by Sondra Grey
“I’m sure your sister is glad you didn’t.” Isla cautiously released his wrist, and Dundur cautiously opened his lids and squinted at her.
“You’ve been unconscious for a few hours.” Isla informed him. “I’m sure everyone is relieved that you’re awake.”
Dundur said nothing, but closed his eyes again and lay still, breathing through his nose. Isla had seen head injuries before. They made people sick, and she retrieved a clean chamber pot, placed it by his bed and then relocated to the small table and chairs in the corner of the room where a large chessboard sat with its pieces still set up. She’d noted the chessboard when they’d brought him into the room, but hadn’t studied it closely. It looked like the laird was in the middle of a game with someone. Isla distracted herself by studying the chessboard, giving the laird time to adjust to his pain in the head.
“How bad is it?” he asked after a moment or two, and Isla turned her attention back to the bed.
Isla stood up and peered down at the wound as if for the first time. “You’ll have to tell me,” she told him. “Describe the pain.”
He pinched his lips together.
“Is it coming in waves or is it steady?”
“Steady.” Isla breathed a sigh of relief. The patient who’d died, said the pain had come in waves, and he’d vomited something awful before succumbing to sleep and not waking up.
“I can brew you some willow bark tea if your stomach can stand to drink it. I feel you might be queasy for a little while yet, and you’ll have a terrible headache for a few days to come.”
He grunted in assent and Isla moved into the hall to see who might be available to fetch boiling water from the kitchens. Two clansmen stood tensely near the mouth of the stairwell, and Geordie was sitting in a chair that someone had dragged into the hall.
Isla gave him a sachet of the willow bark and gave him instructions for the tea. Geordie got up to follow her instructions and one the clansmen, a Grant cousin with large forearms and the laird’s bold nose stepped forward. “Is he calmer? May I speak to him?”
“I’ll let you speak to him if he asks for you,” said Isla calmly, and she turned back inside.
Dundur hadn’t even tried to lever himself to sitting. He lay back in his pillows, eyes closed, mouth a grim line.
“Your clansmen are asking for you.”
When he didn’t respond and Isla felt her pulse quicken. “Are you awake?”
He said nothing, and Isla rushed to the bed, “Calum!” she gripped his forearm and his eyes snapped open to glare at her.
Isla took a deep breath to steady herself. “It’s important you stay awake,” she told him. “At least for a little while. One of our village crofters fell from the roof. He went to sleep and didn’t wake up.”
“I’d be satisfied with not waking up now.”
Isla stared at him levelly, “You mean to tell me that your sixteen-year-old nephew is braver than you? Why he’s been laid up for a week with barely a complaint about the pain.”
“Compare me to him when he’s had his head knocked in.”
“I’d rather he keep his head undented, I wouldn’t wish a horse’s kick on that boy.”
Dundur cracked an eyelid open to study her. “Meaning you’d wish it on me?”
“Hugh didn’t chase me through the forest, kidnap me, and keep me prisoner in his castle.” Isla met him stare for stare.
Dundur grunted and closed his eyes again. “Something tells me you’re not hating here as much as you’d like me to believe.”
Isla didn’t respond to him. A few minutes passed with Dundur breathing steadily, shifting every so often to signal to Isla that he was still awake.
Dundur opened his eyes only when Geordie came into the room bearing the tea. “All right there, Calum?” asked Geordie, voice soft. He handed the steaming tea to Isla.
“See if you can help him sit up, Geordie.” Isla commanded. “He’ll choke on this if he tries to swallow it lying down.”
Dundur might have been fine complaining before Isla, but he was stubborn before Geordie, levering himself up before the clansman could help.
Isla handed him the tea and he took it, sipping at it tentatively and breathing through his nose, no doubt staving off nausea.
“I put in mint in case his stomach was sour,” Geordie said to her and Isla nodded; she could smell it.
