at being handled so, digging hooves into the dirt and freezing in place. It swung its head from side to side, attempting in vain to rid itself of the rope which Drew had affixed about its neck.
She clicked her tongue, murmuring, “He is going about his task all wrong.”
“How so?”
“Such beasts cannot be forced into anything. No beast can, in truth. They must sense they are working alongside a human, not being dragged or pushed. They will merely dig their heels in all the harder and refuse to move a muscle, as ye can see is the case now.”
“Perhaps you ought to instruct him. Or at the very least, provide suggestion?”
She laughed. “Och, a great deal of good that would do. He would never listen.”
“And why not?”
It was not possible to explain why he would not listen. Why he would take her words and throw them in her face. Naturally, she would know how to best control an angry steer, for she’d had so much practice while stealing them from their rightful owners. “He simply would not. He has too much pride.”
“Och, that he has,” Shana agreed with a soft laugh. “Most men do, I believe. Too much pride. Unwilling or unable to listen to those who might know better—or at least, who might know enough to keep them from making mistakes.”
Drew was unaware of their discussion, working as hard as he was. He pushed up the sleeves of his tunic, baring arms thick with muscle which bunched and flexed as he fought the angry beast. His legs strained beneath tight trews, his shoulders and back moved beneath linen already soaked through with sweat.
He was utterly engaged in his work, and Anne could not help but admire not only his determination but his not unimpressive build. He might have been somewhat smaller than most men she’d known—Malcolm was a giant compared to Drew, but there was not an ounce of softness or loose flesh on him. He was compact. Powerful.
Why did she hold her breath?
“He is a willful, arrogant man,” she whispered over the somewhat frantic beating of her heart. Her mouth suddenly felt so dry.
“That he is,” Shana agreed, “but he happens to be a good one, as well.”
When Anne scoffed, Shana insisted. “Do you know he saved my life? He did not need to do so. When he found William and myself in the woods—I was badly injured at the time, having cut my foot, leading to infection—he hid me in his cart beneath a pile of furs and brought me here, though there was a price on my head.”
These words worked their way into Anne’s mind and softened her opinion somewhat. “Did he now?”
“I owe him everything, nothing less,” she confirmed. “He took a great risk. He might have been brought up on charges of. I do not know. Aiding a fugitive, perhaps? He did a fine thing that day. He also took these bairns in and is doing all he can for them. That is worth considering.”
“Aye. So it is,” Anne admitted.
“Davina wrote to me about them, and about how lovely it is to see the three of them together. How they love him.”
“That, they do,” Anne agreed, still watching as he worked. He’d managed to make the steer walk, though it was still slow going and still required a strong will and even stronger arms and legs. He would be in quite a state upon returning home for supper.
How could one man have two such differing sides? Was he the roguish fighter who’d gained a reputation for brawling and beating men senseless? Was he the loving uncle, the protective friend?
Who was Drew MacIntosh? And why did she care either way?
She did not, and that was the end of it. Her spine stiffened as she turned away from the door. She would not allow herself to dissolve into flights of fancy, and she would certainly not spend another moment thinking about him or wondering who he was.
It mattered not in the slightest, for she was leaving. That very evening, if possible. Once Drew was asleep and the bairns as well, she would slip out of their bedchamber and out the door. Over the wall and farewell forever.
She would gather Liam and his things, and the two of them would be off. Anything was better than this place, where nothing was hers. Not truly. And it never would be.
She could just see herself getting away as the door to the twins’ bedchamber opened, and Owen tiptoed out into the main room. Moira followed close behind.
And instantly, Anne saw the flaw in her plan when she spied their flushed faces, their glassy eyes.
“Anne?” Moira mumbled, burrowing her head against her thigh. “I dinna feel well.”
19
The only thing Drew was interested in upon staggering to the house that particular evening was bed. A long, long night’s sleep in his bed with nothing and no one bothering him.
He would more than likely dream of ornery, impossible steer throughout the course of his sleeping, but it mattered not so long as he did sleep. His only hope was to awaken with the deep, throbbing soreness of his muscles having resolved itself overnight.
Perhaps he might convince Anne to boil water and fill the washtub on his behalf. A long soak in hot—
He came to a sudden halt just inside the front door. The main room, where Anne ought to be tending supper and the bairns ought to be at play, was empty.
“Anne!” he shouted, his voice far too loud for the small space, echoing to the point where it rang in his ears.
Within moments, there came a clattering noise from the twins’ bedchamber. Anne flung the door open, dashed out of the room and closed the door behind her in one single movement, or so it seemed.
“They are sleeping,” she whispered, going to the fire where a second pot bubbled away.
“Sleeping? So early?”
“They are ill.” Anne ran the back of her arm over her forehead, then tucked an errant lock behind one ear before wrapping her apron around the handle of the smaller pot and lifting it from its hook over the fire.
