Anne turned, every muscle tensed for battle. Her cheeks flushed with fury. “Not finished with me?” she slowly ground out the words. “Surely ye jest, m’lord. Ye’ve all but named me a despicable murderer, completely unworthy of yer trust. What more is there to say?”
Niall’s own anger rose to meet Anne’s. His dark eyes slammed into hers. By mountain and sea, he had neither the time nor patience for this! He had more pressing problems. Why couldn’t she see beyond . . .
He paused. There, flickering behind her thin veneer of rage, Niall found her pain. Unfeeling swine! he mentally cursed himself. Once again he had hurt her, viciously clawing away the few consolations she had left like some Highland wildcat, without warning, without mercy. All his good intentions to the contrary, he seemed to wound her at nearly every turn.
Niall ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. “I don’t despise ye, lass, nor think ye a murderer. But as far as trust goes, I don’t give that easily to any man, friend or foe.”
His reply nonplussed Anne. What was she to do with his abrupt changes in mood? One moment he was the cruel, ruthless enemy she expected him to be, and the next . . .
“Then why did ye forbid me to help yer father? I told ye. I’ve a calling to heal, and it’s sacred to me. I’d never turn from anyone in need, no matter—”
“Och, so there ye are, nephew.”
Duncan Campbell’s voice intruded from the shadowed hallway. He strode into view and halted before them. “The folk are gathered, the tables laden with food and drink. We await only ye and yer lady for the feast to begin.”
“Aye.” A small frown darkened Niall’s brow. “We were just now on our way.”
Frustration and relief warred within Niall. He hadn’t expected the matter of forbidding Anne’s healing in Kilchurn to come up quite so soon. He had hoped for time to ease her into life here, then break the news. If it hadn’t been for his uncle’s timely intrusion . . .
Niall cast aside his confusing clash of emotions. The confrontation wasn’t over, just delayed. He offered Anne his arm. After a moment’s hesitation, she accepted it.
Duncan eyed them. “Er, I’ve never had the pleasure of an introduction.”
The tension of the past few moments drained from Niall. He chuckled. “True enough and entirely my fault, I’m sorry to say. But what with all the confusion surrounding our departure from Castle Gregor and then during our arrival here . . .”
Niall dragged in a deep breath. “Lass, this is my uncle, Duncan Campbell.” He nodded toward the older man. “Duncan, Lady Anne MacGregor.”
Duncan bowed. “Welcome, lady. Ye’re long overdue in my nephew’s life. It’s my pleasure at last to make yer acquaintance.”
As she extended her hand, Anne studied Niall’s uncle covertly. He was tall, as were all the Campbell nobility and, though not as powerfully built as his nephew, an imposing, substantial man. His sandy-colored hair was pale with a generous scattering of gray. His full beard was even paler, nearly white-gold. He possessed the same strong, ruggedly attractive features as his son, Iain. If not for his eyes, Anne would’ve found Duncan Campbell a most compelling man.
But dark as the depths of an angry, storm-tossed loch, they were cold, their expression flat and unreadable. And the smile that touched his lips as he bent to kiss her hand, though correct in every way, never passed his mouth.
A small tremor coursed through her. So, yet another Campbell unhappy with my presence. Is there no end to the enemies I’ll discover in Kilchurn?
Niall noted the shiver and mistook it for the chill of the corridor. “Come, lass. It’s warmer in the Great Hall. Time enough to talk further once we’re there.
This time Anne was in a more receptive frame of mind to examine the Great Hall. It was a large, impressive room, in size as well as in luxurious appointments. The walls were wainscoted with carved fir, the upper portion of bare stone lavishly hung with intricately woven tapestries to brighten the room and absorb its chill.
Rushes covered the floor. The fragrant scent of the sweet woodruff scattered among them mingled with the tangy wood smoke wafting from the great hearth on the far wall. A group of men and women stood before the blazing fire, laughing and talking in happy animation.
Anne found Iain there. Like a beacon in the night he drew her, the only person in the crowded room whom she knew to be friend.
At that moment, Iain looked up. He smiled and strode over to her.
When he noted the direction of his cousin’s path, Niall tightened his grip on Anne’s arm. Then, aware of the almost reflexive response, he forced his muscles to unclench, his breathing to even.
