Page 60 of Highland Treasure (Highland Brides 9)

“Why?” she asked softly.

Rory blinked at the question, and then smiled faintly. No one had ever asked him that question. His brothers and Saidh already knew and understood the reason, and no one else had ever cared enough to ask why it had been so important to him. Until now.

“My mother,” he answered solemnly.

“Was she a healer too? Did she train ye?”

“She was handy at healing, aye,” he allowed. “But probably no’ as skilled at it as yer own mother. And no, I did no’ get my interest from her in that way and she never trained me.”

“Then how did your mother raise your interest in healing?” Elysande asked, trying to understand.

“She became ill about ten years ago,” he admitted. “Terrible ill. She had trained Saidh in what she knew about healing, and Saidh tried everything she’d taught her to try to mend her, but had no idea what to do. None o’ us did. When it became obvious she was no’ getting better, we sent fer the most skilled healers we knew of. But none o’ them kenned what to do either and in the end we could do naught but watch her die. It was horrible. I felt so helpless. I imagine Saidh and me brothers did too, but—”

His throat was becoming constricted by a lump, or perhaps just a tightness there, and he had to stop and swallow to clear it, before continuing. “I was verra close to me mother. We all were, and losing her was hard on all of us,” he said, and thought it was probably the largest understatement he’d ever uttered. His family had always been close, his parents loving and supportive. Losing their mother had been a crushing loss for all of them, equaled only by losing their father and brother.

“But I felt so useless just sitting there watching her struggle to live and not being able to do anything to help her,” he said, his voice low and full of the torture he’d felt at the time. “My brothers handled it by practicing in the bailey, or beating each other to a pulp. Even Saidh did, but that gave me no peace or release, and I never wanted to feel that way again. I never wanted to watch a loved one just fade away and die in terrible pain and suffering, growing weaker even as their pain increased each day.” He shook his head. “So, I determined to do something about it. I stopped training with me brothers and started learning all I could about healing.”

“I understand the helplessness,” Elysande murmured solemnly. “’Tis how I felt watching de Buci beat my mother. And I never want to feel that way again either,” she admitted unhappily. “Mayhap I should train in battle.”

Rory gave a start and half turned around before catching himself. “What? Why would ye?”

“Because if I’d had a dagger or some other weapon and had known how to use it, perhaps I would not have been so helpless. Perhaps I could have saved at least my mother from de Buci,” she said sadly, and then asked, “Would you teach me how to wield a knife?”

“Aye,” he said, though he doubted there was anything she could have done to save her mother. Any more than he, with all the knowledge he’d gained over the last ten years, would now know what to do for his mother were she here and ill as she had been ten years ago. He’d never again encountered an illness similar to hers, not in the writings he’d read or the patients he’d tended. Rory had come to suspect that sometimes there was just nothing you could do for the people you loved, no matter how much you wished you could. Sometimes there just wasn’t enough knowledge, skill and love to save them. Otherwise, no one would ever die. But death was as natural and necessary as birth.

The sound of water sloshing made him still. It sounded like Elysande was getting out of the bath. He almost asked if she was, but then just waited.

“’Tis so nice not to be in constant pain anymore,” Elysande said suddenly, apparently deciding a lighter subject was in order.

“I can imagine,” he murmured, thinking that her voice sounded like it was coming from several feet higher than it had been. She was getting out of the bath. Forcing away the image that came to his mind of her standing up, and water sluicing away down her naked body in the light cast by the fire, he added, “I think surely ye’ve suffered a lifetime o’ pain in the last two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” she asked with alarm. “Surely it has not been that long?”

Rory did a swift calculation, and then assured her, “It has been about twelve days since de Buci attacked Kynardersley, so aye, nearly two weeks.”

“It does not feel like it has been that long . . . and yet, at the same time it feels like a lifetime has passed since de Buci charged in destroying everything,” she said sadly. “Is that not odd?”

Rory suspected it was a rhetorical question so didn’t answer her, but he didn’t think it was odd at all. In fact, he completely understood. For time had passed quickly for him too since her arrival in his life, and yet at the same time he felt like she had always been there.

He heard Elysande sigh and then the slap of her wet bare feet on the wooden planks of the floor as she stepped out of the tub. It was followed by the rustle of what he presumed was her drying herself with the linen the innkeeper had sent up for him to use. The bath was supposed to be for him, after all. And would be. He planned to use it once she fell asleep. He hadn’t bathed since the night they’d arrived either and was no more happy about it than she had been.

“Are you going to use the bath now?” Elysande asked as if reading his mind. “I know you did the last time after I went to sleep, but if you plan to bathe you should do so while ’tis still hot. I promise not to look,” she teased. “I am just going to sit by the fire and brush my hair.”

Rory automatically started to turn toward her to answer, caught a glimpse of rosy pink flesh fresh from the hot water and quickly jerked his head back.

“Aye, mayhap I will,” he answered, and closed his eyes when he heard how rough and husky his voice was. Just a glimpse of her generous curves had affected him. Having to live and sleep so close to her for more than a week did not help. Oddly enough, neither did talking with her, laughing with her or even arguing with her. All of it just increased his attraction to her. One that had started out as admiration for her courage and strength, but had quickly come to include lust. Elysande de Valance was one of those rare women a man could like, admire, respect and still want in his bed.

“I am sitting by the fire now. ’Tis safe for you to disrobe,” Elysande said lightly.

Turning, he saw that she was indeed seated by the fire. She had donned her tunic, had wrapped her plaid around it under her arms, and was now curled up on the fur, brushing her hair in front of the flames. For a moment, Rory was tempted to join her and do the brushing for her, but instead he stood and removed his clothes, and then stepped into the bath.

“Will Tom and the others return from Buchanan in time to board the ship with us?”

Rory had just dropped to sit in the tub when Elysande asked that question. It was a small tub and he had to keep his knees up with the tops of his upper legs nearly flat against his stomach to fit in it, but the water was still hot and it felt damned good. He’d actually felt the tension seeping out of his body before Elysande had asked that question. It immediately made him tense again.

Rory didn’t much care for lying, but when she’d asked about Tom, Donnghail and Fearghas earlier that day, and whether he’d tell them of his suspicions about Simon, he’d said he couldn’t, that he’d sent them to Buchanan to fetch more coin to cover their prolonged stay at the inn. It was the lie he’d told the others, and was the one he was sticking to.

“Nay,” he said finally. “’Tis at least a two-day journey to Buchanan from here. But I’ll leave a message for them with the innkeeper.” What he was really leaving was a note telling them where to find their horses. The ship he’d managed to get the men on going south had been fully loaded with cargo and had not had room for their mounts. They’d had to leave them behind and he’d given them coin to cover purchasing new ones when they reached Bristol. He’d then paid to have their mounts collected and stabled at an inn known never to take English guests. The innkeeper’s wife had been raped and beaten to death by an Englishman some time ago and the man would sooner kill one as look at him. The innkeeper wouldn’t be telling anyone with an English accent, or in English clothes, anything, let alone that he had Buchanan horses in his stables.

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