To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull #1)

Chapter Seventeen

R onan sighed with relief. Anwen slept at last. He and his father knelt like sentries, one at each side of her bed. With every breath she took, he allowed himself to hope, but each hard-won gasp was shallower than the last. As she exhaled, he leaned closer, waiting once more for her chest to rise.

The hour grew late. Aidan should have returned with Shoney by now. What if she refused to come? When they last parted, she had been furious, but what other choice did he have but to answer the call of the bell? Then her voice crept into his mind—he could have taken her along. He could have declared to all that the Witch of Dervaig was no more than a legend—that in her stead was a virtuous woman of flesh and blood whom he loved. He could have, but he chose once again to leave her behind. Was Shoney right? Was he ashamed of her?

He shook his head. He knew that was not the truth, but he had lied to himself and to her. The clan would never welcome her, and his father would never forgive him if he tried.

If only she had agreed to his plan to take on a fresh identity; then questions and doubts would not be plaguing his mind. It was foolish for her to grip so tightly to a way of life that had long since disappeared into the mists of time. She was stubborn. But then again so was he, and he would win this battle. If Aidan was able to execute his plan, then he may have already won. Perhaps Bridget MacLeod, the healer from Skye, was right now climbing the stone stairwell to his mother’s rooms.

He looked toward the door, willing it to open and reveal Shoney’s arrival, but the heavy wood remained closed. He growled with frustration. They should have been here by now. He instructed Aidan to sail to the cliffs beneath Shoney’s hut and wait one day’s time before his return; the delay was a necessary risk if the clan was to believe the healer had been retrieved from Iona.

“She grows weaker.” Nathair interrupted his thoughts.

“I know, father,” he replied.

His father jumped to his feet. “I must act, Ronan. I must do something. I cannot wait idly by while she dies in my arms. I must fight for her. Tell me what to do.”

Just then, there was a knock at the door. Ronan inhaled sharply and held his father’s gaze for a moment. He knew Nathair carried the same prayer—let it be the healer at the door.

Father Colin stepped inside and addressed Nathair, “Good Laird, the healer, Bridget MacLeod of Skye, late of Iona, has arrived. ”

“Aye, aye, bring her in,” Nathair urged.

Ronan held his breath. He could not believe Shoney was in his home, standing just beyond the door. It was all he could do not to push past the priest and take her into his arms. But when she walked into the room, her eyes blazing with fury, he knew even if he threw caution to the wind and gathered her into his embrace, it would not be welcomed. He was a fool to expect anything but hostile steel eyes. He had commanded Aidan to let her believe she was coming to the castle as herself, as Shoney. Only when they arrived in port was the pretense to be revealed. By the look on Shoney’s face, Ronan knew his plan had worked.

“Bridget,” began the priest. “Allow me to introduce Nathair, Laird of the MacKinnon.”

As warm grey eyes turned to greet Nathair, Ronan relaxed a little. At least she had a smile for his father.

“I am pleased to meet ye and to be of service,” she said.

“Thank ye, Bridget was it?” Nathair said coldly. His father’s lips settled into a grim line as he crossed his arms and stared at Shoney with disdain. Ronan shot Aidan a puzzled look, but he seemed just as surprised by Nathair’s contemptuous attitude.

“Father Colin, please leave us,” the Mackinnon instructed.

NATHAIR BOLTED THE door after the priest all the while sneering at Shoney. She sucked in a sharp breath as his scorn washed over her. Her anger with Ronan was forgotten, replaced by sudden trepidation. Nathair’s eyes were every bit as amber as Ronan’s, but they narrowed into hateful slits as he slowly moved toward her. Searching the room for amber eyes filled with love, she met Ronan’s gaze and found the comfort she sought. With tilted chin and straight back, she faced Nathair again but this time with a warrior’s courage.

He scowled at her, drawing his sword. Without hesitation, she lunged for the iron poker by the fireplace, but as she turned, poker raised at the ready, she realized she was not the one under attack. Instead, Nathair rushed at Ronan. She screamed. Ronan stood unflinching. He did not raise his sword or back away as Nathair’s blade began its swift descent toward his skull.

“Nay,” she cried and turned away, expecting to hear the gruesome sound of blade cutting flesh and bone. But instead, the clang of metal reverberated throughout the room. It was Aidan’s blade that intervened. The laird’s eyes bulged and sweat dripped down his red face as he strained to overcome the warrior protecting his son.

“A witch,” Nathair spat. “Ye bring a witch to yer mother’s deathbed.”

Ronan met her gaze. He looked as surprised as she felt. “How did ye know?”

Nathair spun around, keeping his sword aloft. “I know who ye are,” he seethed. “Ye’re the Witch of Dervaig like yer demon whore mother before ye.”

She raised her weapon. The sheer size of her opponent stole her breath. His broad shoulders were only slightly smaller than Ronan’s, and he stood only a hand shorter. Despite her fear, she did not flinch as he advanced. Her only hope rested in her ability to deflect the might of his first assault. She was smaller, quicker, and her weapon lighter. If she could thrust before he was ready to strike again, then she might survive. Her stance was firm, and her arms were steady, but her skills were not to be tested against the chieftain of the MacKinnon. Ronan moved behind his father and, taking hold of the MacKinnon’s arm, he wrenched the sword from his hand. Relief was hers for only a moment as Nathair continued his slow approach.

