Page 3 of The Guardian’s Bride (Highland Secrets #3)

Holyoak Abbey, Scotland

February, 1307

S he was not certain he would live. Rowena Keith leaned forward to set another cool wet cloth on the man’s fevered brow and touched his bare shoulder and chest. The skin felt hot and dry. Soon she must change the poultices on his wounds, although Holyoak’s abbot was adamant that a monk be present due to the location of the gash on the man’s thigh. Such caution seemed unnecessary; she was familiar with the male physique, having tended to many wounded men over several years of war and strife. Besides, she was a widow, even if her marriage had been very brief.

But this patient was restless and brawny, and she might need help given his strength and size. In candlelight, she examined the lesser gashes on his face and forearm, and then heard voices murmuring outside. Brother Gideon and his twin, Sir Gilchrist Seton, must have come out of midnight prayers. If they came by the infirmary to inquire about the man who had collapsed at the abbey gates days ago, she would enlist their help to hold him down while she applied fresh poultices.

She sighed, patting the man’s broad shoulder. He was asleep at last and she did not want to disturb his rest. Yesterday he had thrashed and muttered about swords and gold and kings in Gaelic and English, and had fought efforts to treat him. Only when Brother Gideon arrived to subdue him—all but sitting on him—could she treat his wounds.

Tilting her head, she studied him. Under the swelling and bruises distorting his face, he was handsome, despite the hedge of his brown beard and the long, unruly chestnut curls she had rinsed in lavender water that morning. She saw strength and elegance in the high cheekbones, squared jaw, and long arched nose where a bump indicated a previous break. His lips were cracked but full beneath the overgrown mustache; his closed eyes were long-lidded and thickly lashed under straight dark brows.

She wondered what color his eyes were, what he was called, if he had family. And she hoped she could do enough to save his life. An almost desperate feeling went through her with that desire; she reminded herself to be a more neutral caretaker.

Drawing back the woolen blanket, she took a quick breath at the sight of his robust nearly nude body. He was solidly beautiful in shadows and candlelight, chest rising and falling, gleaming muscle dusted with bronze and golden hair. His left arm, closest to her, was taut with strength, bent and bandaged across his torso. His long fingers were nimble, almost graceful, slightly calloused. No doubt, he was a warrior, judging by his fitness and the pattern of his wounds. A big warrior, too—the narrow bed barely held him, wide shoulders touching the sides, feet dangling off the end of the cot, toes covered in the clean knitted socks the monks had provided.

Carefully she peeled away the wrapping on his forearm to look at the long cut that angled from elbow nearly to wrist. Days ago when she had arrived, his condition had alarmed her. She did all she could to treat the cuts and gashes, some minor and some serious. Cleansing and dressing the wounds in wine and honey, she had applied poultices and ointments in blends of garlic, nettle, yarrow, onion, honey, and more, and had reopened his half-healed wounds to clean and stitch them neatly with silk thread.

The monks said the man had been in a battle on a sea loch between Bruce’s forces and English, a rousing defeat for the Scots. The big warrior had a wild look; Rowena could imagine him roaring, brandishing a sword, giving no quarter. Though she had only heard him mumble, even so his voice had power.

The wound on his forearm looked less angry than before. Pleased, she replaced the bandaging and drew up the covers. Brushing back messy tendrils of hair from his brow, she studied the stitched cut along his left cheek that glistened with ointment. His facial cuts would not scar badly. But the most serious wound on his leg already had stirred a fever that could be beyond curatives.

She glanced down the length of the infirmary room, a plain wooden building dim in the light of candles and braziers. Several patients lay in two long rows, but the man she tended had a bed apart from the rest, earning privacy as the most serious case. In the few days she had been here, she had spent time with each patient—a fever, old age, a broken leg, apoplexy, two men with wounds gained in a skirmish. The infirmarian and his assistants did good work and did not need her help there.

But the infirmarian had despaired of the brawny warrior’s fevered condition and sent word to Kincraig for Rowena to come quickly. She often helped at Holyoak’s small hospital and was skilled in treating wounds after years of seeing men hurt in battle or skirmishes. After Aunt Una’s death three years ago, Rowena had continued her legacy as a capable healer, so she set out immediately when Brother Gideon and his twin, Sir Gilchrist Seton, arrived as her escort. Her young husband, Sir John Sinclair, had died in an English attack, and she’d had no chance to help him; now she did what she could to help other Scots soldiers.

The door to the ward opened and Gideon and Gilchrist came toward her. Seeing the twins together, she smiled. Both were tall, blond, and identically handsome, though one was a tonsured monk and the other a knight in chainmail and English surcoat, though he was a Scot who balanced duties to two kings, preferring Bruce over the other. “My lady,” Brother Gideon murmured. “How is he?”

“Resting, but the fever has not abated. I hope what I have done will be enough.”

“Will the leg need amputating?” Gilchrist asked.

“I pray not. The abbot would need to send for a physician or a blacksmith-surgeon, as I could not do that without help. The next few days will tell.”