Iain. Can it really be Iain? he asked himself for the hundredth time. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it, not yet, not without proof. Besides, it isn’t yet the time to reveal yer suspicions to Iain or any man. Play the fool awhile longer. Lure the traitor into the trap. The victory, when it comes, will be all the sweeter for the waiting.
Despite the calming words of reason, at Anne’s welcoming smile for his cousin, a cold anger stirred in Niall. All his iron control couldn’t contain the muscle that twitched in his jaw as a sudden thought assailed him. Could his cousin’s flirtatious attentions toward Anne have a more sinister purpose than the lighthearted teasing it appeared? Could Iain somehow plan to use her against him? It would be the way of a traitor.
Still, it was too soon to focus all his suspicions on Iain. There were others just as suspect. He must remember that. He must remain clearheaded and in control. It was the only way to ferret out the traitor.
Niall inhaled a rasping breath. Curse it, but the doubts, the constant questions, were eating him alive!
“Lady.” Iain’s deep voice intruded on Niall’s tormented thoughts. His cousin rendered Anne a customary nod. “I’m pleased to see ye’re no worse for the journey’s wear.” His eyes gleamed in open admiration. “The blue of that dress becomes ye greatly.”
Anne flushed. Grimly, Niall recalled she hadn’t reacted half so strongly when he had complimented her earlier. He glared at the younger man. Iain seemed not to notice.
“It’s time to be seated,” Niall said.
Until he could ascertain Iain’s true intentions, every effort must be made to keep Anne from his cousin. It was the safest course. Niall turned to her, eliminating Iain from the conversation.
Anne wrenched her gaze from Iain’s smiling countenance. “Aye, as ye wish, m’lord.”
The hard glitter in Niall’s eyes startled her. Whatever was the matter now? She glanced at Iain. “It’d please me greatly if ye’d sit by me at table. A familiar face, among so many strangers—”
“Iain will sit elsewhere.”
“But it’s a simple matter to move one person. Please, m’lord—”
“My mind’s made. Now, no more of it.” Niall led Anne toward the table.
She considered protesting his high-handed manner, but a glance at Iain quashed that idea. His deep blue eyes had narrowed to slits. Were they always so at odds with each other?
The main table was raised above the others on a dais, situated perpendicularly to two other long tables. Though the lower tables were comfortably provided with padded benches, the chief’s had English chairs covered in bright green damask. As Niall held out a chair for Anne, Iain took his place down at the far end of the main table. It seemed too great an insult to one of the Campbell’s immediate family, when she knew Iain’s rightful place must surely be at center table. Her heart went out to the young man.
“How can ye be so cruel to yer cousin?” she demanded softly when Niall finally seated himself beside her. “He means ye no discourtesy in his kindness to me.”
“I’ve my reasons,” he muttered. “Now, no more of it.”
Anne’s lips tightened, but she withheld comment. Rebellious, uncomplimentary imprecations, nonetheless, roiled in her head. If I were ye, ye pigheaded dolt, she raged at Niall silently, I’d withhold my goodwill from the father, not the son. He’s the one to beware, with those dead eyes of his.
Out of the corner of her eye, Anne noted Duncan Campbell seating himself on Niall’s other side. At the memory of the older man’s inscrutable expression, a chill prickled down her spine. Mad cousin Hugh, cold-eyed Uncle Duncan. The disparity between the Campbell’s personality and his reputed conduct toward her clan. The strange circumstances surrounding the Wolf’s capture. What had her father said that day about the Campbell army’s arrival? Something about entrapping Niall . . . and a traitor?
Aye, there was indeed something dangerously amiss in this castle, but what, she had yet to fathom. And now, vowed to the Campbell tanist as she was, Anne sensed she risked full involvement—even to the endangerment of her life.
Niall signaled for the feast to begin. Anne found little interest in the sumptuous fare, though, at any other time, the fresh, fried Loch Awe trout, succulent slices of cured mutton, and stoved chicken surrounded by onions, potatoes, and carrots would easily have tempted her appetite. There was scant energy left for eating at any rate. All her efforts were needed in maintaining a calm, proud front for the hostile-eyed Campbells.
