Page 32 of Edge of Yesterday

Gregory’s head shifted in her direction. He wasn’t pleased with the notion of a stranger in Raghnall, unknown to her mother. Fortunately, their father departed a week ago to collect rents and hear tenant grievances. He would return a week hence. Anxiety knotted her stomach at the memory of Cailean referring to Lennox by their father’s title, Baron Ravenstone. Julianna became aware of her arm pressing Cailean’s chest. Even through her sleeve and his shirt and plaid, his heat seemed to penetrate clear to her bone. Had his words been a slip of the tongue or was he unaware of his prediction?

She’d seen such things with Malvina, their healer, was also a seeress. She would make what seemed like a benign comment about a subject she could have no knowledge of, then she wouldn’t remember the comment the next day. Some thought the seeress mad. Too much time alone in her garden, digging in the earth, talking to her herbs and berry bushes. She roamed the hills on moonlit nights, lifting her hands to the heavens and muttering words no one understood. Touched in the head, folk whispered. Julianna disagreed. She’d never known a less addled woman.

Could Cailean be like Malvina? She’d never met a man with the gift, but knew of many powerful seers—most who either looked like a monk or Methuselah. Cailean however, looked more like a Celtic god. Whoever he was, whatever his secrets, she meant to root them out. Haven Cottage came into view through the trees up ahead. She only needed a little time to question him.

Julianna waved away the thin spider web that greeted her upon entering the darkened cottage. “Wait while I light a candle.”

She knew where the kindling lay and where the candle rested, for she had placed them there three days ago. She crept to the table and groped until her fingers closed around the cool brass of the oil lamp. She carried it to the kindling box beside the hearth. A long moment later, light flared to life. Julianna lit the wick, then stood and turned.

Despite the cold and damp, the cottage still boasted a few comforts; a stone-flagged floor and a fine heather broom. Sturdy shutters protected against the worst of the fierce Highland winds. A modest straw bed stood to the right. The rafters were hung with a carefully selected assortment of dried healing herbs, while a corner cupboard brimmed with earthen jars filled with salves, tinctures, and ointments. And best of all was the tidy hearth grate—a large sheet of metal surrounded by stones—at the cottage’s center, complete with a neatly stacked supply of peats and logs.

“Gregory, you start a fire and I will have our guest tended at the soonest,” she said.

“Guest?” Gregory cocked a brow, but crossed to the hearth and crouched before the grate.

Julianna turned to their ‘guest,’ worried by his gray pallor. “Sit, Cailean.” She pointed to a bench near the hearth grate.

He took a step, listed, but righted himself, then reached the hearth and dropped heavily onto the bench. Julianna discerned his deep inhale by the rise of his chest beneath his shirt. He clasped his right shoulder and massaged the muscle as he rolled the shoulder. His sword arm ached. Not surprising. It seemed they’d fought all night. At least he had injured his left arm and not his sword arm. Her gaze locked onto his right arm, where a small cloth wrapped his arm between the leather wristband and his sleeve. An old wound? Sweet Jesu, the man liked to fight.

His hand slipped from his shoulder and he leaned toward the first flames Gregory coaxed around a small pile of peat bricks, kindling, and logs. Another few moments is all they would need for Cailean to begin warming up. Resting his elbows on his knees, he bowed his head. He was more spent than she’d guessed. Just like a man to pretend all is well when, in fact, he courted death. Julianna hurried to the table against the wall and poured water from a pitcher into the basin beside it.

“Gregory, fetch Cailean some of the cider in the bottle there on that shelf.”

She nodded toward a shelf in the corner, then fetched a pot from a different shelf, filled it with water, and hung it over the fire. While she waited for the water to boil, she collected garlic and comfrey, then retrieved several strips of linen from a small lidded basket beneath the table. When the water started to bubble, she dropped in the herbs, then tossed the bandaging after them. From the corner of her eye, she saw Gregory hand Cailean the cider. He drank it in a quick motion, then lowered the cup and looked at it.

He shifted his gaze to Gregory. “What the bloody hell was that?”

“I do no’ think he likes Malvina’s cider,” Gregory said.

“That was cider?” His brow rose. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, then added, “Yes, it would be more sour, unfiltered and thicker. No’ as much alcohol either, I imagine? After the day I’ve had, I need something stronger. No whisky hidden away in one of those cabinets, by chance? It’s all right to share. I promise not to tell.”

Julianna frowned. “Whisky?”

He sighed. “Still playing the part, are we? Uisge beatha, then?

“You want uisge beatha?” she repeated.

Cailean gave a hoarse laugh. “Your accent is superb, my lady. “Ooshku-bey-a,” he imitated her. “I saw a shop in Heatheredge selling it, locally distilled. I intended to buy some and see how it compares to Glenfiddich.”

“A shop in Heatheredge?” Gregory said. “You willnae find a shop selling uisge beatha. Folk hereabouts make their own. We have none at the cottage. Some of the younger lads brought a few laundresses out here a sennight ago and the fools drank every last drop.”

“They should have known better.” Julianna leaned over the boiling water and waved a hand through the rising steam as she peered into the pot. She straightened. “My regrets. You will have to do without uisge beatha.”

“All right, then, cider.” Cailean handed the cup to Gregory. “And more than the sip you just gave me.”

Julianna returned to the table, scooped up two more clean rags from the basket, slung them over her shoulder, then carried the basin to the bench. She placed it next to Cailean’s hip, then sat down on the other side of the basin.

“Take off your shirt, Cailean,” she ordered.

He looked at her, and her pulse skipped a beat when his grin went lopsided. “As ye wish,” he said, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

He drew his sash over his head and when he sluffed the fabric from his shoulders she came face to face with the broad expanse of his tanned chest. Sweet God, the man hadn’t lied when he’d said he was pure muscle. She lifted her gaze to his face and found him staring, amusement in his eyes.

“Gregory, lend me your dirk,” she said, and gave thanks that her voice remained steady. “It will serve better than my blade.”

Gregory pulled the dirk free of its belt sheath and handed it to her hilt-first. She faced Cailean, grasped the knotted end of the bandage, and started to slide the blade between the knot and his arm.

“Whoa there.” He laid a hand on hers. “I’ll do that.”