“Aye, I believe he does. Ye can see it clear. I am nay sure he understands his parents are gone though.”
“He will, but being so young, and with an auntie to care for him, it might not be so hard on him that his folk are dead. My Maeve wasn’t much older when my Tommy was killed and she recovered fine. The lads still carry some anger over it.” She picked up the bucket of rags and grabbed the cover she had used to hide Emily’s nakedness. “Grab her clothes and I’ll get this whole lot in to soak, get the blood out.”
“Do ye think ye can get her clothes clean as weel?”
“Maybe. Will take some work. Easier when the blood is fresh.”
“Weel, if ye can, it would be good as I am nay sure we have anything for her in what we took from the cottage,” he said as he followed her down the stairs.
“Ah, well, I will do my best. Now, I will start on this and ye can bring the mop up and clean up any blood on the floor, if you would. Best if the room and all are as clean as we can get them. I truly believe that can help a body to heal.”
By the time Iain finished with that chore Emily was looking less like the dead and more like she was just sleeping. There was still a flush on her cheeks and he felt her face to find she was still a little bit feverish. It was not surprising since she had had a bullet inside her for almost two days. He hoped she had not lost so much blood that she would be unable to fight off the fever.
He went back down the stairs, and then put away the mop and bucket. Mrs. O’Neal was busy scrubbing out the clothes so he went outside to look for little Neddy. He found the boy sitting on a rock by the side of the house, laughing as a puppy tried to grab his toy dog. Iain sat down on the ground next to the boy and noticed that the box he kept such a close watch on was still right by his side.
“Ye dinnae want to let him get to your toy, lad. Those teeth are wee but they are also very sharp.”
Neddy looked at the puppy and quickly stuck his toy inside his shirt. “He wants a toy.”
“Dogs are easy to please, lad.” Iain looked around and grabbed a small stick off the ground.
“A stick?”
“Aye. Dogs like sticks. Ye teach them to chase it when ye throw it and then to bring it back.” He held it out and the puppy grabbed it. “Right now, this fellow just wants something to chew on.”
After watching the puppy try to pull the stick away, Neddy held out his hand. “May I have that now, please?”
So polite, Iain thought. The boy spoke very well when he wanted to. Neddy had had a look of intense concentration as he had spoken. “Do ye ken how old ye are?”
“Three. I am growing.”
“Oh, aye, that ye are.”
“Where Emmy?”
“In bed. She was wounded and Mrs. O’Neal tended to her. She is sleeping now. She will heal better if she gets a lot of sleep.”
“I see her?”
“If ye want to.”
The boy dropped the stick he held, grabbed his box, and stood up. “Now.” He blushed and frowned. “Please?”
As they walked to the house, Neddy held the box close. He took the boy by the hand as they walked up the stairs and wondered if he could get the box away from the boy. It held papers that were obviously very important to him and his aunt. Of course none of them knew how to read so he would have to find someone else to look at them and that seemed wrong. He was debating the ethics of that when they entered the room where Emily slept. The papers were private and he had no trouble thinking of how he would feel if someone took something of his that was private and shared it with others. Iain stopped thinking about the box as Neddy pulled his hand free and ran to the bed.
Iain quickly stepped up to him as the child patted Emily’s cheek and said, “Emmy?”
“She is sleeping, lad,” he said. “I told you, she was a wee bit hurt so she really needs to rest.”
“Like Mama?”
The single tear that went down the child’s cheek and his fearful expression tore at Iain’s heart. “Nay, laddie, your Emmy will be better soon. She but sleeps so that she can heal better.”
“Need box open.”
“Ye wanted Emily to open it?” The boy nodded. “Why? It is just papers.”
“My papers. You open again.” When Iain just stared at the box, Neddy yelled, “Now!” Then he looked as startled by his rude demand as Iain felt, blinked several times, and quietly said, “Please?” His bottom lip trembled slightly. “Sorry. I yelleded. Bad boy,” Neddy added in a very soft voice.