Her lack of interest in the fare wasn’t lost on Niall. He noted how she moved the food around on her plate to feign eating it, her refusal of the dessert of sugar rolls and honey cakes sprinkled with ground almonds, the pale, taut look on her face. The coolly restrained reception of his people didn’t help, he knew, nor did Caitlin’s glaring animosity on Anne’s other side.
Curse it all, Niall thought in exasperation. Though he knew a MacGregor wouldn’t be readily accepted after years of bitter feuding, he had hoped for a more pleasant evening. A sense of the long, difficult road ahead for Anne filled him. He made a silent vow to aid her as best he could.
Guilt at the memory of the look on her face earlier plucked at him. Perhaps he had been too harsh with her. He knew she had been upset over his refusal to allow Iain to sit with them.
Niall sighed. If only he dared trust her with his cousin. But he didn’t dare trust anyone right now, not even his own family. Och, curse that scheming, blackhearted traitor!
The meal ended, and the minstrels with pipes and harps arrived to entertain the gathering. Niall sat through the singing, becoming more tense by the moment. Finally, when the fiddlers entered to take their seats and the rushes were moved aside for the dancing, he could bear it no longer.
His wounded leg notwithstanding, perhaps a turn at a reel would ease the unpleasant churning in his gut.
He offered Anne his hand. “It’s time for the dancing to begin.”
She stared down at his large, calloused palm, well aware tradition dictated the lord and his lady lead the first dance. But to go down to the dance floor, to stand there and subject herself to the full examination of all . . .
Anne rose in a rustle of skirt and petticoats, her expression inscrutable save for the resolute look she gave him. “As ye wish, m’lord.”
She allowed him to escort her onto the dance floor. Together with Iain, Duncan, Hugh, Niall’s sister, Caitlin, and two other women of the clan nobility, they formed lines, the men opposite the women, for the reel. As the music began, Anne turned to face Niall. Standing in place, they executed the intricate pas de basque steps recently popularized by Queen Mary’s court. Then, moving in unison, the two of them crossed behind Iain and his partner to meet in the center with the third couple in line, Duncan and the dark-haired Caitlin. Joining hands above their heads in the middle, they moved in a circle to the music.
As they danced, Caitlin’s seething animosity, barely restrained during the meal, flared into overt hostility. It grew until Anne thought, at any moment, the girl would halt and, in the presence of all, attack her. Fortunately, the dance just then required partners to be exchanged. Niall whisked his glaring sister away.
“Ye must be patient with our little Caitlin,” Duncan murmured as he moved with Anne down the center of the line behind his niece and nephew. “She doesn’t take kindly to a MacGregor in our midst, and hasn’t the maturity of years to hide it.”
Anne shot him an assessing glance. “Indeed. It’s a trait in short shrift this eve. But don’t lay the blame too heavily on Caitlin’s shoulders. She, at least, has the excuse of youth.”
Duncan’s mouth tightened. “That may be, lady, but ye’ll not win our hearts with an arrogant air. If compromise is needed, mayhap it should come—”
Once more they met in the middle with Niall and Caitlin. Anne met Niall’s searching gaze, then looked away.
With a frown, he noted the anger burning in her eyes. Had Duncan said something untoward?
Niall shot a glance at his uncle before the two couples separated once more to dance away. The older man’s features were calm, a slight smile on his lips. Niall relaxed and turned back to his sister. It seemed there was no need to look further than her for the source of Anne’s discomfiture.
“Ye’ve played the role of hostess poorly this eve, lassie.”
Turquoise eyes glared up at him. “Och, and how so?”
“Ye know the answer as well as I.” Steadily, Niall returned her gaze. “It isn’t proper to treat Lady Anne so inhospitably. I expect ye to set the example. No good’ll come of continuing the feud at her expense.”
“Easy words, when ye’re the only Campbell here who stands to profit from her presence.” Caitlin’s rosy lips curved disdainfully. “Couldn’t ye have found a bedmate closer to home, brother dear?”
Niall’s eyes narrowed, but he withheld comment. He swung his sister about and headed up the outside of the line to rejoin Anne and Duncan.
“She saved my life!” he finally growled. “I’d have thought that alone would’ve endeared her to ye. But no matter. Ye’ve only to obey me in this. Do ye understand?”