Geordie motioned Isla over to the table, where they could speak without being overheard. “You might want to allow Fergus to come in and speak to him,” said Geordie. “The clan would feel a good deal better if they heard from their chieftain with their own ears.”
Isla nodded and murmured that she’d speak to the laird about it, but if he wasn’t up to seeing anyone, she wasn’t going to let them bother him.
“If you’re hungry, lass, and looking for some peace, I’ll stay with him. Make sure he stays conscious. You can get some supper from the kitchens.” Geordie offered.
“What are you both conspiring over?” Snapped Dundur from his bed.
“Fergus wants to speak with you, Calum. To hear for himself you’re all right. They’ve riders waiting to light the fires to send word of you to The Grant.”
“Tell the bastard I’m not dead and have no plans of dying.”
“I think it would be best you tell him yourself. You know Fergus.”
“I know my cousin, yes.” Dundur closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. “Fine. Geordie. Go get him. But he comes with Allan. And the lass stays.”
Geordie looked over his shoulder at Isla, who shrugged. She knew nothing about clan business and, now that the laird was awake, Isla was just as content to head to her own bed. But if Calum wanted her to stay… when had she started calling him Calum? She frowned at herself.
“All right,” said Geordie, and he left.
Silence descended the room and Dundur – Calum – broke it when he said, “Sweet on him, are you?”
Isla blinked at the sudden accusation. “I’m quite fond of Geordie. He’s kind, and very patient.”
Dundur studied her with a decidedly impatient gaze. “That wasn’t an answer.”
She stood and approached the bed. She couldn’t help herself. She felt an overwhelming need to be close to him. Plus, this was one of the few times when she’d be able to tower over the towering laird. She placed her hands on her hips and channeled Deirdre, “Do you think that question deserves an answer?”
Calum’s expression darkened. “Your face is so fair that I sometimes forget what a viper you are,” he snarled.
Isla refused to blush. “Better a viper than lion with a thorn in its paw,” she said. “You better be nice to me. I suppose you’d like me to be a mouse, wouldn’t you? I guess you’ll just have to be kinder.” She emphasized her words by crossing her arms over her chest. She met his glare with one of her own.
The knock on the door broke the tension. “Enter!” Dundur barked and Isla stepped to the side of the bed to allow the Laird a view of the door.
Allan opened the door, allowing one of the Grant cousins to step through. Isla had seen Fergus before but had never spoken to the man. He was one of the few who had eaten on the dais the night before. He also hadn’t been in the warrior party that had come across Isla in the woods.
Fergus looked a few years older than Calum and was himself tall, just an inch shorter than his cousin. He was dark, like the Laird, but was much different in build. Slim and wiry, with a thick, dark beard hiding most of his face, he was no beauty and was easy to overlook. His wife was one of the women Isla often went walking with. She was petite, pale, and very pretty. Isla had noted her because of the attention she paid to the Laird. Her eyes followed him with the same hunger as the serving women. To Isla, it was obvious that Fergus’ wife was in love with the Laird, but she wondered if it were obvious to Fergus. Perhaps that was the cause of the sudden tension in the room.
Isla wasn’t the only one who felt the tension. She watches as Allan shifted so that he was standing between
Fergus and the Laird.
“What it is?” asked Calum, but his voice had lost the edge it had taken on with both her and Geordie. There was something more careful in his tone. “You want to see me, I’m here, and alive.”
“And in fine form,” said Fergus. His voice was light and raspy, eyes quiet and watchful, revealing nothing.
“As you can see.”
Silence descended as Fergus moved deeper into the room. Allan moved too. “Perhaps,” said Fergus, slowly, as if tasting the word before he spoke it, “in light of recent events, you should call off the meeting with Macleod…”
“No.” Calum was firm, voice clear. “Macleod arrives in only a few days’ time, and our negotiations will go as scheduled.”
“It would be but a small matter to reschedule…”
“And why should I reschedule?” The question didn’t seem dangerous or rhetorical, and yet Isla had the feeling that much was riding on the answer.