Drew’s heart clenched. “Ill? How so?” He joined her at the work table beneath the window, where she placed the pot before turning to fetch clean rags from a pile at the other end.
“Grippe, or so it appears.” She hardly looked at him as she went about her work, stirring the dreadful smelling mixture in the pot before dipping the rags into the mess.
“What is that?”
“It aids in healing,” she explained. “Once the mixture cools, I shall apply it to their chests and allow them to sleep with it against their skin.”
“And what will that do?” Lord above, he could hardly breathe. They were ill. Ill! With the grippe! “Are they not too young to be so ill?”
Finally, she looked up into his eyes, her own widening as if in sudden understanding. “Och, Drew, they shall be well. I promise ye. They shall cough and bring up phlegm, and their fevers will run high for a day or two, but it shall pass. They are healthy otherwise. If they were sickly children, I would be more concerned.”
“Just the same,” he insisted,
grinding his fist into his other palm. “Perhaps I ought to fetch a healer.”
She went back to work, shrugging lightly. “If ye insist, but I would wager nearly anything in the world that any healer would tell ye as I have. If they dinna try to sell ye some strange tonic or poultice the moment they see how worked up ye are.”
“I am not worked up, lass.” He stormed to the closed door and opened it, but just a crack, just enough that he might see into the room. Anne had left a candle burning on the table, by which he could see the pair of them asleep.
How his heart seized at the way their wee heads turned left and right, soft rumbling sounds in their chests as they coughed. Owen let out a soft whimper which nearly brought tears to Drew’s eyes. How pitiful they looked and sounded, with their flushed faces and uneasy slumber.
“Drew,” Anne whispered, beckoning him. “Allow them their rest. Do ye not recall being ill as a laddie?”
He closed the door as softly as he might, trying to remember back that far, and when he did, his aching heart ached all the more. “Aye. Bridget nursed me.”
Anne’s expression fell somewhat. “Och, I see. She was a fine sister to ye.”
“The finest,” he agreed. A bucket of water sat by the hearth, as always, and he used it to rinse his face and hands. “I ought to fill this with fresh, that they might have plenty to drink. That is one thing I recall Bridget forcing me to do.”
“A fine idea.” Anne flashed a warm, genuine smile as she hung the soaked, stinking rags to cool over the edge of the table.
He was glad for the excuse to be out of the house, for the memories of his sister were too thick and too tender to be examined while in the presence of the lass. They reminded him of a half-healed bruise which did not cause pain during normal movement but hurt like the devil when prodded.
Bridget’s smile. Her kind, caring words and the gentleness with which she’d mopped his sweat-soaked brow. How she’d sung to him in low, gentle tones—wordless, mostly, just a sweet melody which had lulled him into sleep.
He’d thought of her as the closest thing to an angel imaginable.
Moira would look a great deal like her mother someday.
It was nearly enough to make him laugh at himself. Was he a woman now? Allowing himself to give in to emotion over a simple illness which children survived every day? He gritted his teeth as he turned the crank to raise the bucket. Foolishness, plain and simple, and he was not a foolish man.
Yet there was no ignoring the way his throat tightened when he imagined their discomfort; to say nothing of how he’d already come to rely on their happy, laughing voices when he entered the house every evening.
They would be well soon enough, or so he told himself. Anne was correct. They were healthy children, not sickly or weak. They would be well.
Even so, he made haste to return to the house with the water, for there was no telling when they would need it.
“They shall remain home, with Anne, until they’re well enough to visit ye,” Drew explained. “I would not have them coughing and disturbing ye now.”
“Poor lambs.” Davina was out of bed, the first time he’d seen her up and about in many weeks. She fussed over a pot of soup, its aroma enough to make his mouth water.
Shana sliced potatoes at the long kitchen table. “How is Anne? Worn out, I would imagine.”
“Aye, that she is, but there is no convincing her to rest. I wish she would, and that is a fact, but she insists she can care for them both. She was hard at work when I left, preparing a new poultice, with bedding hanging over the line to dry. She’d just scrubbed it in the tub behind the house.”
“I shall send ye back with soup tonight,” Davina promised. “The poor thing ought to at least have supper prepared for her.”
“And by yourself, no less.” He grinned. Seeing her on her feet, bustling about the kitchen as if she’d never taken ill, was a true relief. “I’m sure Rufus was relieved to find ye well enough to get up from bed.”
The women exchanged a look. “I would not say he was relieved,” Davina murmured, eyes downcast. The flare of her nostrils, the set of her jaw reminded him of the fiery lass he’d met on the road to the farm. How she had tormented his cousin with her stubborn ways. She was not to be trifled with.
He could only imagine the thrashing she’d delivered when his cousin had balked at the notion of her being on her feet.