“Och, and all too clearly.” Caitlin’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ll obey ye, but, though I love ye with all my heart, I can never be her friend. Her presence here has ruined my life!”
She danced off to rejoin Duncan, effectively ending the conversation.
Caitlin’s parting words echoed in Niall’s head. More unsettled than before, he rejoined Anne to begin the same dance routine with the next couple, Hugh and his partner.
That set, though no words were exchanged, was equally disconcerting. Hugh never ceased his furious glaring at Anne. Only Niall’s quelling presence, hovering nearby, prevented outright rudeness on his cousin’s part.
To Anne, the dance seemed to drag on interminably. One by one, she was forced to meet and deal with a gamut of hostile gazes from the other dancers. And what did ye expect, she asked herself wryly time and again, open arms and Highland jigs?
The music finally faded, signaling the end to the dance. Niall glanced down at Anne. “Ye’re tired, lass,” he murmured, leaning close. “It’s been a hard day. It’s past time ye were abed.”
“Aye,” she whispered, wearily meeting his gaze. “It’d seem so.”
They left the hall, the lilting tunes and happy laughter following them like so many mocking specters. Yet as eager as she had been to leave the prying, unfriendly eyes in the Great Hall, the nearer they drew to the bedchambers, the faster her heart began to pound. Would Niall hold to his word? Tonight would be the first test.
Niall paused in the corridor outside Anne’s bedchamber. He turned to her, searching for words to express his regret at the night’s unpleasantness. In spite of himself, all he could think of was how lovely the interplay of shadow and light was upon her face. Had he ever truly realized how beautiful she was?
Her hair fell like curling silk about her shoulders before cascading down her back. The sight of it filled Niall with a sudden yearning to touch it. Her soft, moist lips were slightly parted, her mouth lush and ripe. Yet it was the sweep of her long, sooty lashes, lowering to rest gently against the curve of her high cheekbones, that was his true undoing.
Anne’s flowerlike scent wafted up to him. Niall inhaled deeply. Desire, unwanted, unexpected, swept through him, igniting a roaring conflagration like flame through dry tinder. His breath caught in his throat. His hand brushed her cheek.
She tensed, and the effort to restrain herself from stepping away was evident. It shattered the mesmerizing fascination that held Niall entranced.
This is madness, he raged at himself. I gave her my word. Besides, I haven’t desired a woman since . . .
The admission was painful, yet at the same time, oddly exciting. And it would explain the sudden, strange yearning Anne’s presence had stirred in him just now. Aye, it would explain but never justify it.
His hand cupped her chin. Apprehension flared in Anne’s luminous eyes.
Niall shook his head, his voice ragged. “Ye’ve naught to fear from me, lass. Truly, I mean no harm.”
“I-I don’t fear ye.”
His mouth quirked. “Och, and don’t ye now?”
She didn’t answer.
“Well, no matter.” His hand fell from her face. “If it’s concern I’ll go back on my word and force myself on ye this night, ye’ve naught to fear. That isn’t my way.” His gaze lowered. “I’m not ready to commit to a woman, or sire another bairn, no matter how dearly my father desires it. I spoke true in my reasons for our handfasting. The loss of my wife and wee son pains me still.”
Anne stared up at him, deeply stirred by the undercurrent of intense sorrow, by his plea for understanding. How quickly he could change from an arrogant, self-possessed warrior to a vulnerable, tormented man! Och, it was too much to fathom, especially tonight of all nights.
She managed a small, tentative smile. “Dinna fash yerself, m’lord. It’s enough ye mean to keep yer word.” She scanned him thoughtfully. He, too, looked weary. The past days had been just as hard for him, with his capture and wounding. She suddenly remembered she hadn’t tended to his injuries since yesterday.
“Yer leg, m’lord,” Anne began hesitantly. “How does its healing go? I should cleanse it and apply more of my marigold ointment.”
Niall tensed. Though, in truth, he preferred her skills to the castle physician’s, he knew he couldn’t allow her to care for him then forbid her to do so with everyone else.
He shook his head. “My leg fares well, lass. Our physician saw to it when I bathed. Ye needn’t concern yerself.”