Fergus must have known it to, but his response was careful. “Should you appear anything less than at your full strength when Macleod and his men arrive…”
“The operative word,” interrupted Calum, “being should. I assure you there is little chance of my appearing before Macleod at anything less than full strength, with the full support of my clan behind me.” The threat was implied, but even Isla heard it. Fall in line, or else.
The men held each other’s gaze for a moment. Fergus broke the gaze first, eyes shifting to fasten on Isla. She blinked, resisting the urge to look somewhere else. The gaze her gave her was an assessing and finally he looked back to Calum and bowed his head. “Good to see you in good health.”
“Allan,” said Calum as Fergus turned to leave. “I trust I can leave the preparation for the MacLeod’s in your hands?”
The older man nodded once abruptly, and then the two turned and left.
Calum closed his eyes and sunk his head back against the pillows. He lay there so quietly, that Isla worried he’d fallen asleep. She cleared her throat. “Do you play chess?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like to play? To stay awake? You look like you’re in the middle of a game…” she crossed the room towards the chessboard and when she turned back she saw that he’d yet to open his eyes.
“I don’t play on that board,” he said. “There’s a set in the solar I use.”
“Well why not use this one, then? We can finish this game…”
“Who taught you to play chess?”
His question stopped her mid-sentence and she felt a nameless emotion start to rise. She pushed it down. “My father,” she lied. Her father had taught her the basics of the game when she was younger, but when Gavin had courted her, he’d come to her home when Deirdre was present and spend evenings teaching her strategy. She was atrocious at chess, but those nights playing with patient, teasing Gavin had been wonderful fun.
She stared back at the board, “So would you like play?”
“Not on that board,” he repeated.
Isla frowned at the pieces on the board. It was an old, well-worn set. The pieces were made of wood that had been smoothed by a generation of players. The board had been stained, and the staining had faded so that you could only just tell the difference between the alternating squares. The game in place didn’t look to be a particularly difficult one. Isla could think of several moves she might make on either side.
“Why not?”
Calum didn’t answer immediately, but Isla found herself desperately wanting to know the answer, wanting to know something personal about this large, imposing man. She cross back to the bed and sat on its edge.
Finally, the laird said, “It’s not my game. It’s a game my father played with my brother.”
Isla blinked. “I didn’t know you had a brother.” In fact, in the week since she’d been here, nobody had spoken of a brother, and they’d barely mentioned the old Chieftain.
Calum’s lips quirked in a wry smile, his eyes still closed, brow relaxed. “No. I suppose not many people are keen to talk about Graeme.”
Isla knew she was prying, but couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Why not?”
“You’ll have to ask someone else. I cannot speak for them.”
As an answer, it was disappointing, and Isla turned her attention back to the chess board as it might hold some sort of secret. “Was he younger?”
“Graeme? Older.”
“And you loved him?”
“Well enough. We competed when we were boys. I was jealous of our father’s regard for him. I always found him undeserving of the old man’s esteem.”
“Was he rebellious then?”
“Not at all,” said Calum, voice deep and calm. Isla was willing to bet the willow bark tea had helped both the headache and the nausea. “He was perfectly obedient. Like Hugh, very accommodating and thoughtful.”
“Ah,” said Isla, smile fitting across her lips. “And you weren’t?”
“No.”
Isla’s smile grew. “Me neither.”
Calum cracked his eyes open and caught her smile. He looked her over once and closed his eyes back up, “Hmmph.” A return smile threatened and the corners of his lips.
Isla wasn’t done prying. “What happened to Graeme?”
The smile faltered and Calum’s lips pressed into a grim, flat line. “War with the Lamont’s. They were battling the Campbell’s, and the Grants were called to aid.”
“And Graeme died?”
“Yes.”
“Were you there?”
