A Temptress in Tartan
Page 23
“What had to be done.” This time Vivian could not stop the shiver that cascaded through her. Her morality would put her own life at risk. But any other choice would be unthinkable.
“The moment m’laird dies that man will be after ye.”
Vivian nodded.
“Run. Go now while ye still have a chance.”
Vivian turned to watch the two men talking, their heads close, their words muted. “I cannot leave until Dugald does.”
“By then it will be too late,” Gillis said, her tone filled with anguish.
“It’s a chance I must take for Dugald’s sake.” She’d come to Kilkerran at the king’s urging and with his promise that she would be safe from a world of people who misunderstood her gift. But she wasn’t safe. She had a feeling she would never be safe again.
*
Dugald died shortly after sunrise the next morning. Vivian had helped the end come peacefully, burning thyme at his bedside to ease each labored breath. She’d done her duty to her husband, but now it was time for her to slip silently from the castle before anyone noticed her absence. She’d packed her most precious herbs and supplies in a pouch that she’d tied at her waist. Using the back stairs and staying hidden in the shadows, she slipped from the castle and made her way to the village just beyond the castle gates.
Gray rainclouds hovered overhead, making the morning sky appear darker than usual. Last night she’d considered taking a horse, then decided against it. A horse would make it easier for Rupert to track her. She had funds to pay for a seat on a coach.
No matter how she accomplished it, she needed to disappear.
Vivian reached the outskirts of the large village and continued down one of its many narrow streets. When she came to Mary Tate’s house, she paused. A week ago, Mary Tate had delivered her baby several weeks earlier than anticipated. Despite being small, the child had appeared healthy and had started nursing within hours after the birth. Vivian forced herself to move on. Her patients would be well enough without her.
On the next street she passed by the house where Billy Abbott lived with his parents. It had been three days since the youth had fallen from a ledge and broken several bones. His fall should have killed him, yet Vivian had been able to reset his bones and stanch the bleeding, saving his life.
There were so many more whom she had helped. Yet now that she needed help, she could ask no one to assist her or they would also fall victim to Rupert’s unreasoning wrath.
Continuing on, Vivian passed a row of thatched houses, then skirted the edge of the marketplace, staying on the fringes, away from the villagers engaged in their morning routines. She pulled the hood of her cloak more tightly against her face and followed a worn dirt path up a hillside.
The sound of horses plodding through mud and the soft patter of footsteps came to her as she neared the heart of the village. She hitched up her skirts to climb over a low wall, and emerged on the main street of town. She had barely settled on both feet when pain assailed her temples. She drew a sharp breath as a vision thundered through her mind.
A boy, playing near the roadway. A large black horse galloping. Hooves coming down, sharp edges flying. The child’s scream blending with the horse’s. Pain. Blood. Death.
A heartbeat later Vivian’s vision cleared, bringing her back to the moment. As she had for years, Vivian had glimpsed a possible future. Overly aware of her surroundings, the incongruous sweet scent of springtime heather assailed her senses. Nausea roiled in her stomach. Lethargy attacked her arms and legs, but she forced herself to straighten. She must not give in to the toll the visions took on her body. She had to keep moving toward the forest.
At the cost of a young boy’s life?
Vivian swallowed around the lump in her throat. Saving him could cost her everything, but there was no other choice. Lifting her heavy skirts, she hurried down the rain-dampened main road that ran through the village of Kilkerran. Her breath left whispers of mist in the morning air. Frantically, she searched for the blond-haired child. Instead she saw the people she’d come to know over the past six months as they paused in their daily chores and activities to study her with narrowed, suspicious eyes. A shiver of ice slid down her spine as she hurried past.
Not long ago the villagers had been grateful for her abilities as a healer and her strange way of knowing what the future would bring. Now when she looked at them she only saw fear. The witch trials had fueled suspicions of anyone who was different or did things that were unexplained.
To avoid any confrontation, Vivian hurried her steps. She turned a corner near the blacksmith’s shop, felt the rush of heat from his forge against her already-flushed skin. The smithy was as careful as Vivian not to draw attention to his skills. She’d heard the villagers’ whispers, accusing him of mastering the dark arts as he mixed iron with bone dust to form hardened steel.
Why did others not see their talents were a gift instead of something to be feared?
The creeping sensation of being watched again raised the hairs at Vivian’s nape. Even her kinship with the king couldn’t save her if she were publicly accused of misdeeds. He’d sent her away six months ago in order to protect himself and his new bride from any association with her. But the king had been wrong about her finding obscurity in Kilkerran.
News of King James’s participation in the North Berwick witch trials and the execution of seven witches had reached even the smallest towns in Scotland. In its wake, a storm of fear and maliciousness was spreading, sweeping up the wicked and the innocent with equal fervor.
Vivian forced the thoughts aside as she finally caught sight of the boy from her vision in the middle of the road ahead. She raced toward him, dodging the villagers who crowded the street.
