He pictured her—the terrified girl out on the open road with her wounded mother. They would have been entirely vulnerable to any wild animal that came across them, to any man who meant them harm. Whatever her mother had done to cause the people of Jarn to declare her a witch, Rowan had been innocent.
He reached out instinctively to touch her shoulder. She jerked back, wiping the salve from her hands with sharp, angry strokes. “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.”
“You did everything you could,” Mistress Yahl told her daughter. “You kept me alive. The rest was God’s will.”
It was a good thing Mistress Yahl couldn’t see the furious look her daughter shot her way. Her gaze flicked to the scar before returning to him, her eyes hard.
Why had she saved him?
Rowan stooped and grabbed the tub, hoisting it to her hip. “I need to clean these.”
And she was out the back door like a bolt, slamming it behind her. He listened as her footsteps faded and stared down at his hands.
Mistress Yahl pushed the food and tea in his direction. “Eat. You need to rebuild your strength. I think it’s best you leave as soon as you’re able. This is hard for her.”
He stared at the eggs with no appetite whatsoever. It would be rude to refuse when she’d gone to the trouble to cook for him, and when they clearly had so little to spare.
He rubbed at his face and looked up to find Mistress Yahl’s white eyes fixed unnervingly on him. “Was any of it true?” he asked. “There were so many accusations.”
Mistress Yahl took a thoughtful sip of her tea and then set it aside. “Once the mayor called for an investigation, there was nothing you could have done to change what happened. The truth ceased to matter the moment that man took the dais. Your error was believing too strongly in the goodness of the people around you. You believed that the law and your procedures would unveil the truth.”
She made him sound naive. He’d never had the luxury of naivety. He knew all too well how easily the people you trusted could turn on you.
“Why did you tell me to brand you?” he asked. It was something he’d always wondered. Before the verdict came down, she’d called his name and he’d had to bend to hear her over the outrage from the villagers. She’d told him to fire the brand and he’d believed it to be a confession. He’d been shocked by it. He hadn’t believed the charges against her. He’d been steeling himself to fight off the mob. To try to get his men out alive before he slunk back to the capital in shame, seeing his captaincy stripped from him at the end of the road.
“Rowan was going to tell that crowd that she was the one who gave the tea to Ethel. She delivered supplies to her every week. I saw no harm in it. Ethel liked the company and Rowan always liked the woods. The tea didn’t kill Ethel. Her heart had been weak for years by then, but she refused to move into town. To be fair, I wouldn’t have wanted to live with Urich either.” She smiled faintly and shook her head. “It was over then. Truly over. They’d already decided to hurt me. I couldn’t let them hurt Rowan too.”
“You did it to protect your daughter.”
He fell silent for a moment, his gaze moving to the door through which Rowan had disappeared. He wanted to follow her. To speak to her again and what? Apologize? Try to make her understand? Impossible.
“She doesn’t know,” he said.
Mistress Yahl shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “She would only blame herself for what happened.”
“Instead, you let her blame me.”
Mistress Yahl raised an eyebrow as if to say, what do you expect? The movement did terrible things to the brand on her forehead. “I’m not a witch, and you did brand me. You’re not blameless.”
“No.” He stared down at the cup in his hands. “I suppose not.”
“If it’s any consolation, I forgave you for your part in all of that a long time ago.”
He blew out a breath and moved to the stool at the table. He picked up his fork. “Thank you for that.”
It was far more than he deserved.
“Rowan will forgive you too someday.”
He sincerely doubted that.
10
Rowan went about her chores trying to ignore the witch hunter who sat brooding in the corner of the room, unhappy at being forced to wait. She helped her mother make more yarrow salve. The familiar task should have soothed her rattled nerves, but she couldn’t seem to relax under the witch hunter’s watchful eyes. She hauled water, cleaned bandages, and added some of their meager stores to a pot to simmer for soup.
When George returned from Sulen, she rushed out, never so happy to see him. He was riding a horse that should have had him home hours ago. She took one look at his flushed face and scowled at him. “You’ve been drinking.”
He nearly fell off the horse. “Just a little light refreshment before the long ride home. Do you like my new horse?”