“I was.” It was clear from his tone that he wanted no more from this conversation. And Isla made a mental note to ask Mrs. Allan for the tale. It seemed significant, for it was terribly nostalgic to keep alive a chess game that would never see the return of its players.
“Shall I retrieve the board from the study then?”
“I want none of chess. My head feels like it’s going to split open.” He was back to sounding cranky.
“Well what would you like to do then? I must keep you awake for another few hours I’m afraid.”
“Do what you like, it matters not to me.”
Isla pondered this for a few minutes. “Shall I tell you stories?” she asked. “The Fox and the Little Bonnach? Or how Caol Redhinn got its name?”
“Spare me.”
“You just said I might do as I like…”
“I changed my mind. Tell me about you.”
Isla’s mouth snapped shut. She stared at his profile, serene and stern. His black lashes dusting the dark circles forming beneath his eyes.
“What about me?”
“Tell me why you left your village.”
Isla thought about it. There wasn’t much chance of her getting away from this room without revealing something about herself. The more she told him, the less suspicious he might be. Still she hesitated. How much of the truth would she need to give him to create a convincing lie? How much could she tell him without giving herself away?
“My mother died a few months ago,” she said finally. It was the closest to the truth that she could come. “I was engaged to a local boy, who was going to give me time to mourn before we wed. He broke our engagement, and so there was nothing for me in town.”
“Why did he break your engagement?”
“You’ll have to ask him that should you ever come across him.”
Calum’s lips quirked slightly. “How would I know him if I came across him?”
Isla didn’t answer.
Calum let the silence hang for a minute before he picked the thread of the conversation back up. “Was he the one who hurt you? Who gave that bruise and the cut by your temple?”
Again, Isla didn’t speak. Gavin hadn’t cast the stone, but he might as well have.
“I see,” said Calum, and his voice was low and understanding. Isla knew what conclusion he’d drawn. There were a few women in Elleric whose husbands beat them. It bothered Isla that Calum thought she was somebody who might allow her man to bea
t her, but correcting the assumption would mean telling him what had happened, and witchcraft was no small charge.
“And so, you ran off without food or clothes, to go west and find family?”
“What else was there to do?”
“You might stay here,” Calum suggested, tone light and considering. “I could pay you a salary. As I’m sure you’ve seen, we’ve good need for a healer.”
Isla rolled her eyes, happy he couldn’t see the gesture. Live the rest of her life as a lie? No. She would continue west. “Would you keep me here after our contract is up?”
Silence. Then, “I would not.”
“Then I will go east to see my family as soon as your nephew is on his feet.”
“And what about me?”
Isla felt her breath catch. Him? Her heart hammered in her chest. “What about you?” She hated that it came out breathy, expectant. Had he heard the yearning in her voice? She hoped not.
“Will you leave before I’m up and walking?”
Isla took a deep breath and tried to regain some of her earlier coyness, “I think, my laird of Dundur, that you’ll be up and walking well before I take my leave of your nephew.”
“Hmph,” he said. Then after a moment’s silence. “Tell me about your mother.”
This was easy. Isla didn’t have to make up anything about Deirdre. Her mother was a fantastic character and Isla had a dozen stories to tell. She told them with skill and humor. At one point, Calum even laughed out loud and then stopped abruptly, clutching his head, and cursing her for making him laugh. So, she told more sedate stories; she recounted a few of the patients she’d cured, and a few for whom she could do nothing. She talked about her father a bit, and about her little brother, who’d died before his third birthday.
She sat until her back was sore and then she moved full onto the bed, sitting well away from him, but leaning back against the pillows.
She spoke until she felt herself drifting, and tried to keep awake. She blinked, pinched herself, but gradually succumbed to the fatigue, sliding into a thick and heavy sleep.
Isla dreamt she was being held again. She dreamt that someone whispered to her, kissed her head, and stroked her cheek. She dreamt that the stars fell in dazzling silver streaks across the sky, and that someone smoothed her hair from her face and whispered, “You’re safe. You can wake up.”
