Oh, no. Not MacLauchlin Castle. But how could the chieftain be here? The last she knew he and his two brothers were off to war.
“I am nae laird,” the man replied gruffly. “But his cousin.” He set something down beside her. “Ma mixed a concoction and wants Rona to drink it upon awakening.”
Cousin? Her betrothed Bróccín had been the chieftain’s cousin.
But then so was his older brother.
Could it be? Had he returned? Was he here?
As if he reached into the darkness and yanked her out, her eyes shot open. She blinked several times and focused on the man standing beside her. The curtains were drawn, and only a few candles burned, but she could see him clear enough.
Colmac.
Tall and broad shouldered, he was even more handsome than she remembered. His dark hair was interwoven with small braids and his strong chin lightly bearded. His thickly lashed sea green eyes still possessed quiet wisdom yet now, not surprisingly, sadness haunted them. He had adored his younger brother. Though it had been nigh on a year now, she suspected like her, he still mourned.
“She is awake,” he said softly. His gaze lingered on her for a moment then he strode out with a slight limp, saying over his shoulder, “See that she drinks ma’s concoction.”
No, ‘hello, how are ye? It has been too long,’ but then that was Colmac, wasn’t it?
Once upon a time, she had fancied herself in love with him. She’d been good friends with both he and Bróccín. Colmac, however, made her heart race the older she got, stirring longings with nary a touch.
He was also the one who eventually paid her no mind and barely glanced her way.
Bróccín, as it turned out, did the very opposite.
“Ah, indeed, the laird is right, she is awake!” Ever the mother hen, Brighid fussed with Rona's blanket, needlessly tucking it around her here and there. She tossed Aaron an I-told-you-so look then beamed at Rona, her plump cheeks rosy. “How do ye fare, dear one?” She waved her hand in front of Rona’s face. “Can ye see well enough?” She glanced heavenward and shook her head, tittering along. “Ye took a mighty fall, but by the grace of God, ‘and some braw fightin' men,’ she said out of the corner of her mouth, “ye’re still with us!”
Since Rona’s parents died when she was young, Aunt Brighid had treated her like the child she never had. A kindly sort with a tendency toward gossip and a wee bit of a temper on occasion, Brighid had always been there for her. Not just during the years Rona remained at MacLomain Castle after losing her parents but the last four winters at Sinclair Castle.
“He’s not the laird,” Rona said hoarsely, reminding Brighid of what Colmac had said. He was likely in charge in the laird's absence, though. So despite what Rona said he would remain chieftain to Brighid's way of thinking.
Her aunt cocked her head. “Who’s not the laird?”
“Colmac,” she whispered, exasperated not to mention parched.
Her aunt waved away the details. “He might as well be with his kin off to war.”
“Kin that is actually laird to this castle,” Aaron reminded. “So ye may want to say things straight lest they think ye daft.”
Like an uncle to her, Aaron had watched over Rona all these years just like Brighid.
“Did ye just call me daft?” Her aunt’s hazel eyes widened at Aaron. “’Tis not daft to have a wee bit o’ foresight!”
“Och, the man saves our lass’s life, and ye put his kin in the ground already when ye call him laird!” Aaron shook his head, baffled. His brows shot up so high his forehead creased several times over. “’Tis poor that!”
Colmac had saved her?
“Please,” she rasped, eyeing the cup he had set down. While she wanted water, whatever that was would do. “So thirsty.”
Aaron sniffed it and grimaced. “’Tis foul smelling.”
Brighid snagged it from him and did the same. “Och, what did the witch concoct then?”
“Dinnae speak that way of Mistress Mórag,” Rona whispered. “She has a way with the herbs, and well ye know it.” She gestured weakly at it. “Please, Auntie. I need some.”
It just so happened, her aunt was not referring to the dark arts of witchcraft but Mórag’s unfortunate disposition. Mother to Bróccín and Colmac, she was once a stern, sharp-tongued woman. From what she had heard, though, that changed after sickness swept through the clan. Not only did it take her husband and youngest son but Mórag in a way too. She’d been left frail and weak, never leaving the castle.
Brighid sniffed the concoction again, took a small sip and flinched. “’Tis bloody awful!”
