Page 3

Sheona spun around, her body jerking, her hand flying to the small iron dagger she usually kept tucked in her apron, only to find her apron gone and her belt empty.

Near the narrow adjoining doorway leading to the inner herb closet, a small copper bowl was rocking on the stone floorboards. Beside it stood a small boy, no older than eight or nine, frozen mid-step.

He wore a dark blue tunic tucked into a tartan plaid wrapped neatly across his chest. His mop of dark, unruly curls fell forward over wide, inquisitive eyes. In his right hand, he clutched a bruised sprig of dried rosemary so tightly that the tiny gray-green leaves crumbled beneath his thumb.

As soon as Sheona’s eyes locked onto him, a deep, crimson flush crept up from his collar, painting his round cheeks bright red.

“I wasnae hidin’!” the boy blurted out instantly, taking a hasty step back into the doorway, his chin jutting out in defensive alarm. “I wasnae spyin’, neither!”

Sheona slowly lowered her hands, smoothing the folds of her gown. She didn’t move toward him, keeping her stance relaxed, though her heart was still hammering against her ribs. “I didnae say ye were, lad.”

The boy shifted his weight from one leather shoe to the other, his gaze darting nervously to the doorway behind her, then back to the bruised sprig in his grip. “The healer leaves the door unlatched when she goes to the lower kitchens. I only came in to smell the herbs.”

“The herbs?” Sheona asked softly.

“Aye,” he muttered, holding up the bent sprig of rosemary.

He pointed a small, ink-stained index finger toward the hearth, where a large bundle of rosemary hung near the warm chimney stones, then swung it toward the window, where a much smaller, pale green bundle swayed in the damp breeze. “Those by the chimney smell like hot pinewood, but the ones near the glass smell like rain. I wanted to see if they felt different, too.”

Sheona looked from the hearth to the window, then back down to the small, red-cheeked boy.

Dark curls. Dark, intense eyes that seemed to measure everything in the room at once.

Eyes that looked as if they had been lifted straight from the formidable face of Laird MacKinley himself.

“Father says I amnae allowed in the solar while he is away,” the boy piped up, tilting his chin with that same familiar, stubborn defiance.

The realization hit her.

MacKinley is a father? That cold, unyieldin’ wall of a laird has a bairn?

Unable to stop herself, Sheona slowly sank onto her knees, letting her heavy woolen skirts settle onto the cold stone floor so she was sitting at eye level with him. She rested her forearms lightly on her knees.

“What made ye want to ken?” she asked gently.

The boy blinked, completely caught off guard. The defensive set of his shoulders melted away, replaced by a deep frown of intense concentration. “Most grown folk just tell me to stop touchin’ things and get out from underfoot.”

“Well,” Sheona said, a faint, fleeting smile touching the corner of her mouth despite the weight in her chest. “I’m nae most grown folk, am I?”

The lad took two hesitant steps forward, his small leather shoes scraping against the floorboards until he stood right beside her. He held out the sprig of rosemary.

“I thought… Well, if the herbs smell different, maybe one bundle heals folk better than the other. If a man has a fever from a deep cut, maybe he needs the rain-smellin’ one instead of the hearth-smellin’ one.”

Sheona reached out, her fingers carefully brushing against his as she took the rosemary sprig from his hand. She held it up between them, lifting it to her nose to inhale the sharp, piney scent, then held it out for him to see.

“Most folk think a healer reads herbs first,” Sheona said, shaking her head slowly. “They’re wrong.”

The boy frowned thoughtfully, his dark brows pulling together in a sharp V that looked startlingly like Laird Brodie’s. “They are?”

“Aye,” Sheona murmured. She reached out and lightly tapped two fingers against the small lad’s chest, right over his heart. “A good healer reads people first. What they need. What they’re hidin’. Where the hurt truly sits.”

She placed the sprig of rosemary back into his small, open palm, gently folding his fingers over the crushed stem. “The herbs only tell the rest of the story.”

The child stared at her, his dark eyes wide and unblinking, taking in her words. He looked down at his folded hands, then looked back up at her face, studying her pale cheeks, her dark hair, and the blue of her eyes.

Slowly, a massive, brilliant smile broke across his face, lighting up his entire features.

“I’m Angus,” he announced proudly.