Highland Warrior. Hannah Howell

greatly enrich them.

      “There isnae any need to exert ourselves,” Ewan said. “We must simply take careful note of all she says. The truth will slip out. It may come in bits and pieces, but it will come.”

      “How can ye be sure?”

      “Tis already happening. I ken her brother is a laird, there is a close female relation named Gilly, and she has the sort of connections that would allow her to train with Lady Maldie Murray, a legendary healer. Once I can speak with Simon, I suspect I will discover e’en more, for she talked with him a great deal last eve.”

      “Weel, that might work. No lass can hold tight to a secret. But are ye sure she will e’en be worth a ransoming? She isnae dressed as a fine lady and she had no escort as a fine lady should.”

      “Her clothing is of a verra fine quality as are her weapons. Her mount is also one only a weelborn lass could afford. Despite her odd attire and skill with weapons, all else bespeaks a lass of good blood. Aye, someone will pay to have her returned, and ’tis best if she is returned to them unharmed and with no tales of cruelty to tell.”

      Ewan breathed a silent sigh of relief when his father nodded, his attention distracted by Bonnie, a plump maid who was the current object of his father’s lust. Fingal had abandoned his role of coldhearted warrior to become the warm-blooded lecher all too well known to the people of Scarglas. It was his father’s constantly changing moods, his inability to keep his attention and energy set on any single path for long, as well as his inability to control his emotions, that had allowed Ewan to take the man’s place as laird. The fact that Fingal had not cared about the change in leadership made it all too clear that he did not really want the burden of leading and caring for his clan.

      It was such erratic behavior which had made the people of Scarglas accept Ewan’s place as laird. It was also such behavior which made Ewan, and far too many others, uncertain about the health of Fingal’s mind. Ewan would watch his father act with no restraint or shift from one mood or thought to another within a heartbeat and fear that madness lurked there. It was that fear which made Ewan strive for control and restraint in all things. At times he could feel fierce emotions and desires stir to life within him and would fight hard to banish them, chilled by the fear that he might be just like his father. Fiona stirred such emotions within him, which was why he intended to do his best to ignore and avoid her.

      There was a beast within him, a creature of strong emotion and fierce desires. That beast was nudged awake every time he looked at Fiona. He had thought he had tamed it, but he now knew he had only caged it. For the sake of his own sanity and the welfare of the people of Scarglas, he had to keep it caged. That meant that he had to keep his distance from Fiona even as he rooted out the truth of who she was. The days ahead looked to be long and troublesome, he thought, and then tried to turn his father’s attention back to matters of importance and away from the sway of Bonnie’s ample hips.

      “Do ye truly believe such cleanliness is necessary?” asked Mab as she frowned down at a sleeping Simon.

      “Aye,” replied Fiona, slouching in a chair on the other side of Simon’s bed. “I cannae say why it is, but wounds kept clean heal faster and better. They dinnae go putrid, risking the life of the wounded one. There is less chance of a dangerous fever as weel. Since infection and fever can cause e’en the smallest injury to become mortal, I am willing to do anything to fend them off, e’en if I dinnae ken the why of it.”

      Mab nodded. “I confess that I have but a meager skill. When I came here, there wasnae anyone who truly wished to be a healer, so I took that place for myself. Twill be verra helpful to learn from ye as I can see that ye have a true skill and much knowledge.” She smiled at Fiona. “I am verra good at making potions and salves, however. I am certain I shall soon hit upon a grand cure for something.”

      Before Mab could yet again suggest Fiona try her cure for scars, Fiona asked, “Ye say ye came here? Ye arenae from Scarglas? Ye arenae a MacFingal?”

      “Nay. I came here, oh, ten years ago, I think it was. I am a Drummond. Weel, I was a Drummond. They made it verra clear they didnae want me anymore.” Mab sighed. “I still dinnae understand where I went wrong. My salve should have worked. And I am verra certain I mixed that potion right. They must have all had verra delicate stomachs for it to work so swifty and fiercely. And I did offer to clean up the mess, foul though it was. I tried to explain to the laird that the potion wasnae a poison, that ’tis good to purge the body now and then. But he wouldnae listen. Wouldnae listen to my assurances that my salve would grow his hair back on that odd bald spot and that the strange green shade to his hair would assuredly grow out in time. He wouldnae heed a word, just tossed me and my belongings out.”

      Fiona tried to picture the results of Mab’s potion and salve, then quickly ceased. It was not a pleasant picture. “So ye came here? Ye had heard of the MacFingals?”

      “Och, nay. I had ne’er heard of them. The old laird found me hurrying away from a village.” Mab grimaced. “I was just trying to be helpful and I did rid that vile woman’s hair of lice. And it was a rather nice color in her hair, much akin to bluebells. But I must nay brood o’er such things. As I left, I met the old laird, and, weel”—Mab blushed—“he was so charming, so ardent. I was quite swept away. Twas a wee bit disconcerting to arrive here and discover that he had a wife, but I needed a home, didnae I? So, I stayed and took my place as the healer. My laddie is nine now and is seeking his place within the clan. This week he works with the armorer to see if he would like to learn that skill.”

      “Ye bore the laird a son?”

      “Aye, my wee Ned. A lovely laddie and the joy of my life. I was afeared that I would be sent away by the laird’s wife, but she was dead ere anyone noticed I was carrying. Killed by lightning whilst trysting with a Gray.”

      “Oh, and that is what began the feud, is it?”

      “Nay. The old laird had already made enemies of near everyone by then.” Mab idly smoothed the blanket over Simon. “The Grays have been our enemies from the verra beginning. They wanted Scarglas and werenae happy when Fingal got his hands on it. They claim it was promised to them, but the mon who held it gave it to the old laird, who was his cousin. Fingal was blood after all. Twas only right.”

      Before Fiona could ask anything else, a plump, dark-haired woman entered the room, set a large tray of food and wine on a table near the fireplace, and left. She said not one word. The only notice she gave of the other occupants of the room was a brief, fierce glare aimed at Mab. Fiona moved to sit in a chair near the table and waved Mab into the other seat. For a moment, she sipped her wine and nibbled on a thick piece of bread.

      “Who was that woman?” asked Fiona as she cut herself a piece of mutton.

      “Clare,” replied Mab. “She doesnae like anyone. Used to be a MacKenzie, but fled her clan. She is thrice a widow, and when her third husband died, many thought she was killing them. She doesnae care for the women who bed the old laird, especially the ones who did so when he had a wife. I suspicion she lowered herself to bring this food to us because she was curious about ye. She has been here, oh, near to a dozen years. She married Angus the stablemaster near ten years past and he still lives, so I think her other husbands were just an ill-favored lot.”

      “So, she is now a MacFingal, too. Just who are the MacFingals? I have ne’er heard of them yet they must have held this land for many years as it was a kinsmon who gave it to the old laird.”

      “He wasnae a MacFingal. The MacFingals are a new clan.” Mab chuckled. “Verra new. Tis the truth, the old laird started it. He had a falling-out with his kinsmen and turned his back on them. Decided to start his own clan, named it after himself. Fingal came here a few months before his cousin died, a verra distant cousin, and obviously wooed the mon into naming him his heir. Fingal married the mon’s daughter to secure it all, e’en though she was promised to another. She gave Fingal one son ere she died.”

      “Then what is the name of his kinsmen’s clan?” Fiona was astonished when Mab suddenly looked fearful, even going a little pale.

      “We cannae