“He shall come to his senses,” Drew predicted. “He merely wishes to keep ye safe and well—yourself and the bairn, as well. He has good intentions.”
“Those good intentions shall be the death of him,” she muttered, her hand tightening around the handle of the kettle. “Or I shall be if he does not learn to give me space.”
Shana offered a reassuring smile before glancing toward Drew and grimacing. So the fight had been a woeful one. He was nearly sorry he’d missed it, though Anne had needed his assistance to fetch more water, hang the sodden bedding and more before he left to begin his work.
“Remind Anne that she ought to take care with herself,” Shana suggested. “It would be a pity if she wore herself out while tending the twins.”
“I shall do just that,” he promised, backing from the room. “And Davina.”
She looked up, frowning—likely with the memory of the fight with Rufus, or at least he hoped. Woe to he upon whom she looked with those angry, sullen eyes and that defiant jaw. Would that she never looked upon him that way. He was uncertain he’d live through the ordeal.
“I shall speak to Rufus,” he promised, “and when I visit the village on the morrow, I shall pay another visit to the healer.”
The anger in her eyes cleared. Her jaw released. “Ye need not bother. I can do it.”
“Nonsense. I already plan to take the cart in. And dinna even think of handing me a shilling,” he added. “Think of it as a gift.”
“I was correct about you,” Shana smirked.
“What’s that?”
She shrugged as if it meant little. “I told Anne ye were a good man. I suspect she did not believe me, but perhaps she will with time.”
He wished fervently that she had not spoken a word, and felt it best to leave the matter alone.
20
Anne had never been so tired in her life.
She had never known such deep, aching weariness existed. Not during her night-long raids of nearby farms. Not while cleaning up after the Stuart men. Not during the times when Liam had taken ill. Not even during her own rare illnesses. She had never once been near the point of falling asleep while standing upright.
Until now.
They were sleeping, and thank heaven for that. In the three days since they’d first become feverish, it had seemed more often than not that one of them was almost always awake. They seemed to take turns sleeping, rather than sleeping at the same time.
Which meant she’d almost always had to be on alert, mopping sweat-slick brows and catching phlegm in rags held to their mouths and preparing poultice to apply to their chests. It seemed to be helping, at long last. Their fevers had broken. They slept peacefully, silently on clean linens, wearing clean shifts.
They no longer needed her as they had.
She could leave now.
Her heart caught in her throat as she gazed down upon their sleeping forms. They were so dear, even while ill. Moira had apologized nearly every time she’d called out for water or broth or anything she’d found herself needing. Poor, wee Owen had coughed until tears rolled down his cheeks, yet had managed to make her laugh more than once. Even in the midst of the grippe, he was able to keep his good humor.
She would miss them, there was no doubt. But they were not Liam. He needed her more.
Did he not?
She took a step away from them, then another. Her straw tick sat on the floor at the foot of the bed, and she longed to crawl into it and bury her head beneath a fur, but there was no time for that. If she slept through the night and woke in the morning in this house, she might never find
the strength to leave. Not when the pair of them had worked their way into her heart, like a seed on the verge of growing into something much larger.
Something with roots. Something impossible to pull up and out.
She pressed her lips together as tight as she could to hold back the faint whimpers which threatened to escape. What would they think when they woke to find her gone? Poor dears. They loved her. It was not fair. Nothing was fair.
Perhaps it was best for them to find out now just how deeply unfair life could be. They would forget her in time, and likely not much time at all. They were young. She would not even be a memory within a year or two.
So she told herself. So she needed to believe.
She tied the cloak about her neck, tears now blurring her vision. Why was it so difficult? Why could she not simply leave and never look back? Liam needed her! Liam loved her, and he would certainly not forget her as the bairns would!
“I am sorry,” she whispered to the sleeping children. “Forgive me, dears. Forgive me. I had no choice. I had to find my brother and take care of him. He needs me, too. Your uncle loves ye and will care for ye as he did before. Never fear.”
She turned away then, before sobs could overtake her and hold her fast. Her feet seemed stuck to the floor as it was. No sense in making the inevitable more difficult.
Her hand was on the metal knob when a faint whimper sounded from the bed.
She froze, her eyes sliding shut. If only Moira did not wake—she knew the sound of her whimpering by now, having heard both it and that of her brother many times over three long days. If only this was an unhappy dream that she would not wake from.
If the lass opened her eyes and knew Anne was about to leave, there would be no going through with it. She knew this. She could not disappoint the child so.
“Mam… Mam!” Moira’s wracking sobs caused Anne to whirl around, stunned. “Mam!”
“Moira, dear!” She sat at the edge of the bed, where she’d spent so much of her time during the illness, taking the child by the shoulders and shaking as gently as she could. “Moira! ‘Tis only a dream!”
