“Lady…” He found his voice, but the word hung between them. He couldn’t saymore.
“Och, I am no’ so fancy. Devorgilla willdo.”
“Devorgilla, then,” Greyson spoke her name, the chills at the back of his neckincreasing.
“Aye, that be me.” She actually cackled, her gaze now lighting about the room. “This hall should be crowded,” she declared, returning her attention to him. “Filled with rowdy men of steel and, to lead them, a fierce and big-bearded Highland chieftain of old. Someone like the now-legendary Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail back in the 14thcentury.
“Have ye heard of him?” She angled her head, her gaze sharpening as she peered at him. “He lairded it at Eilean Creag Castle no’ too far from Skye. Well-loved by his men, he was. And if his foes didnae like him, they did respect him. His like will ne’er walk the heather again. Such apity.”
“Nae, I am no’ aware of the man.” Greyson fought the urge to rub his fists against his eyes, half sure she’d no longer be there when he looked again. “I do know there were many great heroes backthen.”
“That be true.” The crone nodded sagely – almost as if she knew that from fact, and not from history books. “And I see you again dwell beneath an artist’sroof.”
“Again?” Greyson angled his head, staring at her. A memory stirred, images from his childhood swimming up from the murk. “Devorgilla of Doon! You came to my parents’ home when I was a lad. My mother had a fever and you curedher.”
“That couldbe.”
“It was you.” He smiled, certain – even though he recalled her as an ancient. “But you were…” He didn’t finish, tact stopping him. “That was long ago,” he saidinstead.
“I keep my age well, eh?” Her eyes twinkled. “The years cannae catch me, busy as I am traveling about, seeing to folk who need me.” She glanced around the room again, this time setting her hands on her hips. “‘Tis fitting you should land in such aplace.”
“Aye, well. I do feel as if I’ve stepped into another world when I enter this room. Archibald Priddy was a master painter, much more skilled than my father. Alas” – his smile faded – “both men diedpenniless.
“Now tell me what brings you here?” Greyson glanced about for Smithers, but the old man was nowhere to be seen. “Did my manservant let youin?”
“I might have seen him.” She went to the fire – the real one – and held her hands to the flames. “He was watching that wee squirrel of yours in the garden. He didn’t even glance my way, so I let myself in. You dinnaemind?”
“Never.” Greyson didn’t ask how she knew Wiggle was a pet. He did smile, more memories rising. His father’s awe at her skill. How his parents had whispered of ‘great magic’ after she’d left their village, his mother and others cured. “You are always welcome at my hearth,” he said, feeling humbled himself. “That will ever beso.”
“Your da said the same.” She turned from the fire, again facing him. “But my services are rarely neededtwice.”
Greyson’s nape prickled again. “I have everything Ineed.”
“Doye?”
“Aye.”
“Then why am I here?” She looked amused, her words making nosense.
Greysonfrowned.
She brushed at her skirts, then thrust out her foot and peered at her red plaid shoelaces. “I ne’er go where I’m no’ needed,laddie.”
“Perhaps you called at the wronghouse?”
“You dinnae believe that.” She met his gaze, her eyes lightingagain.
Her red plaid laces glowed – or so Greyson thought until he looked more closely and decidedotherwise.
“So what is this about?” He went to the room’s lone table, a long, rough-planked table paired with equally rustic benches, the set rescued from the muddy bank of the TullieGorge.
A chance find like so many others that had furnished thehouse.
Aware that such wise women, healers, or whatever they wished to call themselves were accustomed used to lavish displays of hospitality, Greyson indicated the ale jug and platter of oatcakes Smithers had brought in a short while ago, grumbling that he should eat. “I’d offer you more,alas…”
He shrugged. “What you see before you is all I have at hand justnow.”
“I came to see you.” The old woman poured herself a cup of ale and reached for an oatcake. “I’m no’ looking for a feast – only a receptiveear.”