“The abbot, our reverend uncle, says you may stay in the guest house as long as you like,” Gideon said.

“Thank you. You mentioned this man’s name earlier,” she said. “I was so busy at the time that I did not hear what was said.” His needs mattered more to her than his name, but she was curious.

“MacDuff. Apparently, he was wounded in the fray at Loch Ryan. One of the monks recognized him as Sir Aedan MacDuff, a knight of Fife,” Gilchrist said.

“Clan MacDuff is significant,” she said. “Close to the Crown of Scotland since ancient times, I believe.” She touched MacDuff’s cheek and his bare shoulder. Hot and dry. That worried her. His name tapped a childhood memory, some link with her father. She could not place it.

“Aye, by ancient tradition, the MacDuffs have the sole right to crown Scottish kings,” Gideon replied. “If he is one of that kinship, he could be a significant man.”

“Edward of England would do away with the crowning right in Scotland if he could,” Sir Gilchrist said. “One way would be to eliminate the MacDuffs. The current earl is young, and lives in England as Edward’s ward, for the boy’s mother is Edward’s niece. That lad may never leave England, though he is one of the seven primary Scottish earls. His sister is Lady Isabella of Buchan.”

Rowena looked up. “The brave young countess who crowned Robert Bruce secretly? My brother mentioned it. But she was captured last autumn with Bruce’s queen and other kinswomen. A terrible situation.”

“Horrible,” Gilchrist agreed. “King Edward has accused Lady Isabella of treason for the act of crowning Bruce, and had her placed in an iron cage displayed at Berwick Castle as a cruel warning to Scots. If this man is kin to the earl and his sister, he might also be under threat from Edward.”

“He will need to stay here a while yet, so will be safe,” Rowena said. “His fever needs watching and his wounds are concerning. I do not know—if he will ever leave.”

As she spoke, she drew the blankets down to reveal his bare torso and the braies he wore, a simple linen undergarment. As she examined his thigh wound, the Seton brothers did not comment on propriety but continued to murmur between them.

His legs were long, keenly shaped, and powerfully muscled. The gash on the left leg angled downward between hip and knee, sparing his groin. Above the flimsy covering of the braies, his abdomen was taut; bronze and golden hair arrowed beneath the waist cord of the undergarment. He need not worry about his manhood if he recovered from his wounds, she thought, for the mound under the cloth appeared as virile as any part of him.

She glanced away, feeling a hot blush. As many males as she had seen in her healing work, this man had a curious effect on her, bringing flashes of unwarranted thoughts and sensations in her body. She blew out a breath as a quick yearning swept through her, just loneliness. She knew the feeling.

“There are no streaks in the skin,” she told the Setons. “That is in his favor.”

Then, with Gideon’s assistance, she cleaned the wounds anew, rinsing them in wine and honey and dousing them with strong spirit— uisge beatha made by the monks. The man nearly bolted from the bed. Grateful that his reflexes were so keen, she was equally glad to have help calming him. Then she slathered the stitching with the ointment she had prepared from honey, garlic, willow, and other herbs, and applied fresh poultices. “He will rest now,” Gideon said when the man subsided and seemed to doze. “You should too, Lady Rowena. You have hardly left his side.”

“I am fine. I will sit with him tonight until I know he is improving. You and Gilchrist should go to your beds too. Thank you for your help, truly.”

Sir Gilchrist nodded reluctantly and Brother Gideon promised to return to relieve her soon. She waved them away, smiling to hide her weariness. Turning to her patient, she sat quietly, but after a while began to feel sleepy in the silence. Propping her arm on the table by the bed, she rested her head.

Then she jarred awake, uncertain how long she had dozed. Aedan MacDuff growled a few blurred Gaelic words in his sleep. In flickering candlelight, she touched his flushed cheeks. His fever was high again. Dipping a cloth in cool water, she wiped his brow.

“What brought you here, so wounded and ill?” she murmured, frowning in concern. She knew the attack on Bruce’s ships two weeks past had been a disaster, with two of Bruce’s own brothers captured and executed already. Somehow this MacDuff had traveled across Scotland, severely wounded. Likely he was trying to get home to Fife. No wonder he was fevered and ill by the time he collapsed at Holyoak’s gates.

She bathed his forehead, drops sliding down his hot cheek. Earlier she had dosed him with an infusion of poppy and clove. She was exceedingly careful with doses of the potion called the “Great Rest,” a treatment for pain. It could bring sleep or silently kill.

Two jugs of water sat on a small table beside her. She dipped a cloth in one and drizzled water between his lips. He needed fluids, yet was too weak to sit up to drink. If he did not improve, she feared she lacked the skill to save him. Worried, frustrated, she pushed back tendrils of her dark hair slipping out of the braid beneath her widow’s veil. The loneliness sliced through her again, sharp and hurting.

Perhaps she kept thinking of John Sinclair tonight because she wanted to save this wounded Scot. The weeks she had had with John four, nearly five, years ago had been sweet. Then he had left for knight’s duty—and never came back. A month later, the child she had started was gone too. She breathed against the pain, shook her head.