“Nay, just impatient and ye need to practice how to stop that. I ken that feeling very weel. And ye did say ‘please’ after.” Iain reached out and lightly ruffled the boy’s hair. “I will see if I can get the key without waking her.”
As gently as he could Iain removed the chain from her neck. She took so little notice of what he did, he found himself checking to be certain she still breathed. When he turned he saw Neddy seating himself at the end of the bed, one hand on Emily’s foot as if he feared she might disappear, and the other on the box. The boy watched Iain carefully as he opened the box.
“I dinnae ken why ye want it opened,” Iain said as he put the key back on the chain and placed both on the little table by the bed. “Ye cannae read them.”
“Emmy teachin’ me. I know my name.” He took out the papers and carefully unfolded them one at a time. “Edward,” he said carefully, moving his finger over each letter in the word on one of the papers. “Emmy says it my birth paper.”
Iain sat next to the boy and studied the paper Neddy held. A cold feeling knotted his stomach as he studied the precise handwriting and the official seal on the paper. It was the same feeling he had gotten when Emily had spoken like a high-bred female. Common people did not have such papers. They got a notation in the parish records at most or had it noted down in a family Bible if the family could afford one. They certainly did not have papers signed by half a dozen people or a signet ring to mark the paper as well next to a few of the names. Despite reminding himself that he was dealing with a small child and a wounded woman, Iain felt the heat of anger and distaste flood his veins.
“Lad, are ye gentry then?” he asked.
Neddy stared at him then looked back at the paper and shook his head. Iain sensed he had just been lied to. He wished he could read. It was not hard to recognize the mark of a signet ring as it was so similar to the mark on the papers shoved into his father’s face as they had burned their home to the ground. Cursing softly in Gaelic, he knew the boy would tell him nothing, had probably been well trained to keep his silence, but there was no denying the mark.
“I think we should put these back, Neddy,” Iain said. “Then we can clean ye up and have ourselves something to eat.”
“I am hungry,” Neddy said, and began to fold the papers back up.
As soon as the child allowed him to help return the papers to the box, Neddy then settled his Boo on top of the papers. Iain knew there would be no locking the box this time. He helped the boy get off the bed then turned to look at Emily. Before he could reconsider his action, he reached out a hand to brush it over her cheeks and forehead.
“Emmy sick.”
“Just a little.” He took the boy by the hand. “We will just wander down into the kitchens and see if Mrs. O’Neal has anything for us, aye?”
The boy smiled and nodded. “Aye.”
Mrs. O’Neal was just tucking the last of the buckets with the blood-stained clothes and rags in between the sink and the back wall when Iain led the boy into the kitchen. The woman had ears like a prize hunting dog. She must have heard their approach and put out of sight anything that could upset the child or bring awkward questions. Mrs. O’Neal wiped her hands on her apron and hurried over to greet Neddy.
“Are you hungry, lad?” She smiled when the boy nodded. “Come in and have a seat. The evening meal will be set out soon.” She took his hand from Iain’s and tugged him over to the table.
It was not until Iain was helping her get the plates to set
the table that Mrs. O’Neal quietly asked, “How fares the lass? Resting easy?”
“Aye,” he replied. “Still has a fever though it doesnae feel too high. She sleeps like the dead though.”
“Some folk do. My boy Rory sleeps like that. I will go have a look in a few.” She glanced toward the boy. “Can you get that box away from him?”
“Aye, but I dinnae think he will let it go far. It holds a lot of papers and I think he was taught, verra thoroughly, to keep it safe. I think they might be gentry. The papers have a seal I am sure was made by a signet ring. No one uses them in this land. Or, very rarely.”
“Irish, Scottish, or English?”
“English. They both have that accent.”
“What the devil would English gentry be doing in these hills?”
“Hiding? Running? I do not think the attack was just random so it means someone is looking for them.” Iain shrugged. “The boy has no answers or doesnae wish to give any to me.”
“Then we best get the woman fixed up right quick so she can tell us.”
