Page 17 of Time of the Druid (Stones of Scotland #7)
Chapter 17
N orah had stayed in the guesthouse only until Jack returned from his breakfast. The moment he walked through the door with a raised eyebrow and a sly, knowing comment about Matthew, she grabbed her shawl and fled before she could say something she’d regret. Her footsteps echoed too loudly across the wooden platform as she strode toward the stillroom, heart thudding, mouth dry.
She shoved the door open and slipped inside, pressing it closed behind her with a little more force than necessary. The cool dimness of the stillroom wrapped around her like a balm. Here, amid the scent of lavender and thyme, she could pretend—for a few minutes—that the rest of the world didn’t exist. Her hands found the familiar rhythm of work: separating dried bunches, stripping stems, sorting leaves by colour and texture. The crisp snick of her knife on the cutting board matched the tempo of her breath, too fast at first, then gradually slowing. Perhaps she would never be able to use these healing herbs herself, but she arranged them with care, imagining the faceless woman who might someday thank her for it. Anything was better than thinking about Jack’s words. Or Matthew’s eyes.
Escaping both Jack and Matthew was an even greater relief than the calmness of the stillroom. Norah needed time to straighten her thoughts out and get herself back under control. What was wrong with her? She’d met plenty of men who were, objectively, better-looking than Matthew. So what if she had a weakness for tattoos and bright blue eyes? That was no excuse for losing her professional cool—and certainly no excuse for risking her own life.
“Put yourself first, Norah,” she muttered. Hadn’t she learned that lesson yet? There were very few people she could trust, and none of them were here. She had to make the decisions that would keep her alive.
The stillroom door swung open. Norah braced herself, ready to fight back. Bedwyn would regret trying this a second time. She had a knife in her hand.
But it was Jack who stood in the doorway, an apologetic smile on his face.
“Sorry for interrupting you,” he said. “But Matthew’s looking after the guesthouse and I wanted to speak with you.”
“Come in,” Norah said, trying to hide her relief that it was only him. Don’t show weakness. She focused on the herbs and resumed chopping.
“We need to talk about Matthew,” Jack said.
Norah’s head snapped up again.
“There’s nothing to say about Matthew,” she said. “We go along with his plan until we get the compass back. Then we return to the original plan.”
“But will we?” Jack asked. His voice was oddly soft, almost sympathetic. “Do you want to return to the original plan, Norah?”
“Of course,” Norah said. She took a deep breath and began chopping again.
“I’ve seen how you look at him,” Jack said, bracing his hands on the table and leaning in close. “Norah, don’t do this to yourself. If you kill him, you will never forgive yourself.”
“There’s nothing to see,” Norah said, chopping a little more ferociously than necessary. “And if I don’t kill him, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“There’s no point lying about it,” Jack began, but Norah cut him off.
“No lies. No feelings. Nothing. The plan goes ahead as always intended. Understood?”
Jack exhaled sharply, pushing away from the table and pacing a short, restless loop through the stillroom. His boots scuffed against the packed earth floor, his shoulders drawn tight beneath his tunic.
“I’ll be honest with you, Norah, I don’t like this. Matthew was always a good lad. And what kind of father has his own son poisoned? It’s sickening.”
Norah took a deep breath, focusing on the tiny pieces of dried plants as she scooped them into a neat pile. As long as she kept working, she didn’t have to feel everything slipping out of her control.
“I agree that it’s not a nice situation,” she said. “But when was anything nice, once Edmondson is involved? We’ve never questioned it before.”
“I should have questioned it before,” Jack said grimly.
Norah’s head snapped up. Jack never spoke out against Edmondson.
He must have seen the confusion in her eyes because he sighed heavily.
“I owe Lucan Edmondson my life several times over, but that doesn’t mean I agree with everything he does. I’ve watched too many people walk through that time machine to their deaths. Why do you think I keep such a close eye on you, Norah? If I can save one more person from his clutches, maybe I can erase the stains left on my soul from everyone I allowed to die.”
Norah couldn’t speak. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed again, as if words might form themselves out of thin air. She’d never imagined hearing something like this from Jack—big, burly, dependable Jack, who usually kept his emotions locked behind a wall of sarcasm and action. The stains on my soul. The words echoed in her head, clinging like smoke. How many stains did she carry? How many deaths had she excused as orders, as necessity? A faint tremble ran through her fingers, and she tightened her grip on the edge of the worktable to steady herself.
“I want to help you,” Jack said urgently. “It’s not too late to come clean to Matthew. Help him. Perhaps that’s the only way that we can all be free.”
Norah stared at him wonderingly. Free . Could it be possible?
But then she remembered that cold little stone Edmondson had shown her—the one that pulsed with her name—and the lifeless body of the dog that had been crushed to make a point. Her stomach turned. That was the price of failure. That was the truth of the world she lived in. And it left no room for mercy.
“I have no feelings for Matthew,” she insisted, scooping the herbs into a small stone jar. “The plan hasn’t changed, Jack. Don’t let me down.”
Jack sighed heavily.
“Have it your way, Norah. Do what you think is best. I’ll support you either way.”
“Good,” Norah said briskly. “Fetch me that jar with the blue paint. I’m mixing up a very special poison for our young druid.”
She tried to focus on the mechanics of chopping, mixing, distilling, straining. Jack helped her as best he could, although he was no herbalist. At last, there was nothing left except waiting for the mixture to boil and thicken. By now, noon had come and gone, and they’d missed the midday meal.
“If you don’t need my help anymore, I’ll head off in search of food,” Jack said.
Norah nodded absently, watching the small cauldron for the first sign of bubbles. She heard the stillroom door open and close, and then there was silence.
She had no idea how much longer she spent alone in the stillroom, but by the time she left, a tiny glass bottle of poison hidden in her skirt pocket, the shadows of evening were drawing in. She stepped out of the stillroom into near-darkness.
“Hello, Norah,” Matthew said softly.
How had she come so close to running into him? Norah skidded to a halt, her breath catching hard in her throat as she found herself suddenly, stupidly, inches from Matthew.
The scent of woodsmoke and damp wool clung to him, familiar now in a way that was dangerous. Her fingers curled instinctively around the edge of her shawl, as if it could shield her from the sudden jolt of guilt that ripped through her chest. What if he’d come by just a few minutes earlier—what would he have seen? The cauldron, the herbs, the bottle cooling in her palm? Her stomach turned. She swallowed and stepped back, throat dry. Thank God he hadn’t interrupted her at work. That would have been impossible to explain.
“Hello, Matthew,” she said, her voice only slightly broken. “Just going to get ready for dinner.”
“Then I’ll see you soon,” he said. She still hadn’t looked up at his face, but she could hear the faint smile in his voice. Damn it, she could picture how he looked right now.
“See you soon,” she muttered, and brushed past him.
Why did this have to happen to her? She’d taken lives with steady hands and a calm heart, always sure of her purpose. But now, every moment she spent with Matthew chipped away at that certainty. The quiet conversations, the sparks of shared memory, the way he looked at her like she was someone worth saving—they were undoing her. The terrible truth was no longer just creeping at the edge of her mind—it was carved into her bones.
If she killed Matthew, it wouldn’t just be the end of him—it would be the end of whatever piece of her still knew how to feel, how to hope. The part that remembered she was more than Edmondson’s weapon. The part that still believed she was human.
Could she really do it?