Page 34 of Fire in his Highland Heart

It was clear Mirellain wanted to cry, but her sore throat and sweaty skin wouldn’t let her, so she moaned and whined instead. It took all of Arguen’s strength not to cry with her. That was one of the rules she’d set for herself as a healer—never let her patients see her cry. Unless someone had passed away and she was genuinely grieving with them, crying signified weakness, and healers were not supposed to be weak.

At that moment, Patsy came back with supplies. By some miracle, she’d found astragalus root in the kitchens—clearly someone had an eye for exotic herbs and had done some good trading to get it. With that, she brought fresh rags, fresh water, honey, vinegar, and some dishes that would not be missed. Once she had her supplies, Arguen got to work as quickly as possible. First, she had Patsy stoke the fire in the hearth, so she could boil water for the astragalus root. When that was finished, she had the nurse hold Mirellain while Arguen changed the bed linens, putting the old ones in a sack to be burned later. No amount of washing would get out the stench and risk of scarlet fever. Patsy bathed the child with a rag and some lye soap using the fresh water, and rinsed her off when she was clean. Once all of that was done, Mirellain was laid back down in fresh linens to her comfort. She instructed Patsy to keep a cold cloth on her head until the astragalus root tea was done brewing. It took some doing, especially since Mirellain was a stubborn child who insisted she was neither hungry nor thirsty, but soon she had downed the cup of tea. While she waited for the tea to digest, she concocted a mixture of vinegar and honey, with which she had Mirellain gargle when she was ready.

All of this Arguen repeated twice more until the child fell asleep, peacefully, for the first time in what Patsy claimed was two days.

Moonlight bathed the room in a soft, silver glow. The only sounds now were Mirellain’s labored breathing and the crackling of the fire.

“Ye really ken yer craft,” Patsy whispered. The two of them were sitting on a bench under the window, keeping a close eye on the child.

“Aye. ‘Tis all I have left o’ me mother. I think when I can practice like this, it makes me feel closer tae her.”

“When did yer mother pass?” Patsy asked gently.

“Round about seven years ago, of the pox. I tried tae help her, I did. But I reckon even healers are not immune tae sickness,” Arguen mused, resting her elbow on the windowsill and looking up at the moon. It was half full tonight, waning. In a few days it would be a new moon.

“Ye cannae blame yerself. Ye were only a lass,” Patsy offered.

Arguen nodded, still looking at the waning moon. “Aye. I was thirteen. Devastated. I think ‘tis worse tae lose someone when yer older. Ye remember more about them.”

Patsy nodded, and looked over at the sleeping child. “Mirellain still remembers bits an’ bobs o’ her mother, but not everythin.”

Arguen turned her attention back to the nurse. “What did happen to her?”

Patsy heaved a deep sigh. “She was out gathering heather on the moors wi’ her ladies. A band of brigands happened upon ‘em, robbed ‘em, an’ killed ‘em.”

Arguen was stunned to hear such a tragic story. She had always imagined that Blake’s former wife had died of sickness or childbirth. Not that either of those were desirable, but to meet one’s death at such violent ends…it was tragic indeed.

“I had no such idea,” Arguen reacted. Now the laird’s mannerisms made sense. If she had lost someone by such violent means, she had no doubt that she, too, would become a shell of her former self.

“Aye. He’s never recovered, ye ken. It happened when Mirellain was a wee bairn, just startin’ tae walk.”

“I’m so sorry for the both of them,” Arguen murmured. She watched the steady rise and fall of little Mirellain’s chest to make sure she was still with them. Her golden curls were still plastered against her forehead. No matter what they had done that day, the fever had not broken. Arguen surmised it would take a few days, maybe a week, maybe longer for the fever to break.

If it did break, an intrusive thought reminded her. Just because she’d come straight from a successful birth did not mean that her efforts would be successful here. A sudden chill ran down her spine, as if to shake away the intrusive thought, prompting her to talk with Patsy again.

“Her mother must have been a true beauty,” Arguen commented.

Patsy nodded. “Aye, she was. A bit taller than ye, methinks, with long golden hair, a fair complexion, and green eyes.”

Arguen cocked her head. The description of Mirellain’s mother sounded much like Marianne, but she brushed the thought away. It was simply coincidental. Many beautiful young women had gold hair and green eyes. It was the standard, really, quite unlike silver hair and her shocking blue eyes. She was just being paranoid, she reminded herself. Marianne was only on her mind because of the birth and the fever, nothing more.

At that moment, Patsy let forth an enormous yawn, and excused herself for such impropriety. Arguen dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “Ye should get some rest. I’ll need yer help in the morn,” she said.

Patsy was in no mood to resist. Her own bed was at the foot of the bench, perpendicular to Mirellain’s. “Are ye sure ye dinnae need help now?” she asked, rubbing her eyes and sitting on the edge of the bed.

Arguen shook her head, trying to hold back a yawn of her own. “Nay. I’ll watch over her taenight, an’ I’ll wake ye if something goes awry. But we hope tae God it won’t,” she added.

Patsy nodded, bade her goodnight, then was asleep in a matter of minutes. Arguen didn’t blame her—from what she’d gathered, she’d been the one to tend to Mirellain constantly for the first two days.

And now that the child was sleeping and breathing a little better, Arguen could let her guard down a bit. She rose, padded across the room to Mirellain’s bed, and knelt next to the child. She was still hot to the touch, and the rash still covered her body, but other than that, she looked to be sleeping peacefully. Arguen yawned. She would have to be extra vigilant tonight—no one was going to die on her watch.

Oh, but she was exhausted. She’d been awake for nearly three days straight now, and it was starting to get to her. Maybe...she could just close her eyes, for a little bit, and rest. Just there. Yes, Patsy was here. And Mirellain was breathing. Surely, a little nap would not hurt. Arguen curled up on the stone floor next to the child’s bed and closed her eyes. Very soon, she too was fast asleep.

Chapter Thirteen

Blake had completed all the tasks Arguen had ordered him to. Everyone who had not been exposed to scarlet fever had left, and those who had been exposed before stayed put in their rooms. The castle was quiet now, no longer a buzzing hub of activity. The cooks and kitchen maids still had to make food, of course, and the other servants still had to clean, but no one gathered in the great hall, or the library, or the gardens. Thankfully, everyone seemed to have listened to him so far.

It was late at night now, the half-moon high in the sky, as he walked the corridor to his daughter’s bedchamber. He’d been praying silently all day that Arguen would be able to help. The village was abuzz about her skill and generosity. Surely, she would be able to heal his daughter.