Iain had every intention of doing so. He did not like the thought of English gentry being anywhere near him. They had finally found a place, actually owned it. It was what their parents had wanted but had not lived to see. All the death and misery they had endured had been caused by the English gentry. He needed to know if he was right about what he suspected. If he was he would see that the Stantons left. He would make certain that they were safe but they would be safe far, far away from him and his family.
A sound from the back porch drew his gaze and he grinned. Through the window he could see his six brothers and Mrs. O’Neal’s three children cleaning up for supper. They started splashing one another and, as always, Robbie stepped in front of the girl to save her from getting wet. The concerns he had had when he had allowed the O’Neals to move in seemed foolish now. Their two families had blended perfectly.
Moving quickly to help Mrs. O’Neal put the meal on the table, Iain wondered what could be done about getting some sustenance into Emily. She was too small and slender to go without food for long. He hoped Mrs. O’Neal had some solution.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by young Neddy. The boy was up on his knees so that he was at a height to reach the food. Iain went into the food pantry and got the large block of wood they had used when the youngest O’Neal was small. He picked up the boy, who was still clinging to that box, set the block on the chair, and sat the boy back down.
Taking the seat beside the boy, Iain asked, “Why dinnae we put that box under your chair?”
Neddy frowned. “I will forget.”
“Nay.” Iain took the box and put it under his chair. “I will remind you.”
“Promise?”
“Aye, I swear to it.”
The boy nodded and then all conversation paused as the food was passed around. As soon as everyone filled their plates, talk of what work had been done and what was still needing to be done began. The only bad news was that they had lost a lamb to wolves but the rest were thriving. Iain decided it was probably time to do some hunting.
By the time the meal was over, Iain had a list of chores in his mind and was eager to plan out the next day. He took time to see to Neddy though, cleaning the child’s face and hands off and returning the box to him. Then he took the boy up the stairs to get him ready for bed.
A small cot had been set up in the room where Emily still slept. Mrs. O’Neal had put out a little nightshirt for the boy and Iain got him into it and then tucked him into the bed. Neddy never let go of the box. Iain’s need to know what those papers said grew even stronger.
“Story,” the boy said as he got his Boo out of the box and held it in his arms.
“Ye need a story?”
“Aye.” Neddy briefly grinned. “Story.”
Iain sat on the floor next to the cot and searched his mind for one of the stories he used to tell his young brothers. Settling on the one about dragons that his brothers had so often asked for, he started. He got halfway through it when he realized Neddy had fallen asleep.
Standing up, Iain tucked the covers around the boy and then studied him for a moment. He suspected Neddy was one of those young children women cooed over. There was little doubt he was a well-behaved boy. What tightly gripped Iain’s heart was that he was now an orphan, just as he and his brothers were although they had been a bit older than Neddy, had had a chance to enjoy some life with their parents. They had not had an aunt to look after them, however. He lightly smoothed his hand over the boy’s curls and then left. The boy was going to be a problem in deciding what needed to be done about the aunt.
Chapter Four
Emily carefully opened her eyes. She knew she had been asleep for quite a while but had little sense of how long that while was. Brushing her fingers over her eyes she found no crustiness that often formed after a long sleep. She wondered if someone had bathed her face for she was certain her sleep had been a long one. The various aches and stiffness in her body told her she had been lying in the same position for quite a long time.
Pushing herself up so that she was propped up against the headboard, Emily hissed as pain tore through her arm. Once it began to ease, she began to remember what had happened to her. Her sister was dead, as was her husband. Their cottage had been badly burned. Tears flooded her eyes and Emily brushed them aside as she looked around the room.
Fear crept in slowly as she realized she recognized nothing. Looking down at herself she found she was wearing her shift but little else. Who had undressed her? The walls were white, there were two windows framed with light yellow curtains she had never seen. On the floor were rag rugs she did not recognize. The bed was a bit high, wide enough to hold two people, and made of thick, sturdy wood.
