“What is your name?”
“Coraidh.”
“Koh-ree,” she repeated. “Oh, is that like Cory in English?”
He lifted his shoulders and hands, indicating he had no idea.
“And you said the doctor’s—I mean, the barber surgeon’s name is...Jeer-mit? Am I saying that right?”
Cory shrugged again, this time suggesting he supposed that was the best she was going to do with it.
Claire grinned. “Shall we, Cory?”
When he nodded, Claire exhaled, then squared her shoulders and stepped inside. Cory walked directly to where the doctor was and maybe had been when Claire had been peeking inside, off to the direct right, out of view from where she’d been hovering outside the door. He looked up at their approach, his dark eyes narrowing into daggers. Before he could bark at her, Claire raised both hands, palms open.
I come in peace, she thought.
“Tell him,” she said to Cory, “right away that I’m here to say I’m sorry.”
The boy repeated her words in rapid Scots. Diarmad’s face hardened, his jaw working. For a long, terrifying moment, he said nothing, only glared at her as though he would throw her out bodily. Again.
“I am sincerely sorry for intruding as I did the other day,” she went on, having to tap at Cory’s arm to remind him to translate, which he did immediately. “I did not mean to offend or upset,” she said, and when Cory had repeated those words, she went on, more emphatically, “and I certainly did not mean intend or expect that the laird would punch you.”
He listened to Cory’s recital, hopefully translated pretty closely to how she’d said it, and she thought she saw just the tiniest easing of his surly countenance. His brows, drawn so tightly together before, loosened a fraction, though his eyes still burned with suspicion.
Claire laid her hand over her heart. “I am truly sorry. I only meant to help.” She waited for Cory to repeat this, and then said,“I have experience tending wounded people, people with injuries just as severe as some of these.”
It was a slow undertaking, her speaking and Cory translating, but she was optimistic because as of yet, Diarmad hadn’t snorted, scoffed, or pointed to the door.
“I imagine this is a lot of work for just one man, and I thought you might appreciate an extra pair of capable hands. I promise I won’t cause any trouble.”
This time, Diarmad didn’t scowl. He rubbed a hand down the front of his stained apron, exhaling through his nose, and after a long silence finally spoke—short, blunt words that Cory hurried to translate.
“He says...what are you willing to do?”
“Oh, gosh,” she blurted, a bit startled that he was turned around so quickly. In truth, she rather expected it might have taken several visits to earn his trust, or at least a chance. “Um, well, to start, ask him if it’s all right if I help out with simply cleaning the...ah, infirmary,”—at Cory’s questioning glance, she waved her hands around the long, narrow barn-type room, and amended—“this area, this whole place.” She swept her hand toward the rows of pallets, the soot-darkened rafters, the buckets of murky water that made her want to shudder. “All of it. I want to make it safer, healthier—so fewer men fall sick with fever.”
Cory translated, his voice tentative, the translation slow.
For a long moment, Diarmad studied her, his broad hands flexing at his sides, eyes narrowing as though weighing whether this was an insult or a sound idea.
Just as Claire wondered if pride would prevent him from accepting her help, Diarmad gave a short, abrupt dip of his chin, more command than concession.
Cory turned back to her. “He says...aye.”
Claire smiled brilliantly, clapping her hands together. She spoke directly to Diarmad. “Thank you. You won’t be disappointed.”
***
Ciaran’s attention had been caught at first by nothing more dangerous than the glint of sunlight off flaxen hair. Just coming inside the gate, he’d done a doubletake, seeing that the flaxen hair belonged to Claire, who stood speaking with the lad, Cory, at the door to the sick house.
Bluidy hell!
Ignoring the way the pale strands of her hair shone like gold under the mid-morning sun, Ciaran stabled his horse and strode immediately to where he’d last seen her, but where she and Cory were not now.
Assuming she’d ducked inside, he almost regretted the second conversation he’d had yesterday with Alaric, conceding that he’d overreacted, and withdrawing his request that Alaric, Ivy, and Claire and his army depart Caeravorn. Almost. But still, he thought, gritting his teeth as he hadn’t yet today, she had no business skulking about the old barn. He was certain he’d have to drag her out again, forbid her from crossing the threshold.
But he was given pause as soon as he stepped inside the sick house. Her voice carried, strange and lilting, that previously unknown English. She stood before Diarmad, her back to Ciaran at the entrance, speaking words that lifted his brow.