Of all the wounded men she had helped since John’s death, this MacDuff brought back the yearning for a husband, a child, the life she had wanted. The pain was not sharp, but a deep pull, as if her spirit stretched for what she could neither reach nor see.

Stop, she told herself. Think. What else could she do for Sir Aedan MacDuff?

There was one remedy that she rarely resorted to trying. Touching the embroidered pouch looped to her belt, she felt the weight of the Rhymer’s stone there. Had the time come to use it? Thomas had said it could save a life.

MacDuff snored, a reassuring sound. Weary, Rowena set her elbow on the bed, chin in hand, arm resting on his solid, too-warm chest. She thought about all the ways to treat wounds she had learned from Una. She had tried everything she knew.

She slipped her hand into the drawstring pouch and felt the round shape of the crystal charm stone her great-grandfather had given her. Something told her it was needed now. Perhaps it was her fatigue and frustration insisting on it.

Pondering, she was startled by his sudden grip on her wrist, his hand hot.

“Lass,” he said hoarsely. “I need you.”

“Sir, be easy. All is well. I am here.”

“All is not very well. If I die, neither you nor I will be pleased.” A tiny smile moved his lips. He let go of her.

“You will not die. I will not let you.” She said it fiercely, felt it in her core, her soul. Something tugged deep in her chest. She would not give up on this man.

“I am cold.” His hands shook. “Sweetling. I am in your debt.”

The February chill drifted through the room; she felt it too. But braziers about the room radiated cozy heat, one of them nearby. Yet MacDuff was chilled and trembling with fever.

She fetched her cloak from a hook on the wall and returned to spread it over him. The dark blue wool, lined in a plaid of dark green and black, would provide extra warmth. Pulling it high on his chest, she smoothed his thick, messy hair, scented with lavender and garlic and man. His hand found hers, gripped it, gentle now.

“The world is spinning. Or am I?” His eyes rolled back, but he rallied.

Wiping the wet cloth over his brow, she felt sure what she must do. Setting the cloth aside, she reached into her pouch to remove the stone wrapped in white silk. The round crystal had beautiful cloudlike strands floating inside that winked in the candlelight. She dropped it into the unused jug of water.

Listening to his ragged breathing, feeling the heat of his skin, she waited. Then she extracted the charm stone, dried it in the silk, and poured some of the water from the jug into a wooden cup.

“Drink this.”

“No wine,” he protested hoarsely.

“Water,” she said, and supported his shoulders as he lifted his head. He sipped, losing some of the liquid into his beard. As she drizzled water between his lips, he sucked it, took some from her fingers, then sank back in exhaustion, eyes closed.

The charm stone grew warm, cupped in her hand. She held it up to the candlelight. It sparkled inside, bright and alive somehow. Rotating the gleaming sphere in her hand, she drew a breath, another, readying herself.

Then she touched the stone gently to Sir Aedan’s brow and held it there. A tiny golden glow bloomed in the heart of the crystal. She trailed it down to touch his lips. His breathing slowed, calmed.

Tracing the stone along, she touched the stone to the hollow of his throat next, and moved it to his breastbone. The crystal was nearly hot in her hand, as if it absorbed the fever and radiated some power.

When she had first used the stone, Aunt Una and Grandda Thomas taught her to dip the faery crystal in water to impart its healing power into water that could be sipped. They also taught her chants that would clear and strengthen the stone, and Una showed her that those same methods could be used with all charm stones. The Rhymer’s faery crystal had an unusual power to help and heal in the most serious instances, and must be used sparingly, she knew. Una had also shown her a method of touching the stone to the body to send healing there.

Instinct, or perhaps desperation, urged her to continue. She felt compelled to help this man however she could. The silence in the room was as deep as the darkness as she watched MacDuff in the candlelight, sweat beading on his brow, his breath ragged, too slow, too fast. She took his hand. His fingers flickered on hers. His eyelids fluttered. His lips were pale. He was weak, and weakening, and it frightened her.

She circled the stone over his heart, then brought the stone, softly glowing, to his abdomen to touch it there. Sweeping it over his legs and feet, she brought it back up along his body. Finally, she let the stone kiss his dry, tenderly shaped lips, then spiraled it over his brow and the crown of his head.

“Be healed, warrior,” she whispered.

The stone held a brightness now that looked like tiny streaks of lightning. She blew softly over the crystal, watching its inner light flicker, and she blew the light over his chest and his face.

“Be healed, whole and strong,” she whispered in a singsong chant. “Let the light of healing kindle in thy body and thy spirit. Let Heaven heal thee now.”

She breathed out the last word, waited, watched. The glow in the sphere faded and vanished. She wrapped the stone in silk and dropped it back into the purse. Touching the man’s shoulder, she sensed that his breathing had calmed.

“There,” she whispered. “Sleep and heal.”

Suddenly he moved, grabbing her wrist again with his uninjured hand, tight enough to bruise or crack her small bones.

“What was that—come here—” He pulled her close, his hand like iron, until her face was near his. “The stone—tell me where you got it!”