Chapter 17
As soon as Rob laid her on the pallet, her breathing went shallow and quick.
“I Saw it,” she said, her eyes wide, her brows furrowed. She put a trembling hand to her temple and pressed her palm flat. “I knew the each uisge was coming, but I didna warn ye in time.”
“Hush, leannán.” The endearment passed his lips before he realized what he was saying. “Rest yourself. Only a little while,” he said softly. He snugged his body tight against hers for warmth, careful to stay on her uninjured side. “Angus knows where we’ll find the help ye need.”
“Aye, we will.” She nodded and closed her eyes. “A bolt in the dark finds its mark.”
Those were her very words when she was staring sightlessly over his shoulder, just before they struck the rope snare. He’d feared at the time she’d gone a bit daft, but now the words made sense to Rob’s mind. Somehow Elspeth had known the crossbow bolt was coming for her.
And Lachlan Drummond was the each uisge she meant, the cruel water horse come to claim his bride. Elspeth Stewart had the Sight, but her Gift’s warning came to her too late to do any good.
“Open your eyes, lass,” he urged, palming her cheek. “Talk to me, Elspeth. Ye dinna want to sleep now.”
“Aye, I do.” He heard pain in her voice. Her skin was clammy and moist. When his hand slid down to her neck, he had to search for the pulse point. Her heart raced, but the beat wasn’t very strong.
The deerhound tried to join them in the cabin, creeping in a crouch toward Elspeth, but Rob ordered him out. Fingal whined but wouldn’t go far. He lay across the entrance to the cabin with his muzzle resting on his forepaws, his watchful eyes glowing in the dark.
“How long have ye had the gift of Sight?” Rob asked. It was all he could think of to encourage her to talk. If she slipped into sleep, surely the sleep of death was only a short step farther.
“All my life.” Her words were slurred. “Oh, my head!”
If her head ached so that she didn’t complain of the bolt in her thigh, the pain at her temples must be excruciating.
“But it didna serve me well,” she said with a sob in her voice. “I ne’er See what I wish. Only what I’m shown. Sometimes, I dinna even know if the things I See are true.”
“What was the first thing ye ever Saw?”
“A boy,” she whispered, turning her head this way and that as if she could move away from the pain. “He was playing by a well. He lost his balance and fell into it.”
Rob’s breath caught. He’d fallen into a well when he was very young. He hadn’t seen more than three or four summers. It was his earliest and most vivid memory.
“He was so afraid,” she went on, pausing between phrases to take shuddering breaths. “It was so dark and cold, and evil things were crawling on the walls of the well.”
The water was so frigid, all the breath had rushed out of his body. Rob couldn’t swim, but once he bobbed to the surface, he’d clung to the sides of the well. He’d broken his nails trying to claw his way up the slick rock walls. Worms and creeping things had haunted his dreams for months afterward.
“Did ye see him being pulled out?”
“No,” she said sadly. “I ne’er did. The vision ended, and I dinna know if he lived or died.”
“He lived,” Rob assured her. “And after his father hauled him out, clinging to the bucket and screaming at the top of his lungs, his sire tanned the boy’s backside for wandering away from his mother.”
“Ye’re sure?”
“He had to carry a pillow about with him for a week in order to sit.”
Her lips turned up in a slight smile, then a whimper escaped them. Her eyes squeezed shut, and Rob’s gut roiled in sympathy for her pain.
Fingal inched his way into the cabin, refusing to go when Rob ordered him away this time. The deerhound crept around Elspeth, careful to avoid the bolt sticking out of her leg, and lay down next to her, resting his head on her shoulder, his wet nose near her ear.
“Well, then, lad, if ye’re set on it, ye can help me keep her warm.” Rob reached across to pat the dog’s head then looked down at Elspeth. She seemed to rest easier with the combined warmth of the man and the dog on either side. “Do ye want some wine for the pain?”
She opened her eyes and met his gaze. “Angus’s wine? No thank ye.” Then her eyes closed again. “The headache is fading. My leg doesna hurt so much now. I can…hardly feel it…at all.”
This time, no matter what he said or did, Elspeth didn’t twitch an eyelash.
Rob hadn’t had much to say to God since Fiona died. Now he laid his hand between Elspeth’s breasts, so he could feel her heart beating, and spoke a few words to the Almighty.
