He struggled to stand, then hobbled outside with slow, painful steps that set his spine on fire. But the knowledge that Ethne waited for him somehow made the misery more bearable. That was why she must never find out who he really was. If shediscovered him to be the cursed chieftain of Clan MacDanua, he felt sure he would never see her again.
“Friend? Are ye here?” Her call was louder this time, but her tone held a hint of something he couldn’t quite place. Fear? Leeriness? A sense of urgency? What was it?
He forced his twisted body to move faster. “I am here, Ethne! I am here!”
Just as he cleared the door and spied her, she shrieked and fell out of sight behind a broken section of the skirting wall.
“That’ll learn ye to stay away, ye vile witch!” shouted a lad as he stepped out from behind a tree on the other side of the road. “And here’s another for good measure!” He hurled a fist-sized rock at the spot where Ethne had fallen out of view.
“Leave her be!” Wolfe roared. Ignoring the excruciating pain, he scooped up a stone and fired it at the boy. “Get out from here or I’ll pipe the curse upon ye without the aid of the mist.”
The lad’s eyes went as wide as shields as he backed away. Then he turned and ran as though the devil himself had risen from the depths of hell to catch him.
Heart pounding, growling with every infuriatingly slow step, Wolfe hurried past the crumbling wall and dropped to his knees beside Ethne. “Dear God in heaven, they’ve killed ye.”
“She is not dead,” Mrs. Tarrel said without showing herself.
“Chase after that wee bastard and scare the life out of him, aye?” Ever so gently, Wolfe leaned over and raised Ethne’s head, cringing at the purplish swelling above her right eye. Somehow, he had to get her inside. Within the protection of the castle. If he left her in the ditch, who knew what those heartless bastards would do if they found her?
“I made the wee demon shite himself,” Mrs. Tarrel reported with a proud chuckle from somewhere above him.
“Well done, Mrs. Tarrel. Well done indeed.” Balanced on his knees, Wolfe caught hold of Ethne’s arms and pulled heracross his shoulders as if she were a wayward sheep and he her shepherd.
“How can I help ye, my chieftain?” The housekeeper shimmered into view, flitting all around him.
“Ye can stop behaving like a feckin’ moth.” He grunted as he lurched forward but kept himself from going back down on his knees by slamming his shoulder into the part of the wall still standing. “Did ye ever figure out how to pick things up?”
“Aye, I’m getting better at it.” She floated closer and fixed him with a concerned look. “But I dinna think I should risk trying to carry Mistress Ethne.”
“I shall carry Mistress Ethne. Somehow.” The horrific pain already had him trembling, and sweat nearly blinded him, burning his one good eye. “Fetch my stick, aye?”
“Aye, my chieftain.”
With his focus locked on forcing one foot in front of the other and not letting Ethne slip from his shoulders, Wolfe slowly hitched his way toward the chapel. It took forever, moving at a snail’s pace, and having to stop every few steps to gird himself against the excruciating pain. But he had to make it. The small kirk was his only hope. Not only were a few of its benches still solid enough to support his precious burden, but he doubted he had the strength to make it to the keep and up the front steps. Damn the vile Morrigan for cursing him into such a weakened form.
With the greatest of care, he eased her down onto the bench closest to the altar. A dusty pillow floated toward him.
“It was in the corner,” Mrs. Tarrel said. “Brush the filth from it afore ye put it under her head, aye?”
Crouching beside Ethne, Wolfe dusted it off as best he could, then slipped it under her head. “She’s fearsome pale, Mrs. Tarrel. That stone couldha killed her. Might kill her yet.” He untied the blanket from around his neck, the gift from the sweetlass, and spread it across her. Then he sank to the floor and rested his forehead on the edge of the bench. He closed his eyes and begged the Almighty to save her.
“I said a prayer for her,” Mrs. Tarrel whispered without showing herself.
“As did I, but I dinna ken if mine are heard anymore.” He lifted his head and stared at Ethne, begging her to open her eyes.
“Water might help,” the housekeeper suggested. “I canna manage that just yet, I fear. Forgive me, my chieftain.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Mrs. Tarrel.” With his staff securely wedged in a crack in the stone floor, Wolfe pushed himself to his feet and hobbled over to the table behind the altar, the place where he sometimes sat and enjoyed the food that dear Ethne brought him. He didn’t need to eat or drink to exist. The curse took care of that. But he could still taste. So he always enjoyed whatever she brought. Especially when she flavored it so nicely with kindness and caring. He filled his only cup from the pitcher of fresh water Mrs. Tarrel insisted he keep on the table. Thank the saints for the wise old woman and her odd beliefs.
He made his way back to the bench and scowled down at the cup and then at Ethne. Damned fool. What good was a cup of water when she lay still as a stone?
“Wet her face with its coolness,” Mrs. Tarrel whispered. “It might help bring her back to us.”
He lowered himself to the floor, biting back the pained grunt that movement always tore from him. But then he went as still as the lass herself, mesmerized by the simple perfection of her pure loveliness. Her long, dark lashes rested on her pale skin. Her ruddy curls—nay, not ruddy, but a deep, reddish brown, a rich shade like the coat of a purebred, chestnut mare. Their silkiness tumbled across the bench and reached the floor. The odd red mark on her throat reminded him of the North Star he had always trusted to chart courses when out to sea. Herill-fitting kirtle hid her comely shape, making him wish things were different and he could provide better for her. She awakened feelings in him he thought to be long dead. Not lust but the need to care and be cared for, the ache to be needed. Shaking himself free of the daze, he dipped his fingers in the water and gently wet her cheeks and then her forehead.
“I need a cloth,” he whispered, more to himself than the invisible Mrs. Tarrel.
“Tear it from the hem of yer léine,” the housekeeper said.