There was a momentary prick of hurt, which Anne quickly quashed. Niall Campbell had no reason to trust her abilities over that of some physician, even if most physicians were little more than purveyors of purgatives and bloodletting as treatment for every illness. It would take time to win his confidence, that was all.
Anne smiled. “Then it’s good night, m’lord.”
“Aye. Good night, lass.” For an instant longer Niall stared down at her, the torchlight sending glinting shards of gold to dance in his eyes. Then, turning on his heel, he walked down the hall to his own bedchamber.
Late the next morning as they unpacked the rest of Anne’s possessions, the maidservant discovered the box of plants.
“What would ye have me do with these, lassie?” Agnes held up the container.
Anne turned from the lace-trimmed nightgown she was folding to glance at the old woman. Her face brightened. Her herbs! How could she have forgotten them?
She laid aside the nightgown and hurried to Agnes. Tenderly, her fingers caressed the delicate leaves, examining one, then the other. They all looked well, if a bit wilted, and needed replanting soon.
Taking possession of the box, Anne carried it to the sunlit window. She watered the herbs carefully. Only when her ministrations were complete did Anne turn back to the servant. “Is there some patch in the castle garden where I might plant these?”
“Aye, lassie.” A distinctly uncomfortable look spread across the old woman’s face. “But it isn’t my place to grant ye leave. Sir Niall instructed me to send ye to him with any requests.”
So, Anne thought in exasperation, and must I also ask him permission to breathe? She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt and tucked an errant strand of hair in place. “Then so be it. Where might I find him?”
“Mayhap in the inner bailey, near the walled garden. He and his warriors always meet in swordplay at this time of day. Shall I take ye there?”
Anne nodded. “Aye. It’ll be a while before I’ve grasped the intricacies of this castle.”
As soon as they left the keep’s imposing bulk and stepped outside, the sound of clanging swords reached their ears. They passed quickly around the building’s corner buttress to find eight men engaged in energetic sword practice. Anne easily singled out Niall’s broad-shouldered form from the rest.
All were stripped to the waist, the excess of their belted plaids wrapped around and tucked into their belts. Their upper torsos and arms glistened with sweat. Anne swallowed hard and moved closer, Agnes following.
Niall’s hands gripped the leather-wrapped handle of a claymore; the giant sword was as long as its owner was tall and a weapon only of the strongest men. His arms moved in large, seemingly effortless arcs as he deftly parried the blows of his companions. A grim smile touched his lips and a fierce light gleamed in his eyes, the love of battle settling about him in a heated aura.
Only when his men began to falter then cease their swordplay did Niall at last pause to look about him. His searching glance found Anne’s. A wrinkle of puzzlement formed between his brows.
Laying aside his claymore, Niall strode to a nearby water trough. After immersing his head, he straightened, the fluid sluicing down his chest and shoulders. Then he flung back his sodden mane, scattering water everywhere. With a grin, he then approached her.
“I-I wish a word with ye, m’lord,” she murmured, forcing the words past the strange tightness in her throat. Distractedly, she motioned to the walled garden. “Away from the others, if ye please.”
Niall shrugged. “As ye wish.” He grabbed up his shirt and pulled it on as they walked along.
They strolled in silence until the garden’s wooden gate was shut behind them. Then Anne turned, gathering all the tact she possessed. “It’s a fine garden,” she began, gesturing about her. “The soil rich, the sun shining full upon it for most of the day. By yer leave, I would plant my herbs here.”
“And what purpose would that serve?”
Anne glanced up in surprise. At the set look to Niall’s face, a sense of unease stirred. “Why, to use for my healing potions, of course. Did ye think I’d refuse to help yer people because they were Campbells? Didn’t I make my position clear last eve?”
“It was quite evident what yer feelings were. Nonetheless, it cannot be.” He shook his head. “Ye’ll not plant, nor harvest, nor treat anyone with yer herbs at Kilchurn. Do ye understand?”
“But why—” Her voice broke as she struggled with the frustration that roiled within. Och, to ask him for anything and then have it refused! And this, her precious herbs, her beloved healing, above all else!
Anne stared up at him, confused. “Why? Why would ye refuse me such a simple request?”