He doubted God answered the prayers of madmen, especially one bound for perdition as he undoubtedly was. But if he was willing to seek out a witch to see Elspeth well, he was willing to ask God to keep her alive long enough to get her to the wisewoman’s croft.
***
“Rob!” Angus’s voice dragged him from sleep. “We’re almost there.”
Exhausted, he’d fallen into slumber with his hand between Elspeth’s breasts. Her heart still beat beneath his palm, but it was faint. Dawn was breaking around them, and her skin was so pale, if he hadn’t felt her heartbeat and seen the curl of her breath in the frosty air, he’d have thought her dead.
Fingal lifted his head.
“Keep her warm. There’s a good lad,” Rob told the deerhound before he crawled out of the cabin. He wrapped his plaid about his shoulders against the cold.
“There bides the witch of Loch Eireann.” Angus pointed to the small croft coming into view round a rocky point. A few pines rose behind the thatch-roofed cottage, and then the steep Highlands shot up in a wall of rough grass and granite. The place was accessible only by water. If there was a passable way to the wise woman’s home through the mountains, he doubted any who didn’t have goat’s feet could manage it.
Cloven hooves. Well, that’s what folk said of the devil’s feet, wasn’t it?
Angus steered his craft toward the shallows, while Rob stood watch in the prow, eyeing the clear water for any submerged rocks that might splinter the hull of an unwary sailor’s vessel. A disreputable-looking skiff was pulled half out of the loch and tied to a large boulder.
Angus made for that spot and eased the prow of his boat alongside the skiff. Rob leaped to dry land and pulled the craft’s nose up on the winter-brown grass.
“Wait here,” Rob said. “I’ll see if she’ll help us.”
“And if she willna?”
“Then the world will have one less witch.”
Though it belonged to one who was reputedly in league with the devil, the farmstead looked remarkably ordinary. Rob strode toward the cottage, a wattle-and-daub construction that listed only slightly. The thatch on the roof was a few years old, but he expected it still turned the rain. There was a cow staring out the open door of a byre. A flock of hens scattered before him. It might have been the home of any of his crofters.
A woman appeared at the door before he reached it. Her iron gray hair was long and flowed over her shoulders like a young girl’s. But her face was wrinkled and sunken-cheeked as a winter apple. She wrapped her red shawl more tightly around herself and cast him a wry smile.
“Come to see me, are ye, Mad Rob?”
He stopped dead in his tracks. “Ye know who I am.”
“I have eyes,” she said. “Ye wear the MacLaren plaid, d’ye no’?”
“Aye, but—” Plenty of men sported the same weave.
“And ears too,” she went on. “I listen when folk talk, ye ken. Even though ye’re a madman, all the lasses I doctor say as ye’re the finest, brawest lad in the Highlands. Well favored, strong of limb. Reckon they didna stretch matters by much.” She waved him forward. “Come in then.”
He stood his ground. “I have a woman in the boat with a crossbow wound. Can ye help her?”
“How could ye allow that to happen?” she snapped. Her gray brows drew together, and she narrowed her gaze at him. “I canna tell until I see her. Bring Elspeth Stewart in.”
He flinched at her foreknowledge.
“Muckle of beauty, little of brains.” She shook her head. “Dinna waste time puzzling o’er it. D’ye think ye can steal a bride from the altar and not have the story wing through the Highlands swifter than a eagle’s flight?”
She turned and opened the door to the cottage. Then she cocked her head him, like a robin eyeing the worm she intends to eat for breakfast. “Dinna ye want to know who I am afore ye place your woman in my care?”
Rob grinned. “I have eyes. Ye’re the witch of Loch Eireann.”
“Cheeky.” She frowned at him. “My Christian name is Hepzibah Black.”
A witch with a Christian name. Rob sprinted back to the boat, feeling as if he’d just had his ears twisted.
Elspeth didn’t stir when he lifted her from the pallet. She seemed like nothing in his arms, a disembodied spirit. Her arms hung limply, and unless he supported her head, it lolled.
His chest felt as if someone had placed an anvil on his ribs.
When he ducked to enter the croft, Fingal tried to follow.
“No, ye don’t, Master Hound,” Hepzibah Black said.
The deerhound thumped his bottom down on the stoop and whined at the doorway.
“He’s attached himself to the lass,” Angus explained as he followed Rob in. “If ye dinna let him come in, he’ll howl and pine and make a horrible racket.”
