“You’re not nearly as handsome as your sisters, of course, but the forest won’t see that.”
“I’ll remember that—”
“Best do more than just remember it,” he said crossly. “The faeries there, gel! Either they’re making off with a MacLeod—even an unhandsome one—or they’re leaving behind magical gifts. You’ll avoid anything you find, if you’re wise.”
Mairead smoothed her hand over her apron before she could stop herself. Magical gifts were one thing; a book left behind by a nobleman taking his life in his hands to travel into the Highlands and drop it a quarter league from her home was quite another. Surely.
“I won’t go into the forest, uncle,” she assured him.
“See that ye don’t, gel,” he said, yawning. “See that ye don’t.”
She couldn’t consider her promise a lie because her uncle hadn’t specified which forest to avoid and she never went into the one behind her home to the west. She had very vivid memories of her father’s wounds after he’d been attacked by a boar there. The animal’s head had been stuffed and hung over the mantel until he’d finally roused himself enough to demand that it be taken down.
The forest to the north and east, the part that surrounded the healer’s house, the part that led toward Cameron lands, though, that was different. Healers had lived there occasionally withoutundue peril. She had found her book there, so obviously even men managed to come and go without injury.
Her uncle moved his chair closer to the hearth, put his feet as close to the fire as was reasonable, then leaned his head against the stone of the wall behind him. “Faeries and bogles,” he said, smacking his lips sleepily. “Don’t forget the tale of Laird Jamie and his bride. They walked into the forest… one evening at twilight…”
Mairead watched him as he surrendered to sleep, something she envied as she never managed to have enough of it. That might have been because she generally avoided sleeping upstairs with her sisters and settled instead for a scrap of floor in the kitchens.
A bit like the lass the Duke had described in his history.
Or, rather, the half of his history that she had. She couldn’t help but wonder about the man and what had happened to him after his activities in the pages she’d read. Had he returned to Birmingham and taken up his duties in his fine house? More importantly, what had become of the kitchen maid? The girl had been mocked for being unhandsome and uneducated, which likely had presented its share of difficulties.
Mairead looked into the fire and considered the difficulties of her own life. She was herself very plain, something she’d been told her entire life and had confirmed for herself by several looks in still lochs and the occasional polished bit of steel. She was not unlearned, though, and her father—when he’d been able to voice an opinion still—had quietly complimented her with quick smiles on her damnable curiosity—his words, not hers. She imagined he was very aware that her three younger sisters would always catch the eyes of whatever men came to see what sort of bride Ranald MacLeod might have on the fire, so to speak, where she would be relegated to fetching ale and serving soup.
That was just as well. She had no use for the men who pushed her out of the way so they might have a better view of her sisters. Even her brother was embarrassed by her, which suited her well enough there. His children found her to their liking, which was lovely. Also, when she finished with her serving of food and ale to family and guests, she always had a spot waiting for her by the fire in the kitchen where she could be safe and warm.
But what she truly wanted… she looked into the fire and supposed it wouldn’t be an untoward thing to actually admit what she truly wanted for a change. She took a deep breath and allowed herself to admit the truth: She wanted to find the Duke of Birmingham and give him back his book.
And once she had his gratitude and attention, she would ask him very directly what he had done with his kitchen maid. Had he left her behind at some other hall?
Had he done the unthinkable and made her his wife?
“Mistress Mairead?” a voice whispered.
She pulled herself away from her contemplation of the fire and smiled at the young lad standing there hesitantly. “Aye, John?”
“I’ve come to watch the fire, if you please.”
“Thank you, lad,” she said. She pushed herself to her feet, turned the stool over to him to use for the remainder of the watch, then found herself a spot near the hearth and sat down with her back against the stone.
She leaned her head against the wall, closed her eyes, and waited out the night.
She left the keep at dawn, mingling easily with the lads whose business it was to tend the animals and relieve the night-time guards. She promised one of the fostering lads who didn’t seem quite awake yet a second portion of supper if he kept an eye on her sheep for a bit, then made her way quickly along the edge of the meadow and to the forest surrounding the healer’s croft.
No one lived in the little house, of course, because the last witch had disappeared, though Mairead had always suspected the woman had run off with the priest who’d come from Ireland to save them all. Perhaps she’d grown tired of being called things she wasn’t, which was one of the reasons Mairead refused to accord that wee hut any supernatural properties. ‘Twas a house and one where a sensible woman might have peace and quiet and dry her herbs by the fire if she so chose.
Mairead supposed if she’d been able to, she would have taken up that place in her father’s clan. She had enough learning to understand the various types of herbs the good Lord had provided for them to use in healing brews and poultices. The souls that made up her clan were sturdy and healthy, so perhaps there wouldn’t have been too much use for her skills, which would have left her with enough silence to actually entertain the odd thought or two.
She stopped on the path that led to the house and looked around as if she were merely interested in what might be growing along the path. Finding herself alone, she pulled the knife from the back of her belt, removed a large square of bark from its usual place in the fifth tree from the doorway of the croft, then carefully removed her book from its hiding place under her apron. She had wrapped it in a spare piece of plaid as well earlier that morning, just to make certain it remained protected.
She put it in the hollowed-out spot she’d discovered long before she’d found her book—no doubt someone else had decided a tree could spare a bit of itself for such an activity—then replaced the piece of bark.
She put her hand over that place and wished that she could, for once, have someone step in front of her and protect her. Just once.
Which was a foolish desire and had nothing to do with her life. She had her brother to avoid, her father to watch over, and more callous and unpleasant remarks to endure from suitors who arrived and found her simply too plain to be endured for the rest of their lives.
She wondered briefly about Laird Jamie and his lady wife… but surely that couldn’t be anything but folklore. Tales of magical things found in the forest were best saved for children. If their clan’s bard occasionally ventured off into that sort of thing whilst about the critical task of keeping the clan’s history fresh in his mind, well, life wasn’t always bloodshed and darkness.