She was breathing too quickly. Emily knew her fear was rapidly increasing and she fought to calm herself as she looked for signs of danger. Panic would cloud her thoughts and she needed them clear now. There was no one guarding her and Emily decided to take that as a good sign. If the enemy had taken her, she doubted they would have had her wounds tended to so well and they certainly would not have left her on her own. She stared at the painting on the wall opposite the foot of the bed and felt calm begin to smother her agitation. It was a picture of home, or someplace similar. Just looking at the small stone cottage with its high thatched roof put her more at ease.
Sitting up a little straighter she realized it was a painting of a place somewhere in Scotland. She had traveled there once with her mother and father and recognized what the Scots called a glen. Memory returned in a rush and she could almost hear that deep Scottish brogue telling her they would be safe. There was a man who had helped her but there was no sign of him. Listening closely, she could not even hear that voice.
And where was Neddy, she thought with a surge of sharp panic she could not hold back. “Neddy? Neddy!” she yelled as she struggled to get out of bed. “Neddy, where are you? Neddy!”
A few moments later she heard someone coming quickly up the stairs and braced herself. Although she prayed it was Neddy, she knew it could be whoever had brought her here and she would need to keep her wits about her. The pound of footsteps was far too loud and heavy to be those of a small child. Neddy’s life depended on her being careful about who she trusted with the truth. Saving her life and treating her well could simply be a more subtle way of getting her to tell them what they wanted to know or leave Neddy unguarded.
* * *
Iain watched Neddy carefully as they worked to weed the kitchen garden. He had planned to fix fences but the boy would not leave his side. Deciding Neddy was too young to be wandering the fields with him, he chose to do the simpler chore of weeding the garden. He had pointed out what needed to be pulled in the pathways between the plants and away from the crops and the boy dutifully stuck to them. Iain kept a close watch though.
Suddenly Neddy leapt to his feet and looked at the house. “Em!”
The boy was already running towa
rd the house before Iain heard what the boy had. Emily was awake and calling for the child. He grabbed the box the child always kept close and caught up with Neddy, hooked his arm around the child’s waist, and helped him up the stairs. He had not considered how fearful she would be to wake and not see the child. They entered Emily’s room and Neddy wiggled free to run over to the bed. Before Iain could catch him again, Neddy climbed on the bed and into Emily’s arms. Iain stood by the side of the bed and saw her quickly hidden grimace of pain. He could not be certain which wound the boy had jarred, however.
“My box!” The boy suddenly cried and looked around. “I lost it.”
“Nay.” Iain held the box he had scooped up as they had rushed away from the garden. “I brought it.”
Neddy grabbed it and held it close. “Mine!”
“Rude, Neddy,” Emily said, and tried not to grimace over how dry her throat was. “Say thank you kindly.”
“Thank you kindly, Iain,” he repeated carefully, then opened the box and took out Boo. “Do you want Boo, Em?”
Emily stared at the box. It should not be unlocked. She reached up to touch her neck and realized the chain holding the key was gone. When she looked at Iain, he pointed to the table beside her and she saw the chain and key lying on the table. Trying not to wince she reached out to pick it up. Then she looked at Iain but he just smiled. Next she looked at Neddy, who avoided her gaze, patting his Boo.
“Neddy? Why is the box open?” she asked softly. “The papers need to be locked up.”
“Why?” Neddy frowned at her then held Boo up in front of him and stared at her.
“Because they are yours and very important. Those who are not family should not be looking at them. They are private papers.”
Neddy smiled. “I know. He cannot read. So, you teach him, too.”
Emily noticed the faint hint of color in the man’s cheeks and realized he was embarrassed. She was not sure why he should be as she was well aware of the fact that many of those not born to privilege could not read and not every parent felt it worth the loss of an extra pair of hands to work to send their child to the schools that were now set up. At best those people learned what words they felt were important like poison or danger and felt that would do well enough. Nor could such people afford the books to read so the skill was of little practical use in their eyes. She had taught the tenants’ children back home on the estate and knew that few of their parents had felt it was really necessary.
The Scotsman Who Saved Me Page 4
