Page 18 of Anice’s Bargain

Anice put up her hand to still their remonstrations. “Nan, your cooking is always delicious and will not require much seasoning or fat. The supplies do not appear to be as plentiful as they’d once been. Mayhap it might be prudent to utilize restraint. For now. I am certain your meat pies will be as delicious as ever, regardless.”

Nan flushed with pride, her face creased and kindly once more. She handed Anice a roll, still warm from the ovens, hot where it rested against her palm.

Isla slid a look of smug censure in the direction of the cook. The old healer pulled the roll from Anice’s grasp, tore it in half and gave a satisfied nod.

Anice stared at her halved roll. She wanted to shove the mass of it in her mouth. Instead, she swallowed down her desire and addressed the healer. “Isla, if Laird Graham dies, his clan will assume it was done with purpose. Every soul in this castle is once more at risk if he dies. If anyone can save that old goat, it’s you.”

Isla grinned, flashing the brilliance of teeth so straight and white, it was rumored she took them from the mouths of corpses. Anice, however, refused to believe such gossip. Just as surely as she’d cast aside the gossip that the woman was over three hundred years old.

“Aye, I can do it.” Isla lifted her large basket of assorted items for common ailments. Isla’s gaze fixed on a servant clutching a bowl of flour. “Bring up a pot of boiling water and some fresh linens to Laird Graham’s chambers, aye?”

The young woman nodded and Anice waved for the healer to follow her to the stately room, one both worthy of welcoming guests and keeping them easily guarded. No sooner had Anice turned away than she bit into the bread. It was soft under her teeth, and still hot enough to burn her tongue. She did not mind and devoured the entire bit of it, sharing a pinch with Piquette. Though it had been a meager amount, her stomach felt stretched to its limit with the meal and she realized her gratitude to Isla for the restraint.

She brushed her hand over her mouth to ensure no flour remained on her lips. James’s kiss popped into mind as surely as it had the entire walk to the kitchen from his chamber. Timothy had always been tepid in his affection, offering delicate pecking kisses, delivered more often to her hands than her lips.

Guilt singed her cheeks. Timothy was dead. It would not do well to think ill of him, especially when he had truly loved her so much. James though—that kiss.

Her breath caught to think of it. His large hand had been so impossibly gentle when he’d nudged her chin upward. The way his tongue had swept against her own, the way it captured her world in the grip of blazing lust. She wanted to clutch him to her, to kiss him more, let him lick her mouth, her neck, her breasts, every part she’d ever heard others discuss and had never experienced herself. A pulse of desire settled deep between her legs and made her long to rub her thighs against one another to experience the delightful ripples of pleasure.

In truth, it was what she had wanted of Timothy. She had agreed to his marriage proposal for the benefit of her family. She did not fully relish the idea of the children, not yet at least. But passion…oh, how she longed for passion.

And she had a sense James might be able to provide such lustful endeavors.

Midway to Laird Graham’s room, they came upon a man bent over the sturdy wall, his hands braced over his head while he retched. Chunks of bread and cheese sat in the clear liquid on the floor.

Isla tsked. “I told her no’ to give ye so much.” She lifted one side of her basket and rummaged about until she pulled loose a small satchel. “Put this in a bit of boiled water to steep and drink it all. It’ll cure yer pain.”

The man reached up without lifting his head and accepted the pouch of herbs with muttered thanks. Isla pointed a bony finger at him. “And dinna eat too fast next time, or this will happen again, aye?”

The man retched once more, and Isla waved him away as though he were a lost cause. They continued on their way, pausing thrice more for other inhabitants of Werrick suffering from the same affliction.

Anice had a new-found appreciation for Isla’s warnings and was glad to have followed her advice. “What is in the teas you are distributing?”

“Common remedies for disorders of the stomach.” She shrugged. “Chamomile flowers, root of ginger, a bit of linden. All soaked in heifer piss and left to dry in the sun for a sennight.”

Anice suppressed her grimace, suddenly gladder still for having heeded Isla’s warnings so as not to require the cure.

The healer pushed through the door to Laird Graham’s chamber. Anice could make out James’s large form in the dark as he knelt at his father’s bedside. He leapt to his feet at their arrival, his face anxious. In spite of his father’s malicious demeanor and their obvious disagreements, it was clear James held an affinity for the old man.

It was tempting to admire the sweetness in James. And yet, she did not know him. Not only did she not know him, he was a Graham, a member of the marauding reivers who once destroyed her home and ultimately killed her mother. She would do well to keep such thoughts forefront in her mind.

Isla strode to the bed and pressed her ear to Laird Graham’s narrow chest. Not that it seemed necessary when his wheezing breath whistled through the room. The laird truly was unwell.

Isla set her basket of herbs on the table and began to rifle through its contents, pulling out several herbs. She bound them together in a thick stalk, secured it with a bit of catgut, and lit it with a flint. Smoke rose from the bundle and filled the room with the musty scent of sage and several other herbs Anice could not name.

Isla bent over Laird Graham’s unmoving body and gently blew the smoke toward his face. He gave a chuffing cough and tried to turn his face away.

“Dinna fash yerself,” Isla chided. “This will help ye.” She waved a hand at James’s towering frame looming over her. “Yer son floating about my shoulders, however, willna offer any good.”

James didn’t move. “Will we need the priest?”

A slow smile blossomed over the healer’s thin lips, tinged with malice. Of course, the healer wanted Bernard called. Not for last rites, but because the twitchy priest’s fear of Isla brought her great amusement.

“Isla, nay.” Anice put her hand to her hips. The last thing she needed was Isla and Bernard sniping at one another over the dying laird.

Though in truth, it might benefit them all if Anice did go to the chapel within the castle to pray. If Laird Graham died in their care, it would not bode well for the inhabitants of Werrick Castle. There could be a war, another siege. One they might not escape from.

Anice shuddered to think how much worse it truly could have been. It was too easy to see how they might starve to death if they’d been forced to go on another two or three weeks.

Instead, she put her attention to James. “You needn’t worry. I do not think your father needs a priest. Isla is the best healer in all of England and Scotland.”

“Aye, ’tis true.” Isla cackled to herself and blew huffs of smoke toward the laird once more.

A knock rattled the door. Anice ran to answer it so Isla would not be disturbed from her work.

A man stood on the other side, his face pale, one arm clutched over his stomach. “Isla needs to come to the great hall. We’re in dire need of the healer.”