“Verra well.” Hepzibah palmed Fingal’s muzzle without a hint of fear. “Dinna bother the cat or the bird or I’ll turn ye into a rug.”
Angus’s red brows shot skyward at that, but he said nothing. Fingal accepted the invitation and slinked into the cottage. The hound shot only the quickest of glances at the raven on a roost in the corner and the gray tabby, who eyed him calmly from the chair by the hearth.
“Put the lass on the table,” Hepzibah ordered. “And we’ll see what’s what.”
Rob laid Elspeth down carefully. Hepzibah Black took a knife from above her hearth and slit Elspeth’s skirt open, baring the length of her leg from groin to ankle.
“No place for modesty in a sick room,” the witch said with a shrug.
Then she unwound Rob’s shirt from Elspeth’s leg. It was matted brown with blood and stuck to her skin in places. She didn’t move while Hepzibah peeled it off.
“I have some salts ye’ll want to rinse this in afore ye wash it.” She handed the shirt to Rob and turned back to Elspeth. She snapped her fingers before the girl’s face but got no response.
“The lass is insensible,” she said. “That’s for the best, but we canna count on her remaining so.”
Hepzibah leaned down to examine the bolt. She sniffed at the wound.
“No putrefaction yet. That’s all to the good.”
She put a hand to the shaft and gave it a slight tug. Elspeth’s eyes popped open, and her mouth went wide in a silent scream.
Hepzibah released her hold on the bolt and put a hand to Elspeth’s forehead.
“There, there lass,” she said in a motherly tone. “’Twill come round right. Ye’ll see. Ye’ll feel better after I make ye some tea.”
“Ye’re no’ a witch, after all,” Angus said, slapping his thigh.
“Of course, I’m no’ a witch.” Hepzibah rolled her eyes at him. “But how did ye come to that astounding knowledge?”
“Ye didna shrink from touching iron,” he said. “Everyone knows witches canna abide iron on their skin. Burns them something fierce.”
“Of all the dunderheaded…a woman has eyes and ears and the wit God gave her, and the eejit thinks her a witch!“ She mumbled several things that sounded like spells, or at the least curses, to Rob, before she pointed at Angus. “Ye! Keep her company while Mad Rob helps me.”
Angus took Elspeth’s hand and began a running one-sided conversation with no discernable topic, while Rob followed Hepzibah into what she called “the still room.”
“Put the shirt in that bucket,” she ordered.
Rob dropped it into some evil-smelling liquid, which turned blood red and foamed as the shirt sank to the bottom.
“A berry or two of belladonna,” she muttered as she gathered herbs from the drying bunches hanging over her head. “And some poppy. A pinch hemlock, I think.”
“Ye’ll poison her!” Rob said.
“Nay. Well, perhaps. But with luck, I’ll send her spirit to bide someplace else while we do what we must,” Hepzibah said as she pounded the herbs in a stone crock. “Are ye at all squeamish?”
“What? No.”
“I had to ask. Some men faint dead away if they’re allowed to see their women lying-in.”
“This is no’ a lying-in. I’ve dressed my share of battle wounds,” Rob said.
“Aye, but no’ on a woman ye fancy, I warrant.”
“Who says I fancy her?”
“The worry in your eyes,” the witch said. “D’ye no’ ever look at yourself when ye peer into the water sometimes? Your face is as easy to read as the signs of the seasons.”
Hepzibah scurried back into the main room and returned with a kettle. She poured boiling water over the crushed herbs and set it aside to steep.
“Ye’ll kill her with that,” Rob said.
“Or the pain will kill her.” Hepzibah drew her lips into a tight line. “The problem, ye see, is when a crossbow bolt flies, it turns. When it strikes flesh, it continues to turn. If ye pull it out, the barbs tear the meat afresh, and the wound is ten times worse. We canna draw the bolt.”
“Then how—?”
“We must push it through. Straight and even, missing the bone, of course, and any spots that will make the blood gush out.”
“She’s already lost a lot of blood.”
“Aye, but if we draw the bolt, we’ll damage so much, she’ll likely be a cripple. If we push it through, the wound may close and grow healthy flesh. If she lives, it’ll heal cleaner.” Hepzibah fixed him with an intense stare. “’Tis no’ an easy thing, pushing a bolt through living flesh. Is it in ye to help me?”
“Merciful God,” Rob said, not sure it shouldn’t count as another prayer. Then he gritted his teeth and nodded.