Page 32 of Connal

“I saw you holding Duncan and followed you here.” He sighed. “I ever come to check on him at day’s end and assure he’s taken his sleeping draught.”

As they went down to the great hall the seneschal explained that Connal and the senior chieftains all had known about Duncan’s problem since he’d become the clan’s healer. He refused to let another MacMar take his place, however, and to preserve his pride they had always pretended not to notice his suffering.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Valerie told him as they joined Shaw and Nyall at the dais table. “So everyone in the clan has some kind of weakness like that?”

“Aye, my lady. ’Tis a balance for the boons gifted by our Fae blood,” Fletcher said.

“Every gift has a price tag, I suppose.” She then noticed for the first time that the senior chieftain always wore gloves. “What happens when you touch something with your bare hands?”

“Naught, unless ’tis made of wood.” Shaw removed one glove and touched a fingertip to the edge of the table. A black spot appeared on the oak, and a small flame sprouted before he poured a little water to extinguish it. “I’m a living firesteel.”

“Goodness.” She then regarded Nyall, who calmly kept eating. “And you…on second thought, I don’t want to know. So Fletcher has face blindness, and Duncan is a pain sponge.” With a very weird curio collection, she added silently. “What’s the laird’s weakness?” As the men’s faces went stony she winced. “Not something we discuss. I’ll remember that.”

A bowl thumped down in front of Valerie, slopping a little pottage onto the table.

“Our lord’s refusing eat the meals I bring him.” Meg looked almost smug as she regarded the men. “I dinnae ken how long ’twill take the laundress soak the blood from his garments. Mayhap you should discuss what Mistress Baker’s done to him.”

“What blood?” Valerie dropped her spoon, but the maid just stalked off.

“Connal’s hurt?” Fletcher looked astounded.

Nyall was already on his feet. “I’ll wake Duncan.”

“He’s only scratched,” Shaw said, swatting at the air in a dismissive gesture. “He fell from the ridge into the brambles. By now he’s recovered.”

The captain sat back down. “Why didnae you fetch the healer?”

“Our brother wouldnae wish Duncan suffer on his behalf.” The chieftain gave Valerie a shrewd look. “He’d welcome a visit from you, I reckon, Mistress.”

“I’m not sleeping with the laird.” That came out louder than she had intended, and at a moment when almost everyone in the hall had already fallen silent. She cringed as she grabbed her spoon and sampled the vile-looking pottage, which tasted like sour fish overcooked in licorice. She glanced at Shaw’s bowl, which held a delectable-looking vegetable version, and that proved to be the last straw. “Where’s Meg? The kitchens?”

Without waiting for a reply she got up and headed in that direction.

Valerie had to dodge her way through a small army of kitchen maids and a giant, frowning bald clansman who seemed to be in charge as she searched for the redhead. At last she found her loading up a platter with meat being carved from a spitted roast. Without a word she took hold of Meg’s arm and yanked her away from the food, marching the teenager through the nearest door, which led into a store room filled with jars, sacks and hanging bunches of dried herbs.

Meg bared her teeth for a moment like an animal ready to lunge. “Didnae you care for the pottage, Mistress?”

“I liked it about as much as I like you. You’re both nauseating, offensive, and completely unnecessary.” That struck a nerve, Valerie decided, because the maid’s lips turned white. “Just what is your problem with me?”

“I dinnae answer to you,” Meg sneered back.

“Heaven help you if you did. Look, I’m sorry I came back in time and landed on this island. I’m sorry your laird has all these issues and problems. In my time I’m a teacher, and I’m used to juveniles treating me with unnecessary hostility. I can put up with every hateful, nasty thing you say to my face or behind my back.” She leaned closer. “But if you ever tamper with my food again, you vindicative little witch, I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget. Now, what did you put in my soup?”

Someone cleared a throat behind her, but Valerie didn’t take her eyes off Meg’s face.

The maid started to say something, stopped, and then ducked her head. “Vetch and burnt fish and some pie plant. ’Twillnae poison you.”

“Good, then you’ll live to hate me for another day, because I was going to pour it down your throat. Now go and throw that disgusting slop in the nearest privy, and never, ever do anything like that again to anyone.” Valerie released her, and Meg hurried out of the room. When she turned around she saw Nyall standing inside the doorway. “What?”

Incredibly, he smiled, transforming his stern features with ungodly beauty. “Well done, my lady.”

“Did you help her with that nasty little trick?” she asked.

“I’d never toy with your meals,” the captain said, now looking huffy that she would even ask. “After you finish the meal, would you join me in the ward?”

“No.” She started to leave, halted and peered at him. “Why? What’s in the ward? A bottomless pit? Viking raiders? Merrick, waiting to turn me into a fish person?”

“’Tis a courtyard in the center of the keep with pretty flowers, quiet, and stepping stones. I reckoned you’d appreciate the peace there.” He gestured at his feet. “My weakness is soil, sand, or any sort of earth. If I stand too long on it, even in boots, I sink.”