“I’ve no heart to refuse ye aught, lass,” Niall replied, his voice rough with regret. “But in this matter I can do no less. Ye’re well aware how strong the witch panic burns since the law passed. Have ye already forgotten yer admission that even some of yer own clan imagine ye a witch? What do ye suppose my clan will think if ye resume yer healing?”
“I don’t care! I’m good at what I do. There’s no taint of evil in it. In time they’ll see that and accept me.”
Niall hesitated. He wanted to grant her this one request but knew it was unwise. Since the law enacted just a year ago making witchcraft punishable by death, the Reformed Kirk had been zealous in its persecution. When a hapless person, and it was almost always a woman, was accused, she’d be deprived of rest, food, and water, and finally tortured to extract a confession. And, though confession meant certain death by burning or drowning, most eventually confessed. The instruments of torture were that effective.
He shuddered, harking back to the one victim he had seen burnt at the stake. It had been Dora, his cousin Hugh’s one and only love. Malcolm Campbell was responsible for that, one of his first acts upon resuming control of the village kirk. Poor, unstable Hugh had been easily swayed to the preacher’s side, especially after finding Dora in the arms of another man.
She was dead before Niall could reach her, though the flames had yet to consume her body. That day he had made a vow never to allow another burning on Campbell lands. Up until now, he had been successful in keeping that promise.
“Nay, lass.” Niall sighed, steeling himself for the task at hand. “I fear that’ll never be. My people are too superstitious, for good or bad, too easily led when it comes to matters of religion. A priest of the Reformed Kirk, yet another of my cousins, lives among us. His hatred of witches runs deep. As deep as Hugh’s, I fear. He may well stir the people against ye.”
“And what of ye?” Anne demanded, her voice now taut with rising anger. “Are ye not clan tanist, soon to be chief? Can’t ye control yer own people? Why, oh why, do ye persist in being so . . . so pigheaded?”
Niall struggled to keep the irritation from his voice. “A wise chief knows when and where to interfere in the lives of his clan. Matters of religion aren’t one of them. I won’t allow witch burnings on Campbell lands, but that doesn’t lessen the danger to ye all the same.”
Anne made a move to protest. Niall held up a silencing hand. “I’ve enough problems to deal with at present. As hard-hearted as it may seem, I don’t need ye adding to them.”
She could feel her cheeks flame as she fought to contain herself, to find some small thread of hope to cling to. As harsh as his refusal was, she also heard the sincere regret in his voice. And she knew he had many problems and responsibilities. But not to plant her herbs . . .
Well, he couldn’t worry about the existence of something he knew naught about, Anne consoled herself. She exhaled an acquiescent breath. “I don’t wish to become a hindrance or an embarrassment to ye.”
His stern mouth relaxed a bit. “Then ye’ll obey me in this?”
“Aye, m’lord. I won’t plant my herbs in Kilchurn.” Though guilt surged through her at the near lie, Anne tilted her head in feigned consideration, eager to change the subject before he prodded her further. “But if I cannot heal, what can I do? I’ve little talent at sewing or most of the other womanly arts.”
A relieved grin spread across Niall’s face. He had feared a much more emotional and protracted battle over the issue of her healing. Not that she didn’t bear watching, for a time longer at least.
“Why not go riding? Ye’ve free access to the stables, and Kilchurn and its lands. I ask only if ye ride from sight of the castle ye take one of my men with ye. As powerful as we are, the Campbells are as prime a target for reivers as any other clan. I wouldn’t wish ye to fall into unfriendly hands.”
Aye, Anne thought, her rebellion growing anew as she left the garden and walked back to rejoin Agnes. It would surely add to the difficulties if ye’re forced to ransom me. But then, why should I care one way or another? I warned ye before I’d not be constrained by the rules of others. And that, my arrogant rogue, includes ye, no matter how beset with difficulties or how tormented ye may be.
At the memory of those moments with him outside her bedchamber last night, a small, regretful smile touched Anne’s lips. Though perhaps I should, I cannot wish ye ill, Niall Campbell. Truly I can’t, for ye’ve been more than gentle with me. But my life’s work won’t be denied, not for ye or any man. It cannot be denied—even to the sacrifice of my life. Perhaps someday ye’ll see that and understand.
