Page 11 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
“Actually, if ye mix that with a wee bit of feverfew and maybe some meadowsweet, it works much more effectively,” Rhona said, warming to the familiar subject. “And fer the deeper cuts, a poultice of plantain and yarrow will prevent festerin’.”
Moira’s hands stilled. “Ye really dae ken about healin’. Ye learned all this from yer own healer?”
“Och, I picked up a bit here and there,” Rhona said vaguely. “Healers tend tae be generous with their knowledge if ye show genuine interest.”
It was true enough, though she didn’t mention that their healer, Margot had been like a second mother to her, teaching her everything from brewing simple remedies to setting broken bones. The MacAlpin clan had fallen on hard times in recent years, and everyone had to contribute whatever skills they possessed.
Sure enough, memories came flooding in of long afternoons in Margot’s cottage, learning to identify herbs by scent and touch, grinding roots into powders that could ease pain or bring down fever. Her father had initially disapproved, thinking such pursuits beneath a laird’s daughter, but her mother had quietly encouraged her interest. Her words echoed in her mind, as clear as if she were standing right beside her. “Knowledge is never wasted,mo chridhe,” she’d whispered during one of their lessons. “Especially knowledge than can heal and save lives.”
How her mother would weep to see her now – captured, dishonored, her reputation in ruins regardless of whether she ever made it home. The thought of her father’s reaction when he discovered her absence sent ice shooting through her veins. Would he blame himself? Would he assume the worst? And her sisters – sweet Aileen, spirited Isla, gentle Lorna – they would no doubt be frantic with worry and grief.
But it was the thought of Isolde that twisted the knife deepest. Had her eldest sister ever made it home from that cursed ball? Or were they both now lost to their family forever? The not knowing was almost worse than the captivity itself.
“I think ye’ll like Baird,” Moira said as she tended to Rhona’s split lip. “He’s got a gentle way about him, much like yersel’.”
“I’m nae gentle,” Rhona protested, though without much heat.
“Arenae ye?” Moira smiled knowingly. “Ye’re teachin’ me better ways tae tend tae wounds. That speaks of a gentle heart, nay matter what ye might say.”
Rhona fell silent, struck by the conversation. Was that how others saw her? She’d always thought of herself as the fierce one among her sisters, the one willing to fight for what was right. But perhaps, there was some truth to Moira’s words.
“There,” the girl said, stepping back to admire her work. “Ye’ll heal clean, with barely a scar tae show fer yer adventure.”
“Thank ye,” Rhona said softly. “Ye have good skills.”
“Och, ‘tis naething compared tae what Baird can dae. But I’ll remember what ye told me about the comfrey and feverfew.” Moira gathered her supplies. “I will have the servants fill the tub they brought up fer ye, and have food brought tae ye as well. Will ye be needin’ anythin’ else fer taenight?”
“Nay, thank ye.”
“Of course.” Moira bobbed a curtsy. “Try tae rest, me lady. Tomorrow will bring what it will, but tonight, yer’re safe.”
When the door closed, Rhona moved to the narrow window, staring out at the moonlit courtyard. Below, she could see Ian speaking with his men, his posture tense with some burden she couldn’t possibly fathom.
Even from that distance, she could clearly see the rigid set of his broad shoulders, the way he gestured sharply as he spoke. Whatever they were discussing, it clearly weighed heavily upon him. One of his men – a gruff man with dirty blonde hair – shook his head empathetically, then pointed toward the keep where Rhona stood watching.
She could see the tension in every muscular line of Ian’s powerful frame as he listened to whatever counsel his men were offering. His hands moved as he spoke, gesturing with the same controlled precision she’d witnessed during the fight. Even from this distance, his presence commanded attention – there wasjust something about the way he carried himself that spoke of natural authority, of a man others instinctively followed.
The guff man seemed to be arguing a point, his gestures growing more empathetic, while the one with the eye patch nodded grimly in agreement. Ian’s response was swift, sharp – a single word that cut through their protests like a hot blade. Whatever they were suggesting, he was having none of it. But the set of his shoulders suggested the weight of the arguments wasn’t lost on him.
‘Tisnae a casual conversation between a laird and his men,‘tis a council of war.
Something instinctive sent fresh dread spiraling through her chest. They were discussing where to house an inconvenient prisoner. They were deciding her fate, weighing options that would determine whether she lived or died, whether she ever saw her family again. And from the increasingly heated nature of their exchange, those options seemed far from pleasant.
As if sensing her gaze, Ian suddenly looked up toward her window. Even across the distance, she felt the intensity of his stare upon her skin, like a physical touch. For a long moment, neither moved. Then another man said something that made Ian’s jaw clench visibly, and he turned away with obvious reluctance.
But not before she saw him speak one sharp word that made all his men snap to attention.
Rhona stepped back from the window, her heart racing. Whatever decision they’d reached about her fate, she had the sinking feeling that the following day would bring changes she wasn’t prepared for. Not in the slightest.
And from the look on Ian’s face, he didn’t look prepared for them either.
Sleep, when it finally came, would bring her no peace. She could already feel the familiar tightness in her chest, the shadows of dreams that would drag her back to that cursed dungeon cell where time had no meaning and hope was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Gentlemen, we need tae talk.”
Ian’s voice cut through the crisp morning air as he strode into the castle’s solar, where his Council had gathered for their meeting. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the faces of the men who had served Clan Wallace for decades – men who remembered Douglas’s reign and the chaos that had followed.