In the distance, the steady pounding of horses’ hooves thundered. The sound fragmented and exploded in her mind. Three horses rounded the bend, a monstrous black beast in the lead. Two red horses followed behind.
Unaware, the little boy scampered back and forth across the roadway on his hobbyhorse, a look of cheerful abandon on his innocent face. Did no one else hear the horses approach? Did no one else realize the danger?
Her stomach pitched. She tried to call out, but her voice failed her. Desperate to cover the distance that separated her from the child, Vivian surged forward, uncaring of the gasps and stares of the others. She stumbled and fell to her knees and then was up again, running faster.
She reached the child just as the horses did. Cocooning the child with her arms, she threw her weight to the side as they fell. Pain raked across her arm as a hoof came down. A cry escaped her lips.
Crack.
Vivian clutched the child to her chest, hoping to absorb the impact as they hit the rocky ground. Had one of them broken a bone?
The golden-haired boy in her arms appeared unharmed. His blue eyes filled with bewilderment, then relief—until he saw the broken hobbyhorse in his hand. Tears welled in his eyes. His wail of sorrow mixed with the cacophony of sounds—the pounding hooves as they came to a stop, the shouts of men, a shriek of “my son!”
A broken hobbyhorse, not a bone. Vivian struggled to catch her breath. She released her grip on the boy. Her vision clouded and her stomach roiled. The throbbing of her arm matched that of her heartbeat. She clutched her arm only to have a sticky wetness ooze through her fingers.
Vivian knew she should get up and run. Run as far away as she could. This event had been witnessed by too many people for it to go unnoticed by Rupert. He would now know she’d left the castle and intended to escape his grasp. Her only hope was to stay ahead of him. She had to get up. She had to keep running.
The sound of boots from the direction of the snorting horses hit the muddy road, coming toward her. Fear rushed through her, churning her stomach, making her mouth dry. She squinted up into the morning light to see a tall silhouette above her.
“What were you doing in the road with that child?” the man asked in a harsh voice.
Vivian tried to stand,
but her legs collapsed beneath her as the vision had sapped her strength. She needed a few moments more to shake off the effects. Then she would disappear. She’d planned to return to the convent where she’d lived with her mother after her father’s death and before James had found her. At the convent, her mother had found happiness and healing. Vivian’s childhood there had been filled with the same. Perhaps she could return to those happier times as well as find the seclusion she needed to be safe.
“What’s wrong with you?” the man beside her asked, bringing her back to the moment. He reached for her uninjured arm and lifted her to her feet. His gaze sharpened.
“What’s wrong with me? Your recklessness is at fault here. Did you not see that child playing with his hobbyhorse?” She jerked backward, afraid his intelligent gaze might see what others missed.
Before she could move farther away, he reached for her other arm, pulling her hand away from her wound. “Whose blood is this?” His dark gaze shifted from her face to the boy who stood wrapped in his mother’s arms. The other villagers circled her. People she knew. People she’d cared for. Though now she hardly recognized them. Their faces had twisted into masks of fear. Fear of her and the unknown.
Vivian shivered. She had expected this moment was coming, and now there was no escape.
William Abbott detached himself from the crowd. He held a dagger in his hands. “It’s the Devil’s blood. You’re a witch.”
Vivian swallowed roughly as her gaze flicked between the blade held by a man she once thought of as a friend and the stranger before her. Sweet Mary, she didn’t want to die today.
“The blood is mine. It’s red, like yours.” The world swayed before her eyes. She had to stay in control. She had to find a way out of this situation. Perhaps if she broke through the crowd that pushed toward her and just kept running . . .
She took a step only to have darkness edge her vision. The hand on her arm tightened, keeping her upright. The roar of her blood filled her ears, deafening her to her surroundings. She cried out and looked up into a pair of dark brown eyes. Strong, hard arms wrapped around her.
The stranger stared at her for a moment as something like recognition flared in the depths of his eyes. Impossible. She’d spent most of her life in isolation, hiding . . . The thought faded as her vision swam before her eyes.
“You’re right. I was at fault here. I should have been more careful. Let me help you,” a deep voice whispered close to her ear.
The tone reverberated in her mind as the world closed in around her. Darkness edged into her field of vision until there was nothing more.
Find out what happens next…
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About the Author
Gerri Russell is the award-winning author of historical and contemporary novels including the Brotherhood of the Scottish Templars series and Flirting with Felicity. A two-time recipient of the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award and winner of the American Title II competition sponsored by RT Book Reviews magazine, she is best known for her adventurous and emotionally intense novels set in the thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Scottish Highlands. Before Gerri followed her passion for writing romance novels, she worked as a broadcast journalist, a newspaper reporter, a magazine columnist, a technical writer and editor, and an instructional designer. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and four mischievous black cats.