Anne found a sunny clearing in the midst of a forest of fir, oak, and alder that covered the hills a short walk from Kilchurn. There she planted her herbs.
I do this for the good of all, and someday he’ll see this, she reassured herself as a renewed pang of guilt swept through her. But, truly, how can one reason with such a pigheaded man? I must be daft to care what he thinks, or how he’d feel if he knew, but I do.
She paused in her thoughts to pound the earth around a fragile feverfew plant. Well, I won’t let it matter. I warned him, that I did, that no one . . .
“Och, ye’ll surely kill those wee plants if ye force them into the ground so cruelly.”
Eyes wide, Anne swung about to find an old, shabbily dressed lady standing there. On her arm the woman carried a large basket filled with plants. Wispy, snow-white hair peeked from beneath a red linen kerchief, and the small face was weathered and lined. The eyes studying her, though, were bright and alive, belying the age that bowed the woman’s shoulders.
“I . . . I . . . Who are ye?” Anne rose to her feet.
The old woman chuckled. “I’m known as Ena. I live in the village over the hill from Kilchurn. I’ve birthed the babes and tended the hurts and ills of Clan Campbell all my life.” Her gaze narrowed as she examined the neat rows of herbs Anne had already planted. “Do ye know the healing art, then?”
Joy flooded Anne. Here was a kindred spirit, someone to understand and be understood by. “Aye.” A happy smile lifted her mouth. “Before I left home, I was healer to Clan MacGregor.”
“Och, so ye’re the one our young lord took in handfasting.” Ena moved closer. “And what are ye called, lassie?”
“Anne.” She motioned toward her plantings. “Would ye see what I have, tell me what else grows well here and where I might find it? I’d be grateful for aught ye’d share with me.”
Ena squatted to examine the plants. “Hmmm, I see ye’ve the Saint-John’s-wort, agrimony, colt’s foot, as well as the soothing chamomile, yarrow, and meadowsweet. All fine herbs for healing.” She cocked her head. “Do ye know of the leaf of the fairy fingers? It’s a powerful remedy for the dropsy but must be used with caution or it can kill.”
Anne shook her head. “I’ve heard of it, but never grown the plant.”
The old woman smiled. “It’s also called bloody fingers, or gloves, or foxglove, but I prefer its ancient name. Ye dry the leaves and grind them into a powder. It’s bitter and sickening to the taste, so best ye cover it with a strong drink. Too much, even a single leaf chewed and swallowed, can cause seizing of the limbs and the heart to stop. Yet for those cursed with the swollen limbs of the dropsy, it’s truly a wondrous plant. Come to my hut in the village and visit me someday. I’ll teach ye of it and more.”
“I’d like that verra much.” Anne helped Ena to her feet. “How will I find ye?”
“It won’t be hard, lassie. Folk for miles know where Ena lives.” She began to walk away, then glanced over her shoulder. “Ye’re a bonnie lass, and no mistake. Don’t be afraid of the young lord. He’s a braw, good man.”
With a wave, Ena disappeared into the forest. Anne stared after her. A friend . . . another friend. It seemed for every obstacle Niall Campbell put in her way, someone came forward to lead her around it.
The realization heartened her as she bent to finish the transplanting of her herbs. Gradually, however, a feeling of coldness wafted over her. Anne shrugged the unpleasant feeling aside. It was naught, she assured herself, but a chill wind blowing through the trees.
Yet as she continued to work the emotion grew, burgeoning into a full-fledged sensation of being watched. Watched by someone, something, evil and full of hatred. A hatred that encircled her, cloaking her in a smothering cloud of malevolence.
Anne rose. Surely it’s my imagination, she thought. My mind’s but overstimulated, strung too—
She heard a rustling behind her and froze. Her hand moved to the small dagger nestled at her bosom. Withdrawing it, she turned. There was nothing but the windblown leaves of the large, ferny bracken. She moved closer, her knife clenched in her fist, yet found nothing.
Anne sagged in relief. Just then, a flash of lighter color among the forest-dark shrubbery caught her eye. She inched closer.
The shades took form in the colors of a tartan. A chill, black silence enveloped her. Within it reverberated the sudden pounding of her heart.
There, floating on a gentle breeze, was a scrap of Campbell plaid.