Awaiting the Wolf Killer Highlander by Alisa Adams
1
Aodh coughed wetly, stirring Sorcha from her light and fitful slumber by his side.
She peered over at his unconscious form, then pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, feeling the fever that burned fiercely there. His veins were still terribly inflamed, dark with whatever foul sickness was consuming him so slowly and relentlessly.
And there was not a thing she could do for her little brother but to watch helplessly and wait for his last breath to escape his lips.
Sorcha noticed that the small book of poetry she’d been reading—or rather, trying to read, in a vain attempt to ward off her anxiety and despair—had tumbled from her hands and onto the stone floor. She leaned over and recovered it, trying to remember which page she’d been on when she had succumbed to her exhaustion.
The door opened, and Edmund entered, his posture as stiff and formal as ever. Sorcha noticed that he was doing a far better job of keeping the sympathy and concern from his eyes when he looked at her, ever since she had yelled at him and told him she was sick of seeing it there.
The senseless outburst had not been fair to him. She had known that even then, and she knew that he did too, that he had graciously stood fast and served as her whipping boy when she’d needed one to vent her frustration and rage.
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “My lady, you have not left this room for days. I know the concern you feel for your brother, and none could blame you for that—”
“Except that you are about to tell me the members of the clan are blaming me for that, aren’t you, Edmund?” she asked wearily.
His lips tightened into a line at her shrewd observation, but he pressed on. “It is your duty to lead this clan while Aodh is unable to do so. As such, there are numerous responsibilities which must be attended to.”
“I have no doubt that you are more than willing to catalog them for me in tremendous detail,” Sorcha retorted. “Indeed, since you are so well-versed in them, I see no reason why you should not continue to see to them on my behalf.”
“Because I am not a laird.”
She scoffed, “Neither am I, remember?”
“No, my lady, but you are a Campbell which, in this case, is the next best thing. You may be assured that in the absence of your direct leadership, other men who are not Campbells have expressed keen interest in assuming control of this clan. The longer you remain sequestered, the more support they muster.”
Sorcha scowled. “You speak of Ryan McKenna, no doubt.”
“Aye, among others,” Edmund affirmed. “Fergus bid me to stay here and look after the concerns of your family as best I can. Please allow me to do so, my lady. Heed my counsel. Or at the very least, tell me why you feel you cannot.”
Sorcha sighed. Her back hurt from sitting in the chair for so long, yet she found she could not summon the will to stand and stretch her legs. Everything seemed so hopeless to her in that moment, so far beyond her control.
“Did you hear of the old woman who intruded on this chamber several nights ago?” she began.
“I did,” he replied evenly. “I was told that despite her age and apparent frailty, it took several guards to drag her from the premises. A curious thing indeed.”
“‘Curious’ is one way of putting it.” Sorcha shuddered. “She was the one who first told me that the illness which afflicts Aodh had spread to others in the village. She said that I was to blame. That it was a curse upon our clan, a divine punishment for being led by a woman instead of a laird.”
Edmund frowned. “And you believe this, do you?”
“I do not wish to believe it,” she insisted. “I would like nothing more than to dismiss it as mere superstition and nonsense! However, I am told each day that the number of afflicted villagers doubles and doubles again! The servants in the hallway outside my door do not think I hear them when they whisper and fret about how many are attributing this sickness to my leadership!”
Edmund bent to one knee in front of Sorcha’s chair, looking into her eyes earnestly. “They are wrong to blame you, for you have no more control over the spreading of this illness than you have over the rising and setting of the sun. However, they might be in a better position to see that if you walk among them, if you visit with their stricken, demonstrate that you are a caring and attentive leader…”
“You truly believe this might change their opinion of me, Edmund?” she asked hopefully.
“Yes.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “And something else, as well. The healers of the castle must be tasked with ministering to the sick in the village.”
She peered at him, confused. “Have they not been?”
“No, my lady. Not all of them.”
Sorcha’s eyes widened incredulously. “You do not mean to suggest that I dismiss the healers who remain to tend to my brother?!”
“I shall answer that question with one of my own,” he replied. “Is there anything they have done for Aodh these past several days which you could not do for him yourself? Apply compresses to his forehead and water to his lips, clean and replace his bedclothes, and watch for changes in his condition? Or are such menial tasks beneath you?”
“You know they are not, sir!” she retorted angrily.
“Good! Then assume those duties, and let the remaining healers see to the farmers and villagers.”
She did not wish to admit it, but she knew that he was right. “Very well. Just give me this one last night, and tomorrow I shall visit with the townsfolk and bring the healers with me. If you feel that these things will raise the clan’s spirits and renew their trust in me.”
“It could scarcely hurt, my lady,” Edmund said, rising to his feet. “Thank you. I will take my leave of you, then, and bid you good night.”
He withdrew from the room, and a few moments later, Amelia, the servant girl, entered. She was a pale and scrawny girl with a large nose, close-set eyes, and mouse-brown hair. “May I bring you anything, my lady?” she asked timidly. “Some supper, perhaps? You have taken no food for days now, and you must eat if you are to keep your strength up.”
Sorcha gave her a tired smile. “You are very kind, Amelia. But no. I am not hungry. Rather, I believe I will try to sleep.”
“Very well.” Amelia seemed reluctant to leave her. “In that case, I wanted to give you these.” She reached into a pocket of her apron and produced a handful of small blue flowers. “I picked them from the garden. You have not taken the time to collect any yourself lately, and I know how you enjoy wearing them in your hair.”
“That was extremely thoughtful of you.” Sorcha accepted the flowers, looking down at them. “I have never learned the proper name for these, you know? None who have seen them have ever been able to tell me, yet they grow on the hillsides nearby. Not every year, or even most, but every now and then, like a special treat. As a girl, I called them Angel’s Teardrops.” She sniffled, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Aodh told me it was a stupid name for them. He said there were no such things as ‘angels,’ and even if there were, they wouldn’t go around crying all over a bunch of Scottish hills. He was so serious-minded, and now…”
But she could not finish. Her grief was simply too great, and it overcame her, causing her to put her face in her hands and sob.
Amelia patted her shoulder gently. “There, there, my lady. He will wake up from this, you shall see. And for what it is worth, not everyone in the clan—or even among the servants of the castle—believes this sickness is your fault. Just a horrid turn of events, that’s all.”
Sorcha wished she could be as sure of these things as Amelia seemed to be.