The raw aggression on his face sent chills down her spine, causing her to forget she was now the only one still in possession of a weapon. She staggered back against the wall. No sooner did she feel the cold stone of the castle behind her then Nathair’s image disappeared. Ronan and Aidan lunged in front of her, shielding her from harm. Shoulder to shoulder, they formed an impenetrable blockade. Their great muscled frames made her feel as slight and insignificant as a wisp of smoke. Breathless, she leaned her forehead against Ronan’s back. She had expected to face prejudice, but nothing could have prepared her for the expression of naked loathing in Nathair’s eyes.

“Back down, father,” Ronan growled.

“Yer father,” Nathair called out to her, ignoring Ronan’s warning, “Alec MacKinnon, was struck on the battlefield at my side. Before he died, he confessed his vile affair with yer mother and warned they begot a child of Satan.”

“Enough,” Ronan shouted, but Shoney interrupted him.

“Nay,” she said from behind their backs. “I would hear what he has to say.” Her mother had never spoke of her father, and until that moment, Shoney had never known his name.

“She appears to be very familiar with ye, boy,” Nathair sneered. “So, this is why our fields have gone unplowed. Ye’ve been plowing a witch instead.”

Ronan’s shoulders tensed, and the vein at his neck throbbed, but he did as she asked and refrained from speaking.

“It seems as though my son has fallen victim to yer sorcery. Yer beauty is indeed unmatched—like yer mother’s.” His voice sounded distant now as if he had moved across the room. “Alec spoke of her unrivaled beauty. I had to see for myself the spell that could mask the hideous face of the Witch of Dervaig. So, I hid out near yer window, and at nightfall, after she limped back into her hut, I peered inside. She swept the cloak from her shoulders, and there she stood—ropes of golden hair danced like Satan’s fire at her hips and eyes that gleamed like steel swords met my own.”

Shoney jumped as a low wail filled the room, interrupting the laird. Peeking behind Ronan’s arm she noticed Anwen for the first time lying in a large bed the likes of which Shoney had never seen. Shoney took in Anwen’s ashen skin and her raspy breathing and knew she had to act fast, or they would lose her .

“Ronan, I must tend to yer mother before it is too late,” she whispered.

He took hold of her hand and held it tightly. She squeezed his to offer her encouragement as his eyes flitted to his mother and then to his father.

“Father, despite what ye might think of Bridget, she is a very skilled healer.”

Nathair shook his head. “Nay. If I am right, ye’re an instrument of Satan. If I am wrong, ye still have a fey look about ye, like one of the fair folks. Yer hands will not touch my wife.”

“MacKinnon,” Aidan interrupted. “With every due respect, we’re losing her. We’ve exhausted all our knowledge. She is yer last hope. Let the lass try.”

Nathair stared at his wife as she twisted and cried out with pain. His shoulders stooped, and his eyes glazed over with fatigue as the fight left him. It was clear to Shoney he had given up all hope.

“The Lord, Jesus Christ, has forsaken this home. Let the heathen try,” Nathair murmured as he shuffled toward the door. Before he left, he turned back and said, “We are damned—all of us.”

Then he was gone.

Shoney did not hesitate one moment after the laird’s departure. “Ronan fetch the women in yer mother’s attendance. Aidan put more wood on the fire.” Both men were swift to carry out her bidding. She laid her satchel on the table next to Anwen’s bed and began unpacking the various herbs and potions. She had meadowsweet and chamomile for pain, a mixture of ivy and nettle juice to cure infection, and mugwort oil and quickgrass to heal womanly diseases.

Three women were soon standing before Shoney awaiting her instruction. Ronan introduced her as Bridget and once again the feelings of anger and betrayal returned, but she shrugged them off. She could not allow herself to be distracted. A woman’s life was in her hands. At least, she wasn’t alone.

The oldest woman was called Morna, and despite her years, she was beautiful with salted black curls and bright blue eyes, leaving no doubt in Shoney’s mind that she was Aidan’s mother. There was also Flora who was short and slight of build, smaller even than Shoney. Flora’s brow furrowed with worry as she stood wringing her hands. Then, there was Una who was close to Shoney in age. She was a striking girl with black curls and wide black eyes, and when she turned to the side, Shoney could tell she was expecting.

“Ladies, let us get to work. Morna, strip off her damp clothing and change her blankets. ‘Tis important she stays warm and dry.”

Shoney passed Una a mug crammed with crushed meadowsweet. “Fill this with boiling water. Allow it to steep for several minutes; then see that she drinks it down. It will ease her pain.”

“Morna, I need to know if Anwen has felt discomfort while relieving herself.”

“It has caused her much pain. In fact, it was her first complaint when she told me she was feeling unwell. We gave her mugwort tea to cleanse her womanly areas, but it has not seemed to have any effect. ”

Shoney nodded. “’Tis as I expected. Ye were well advised to give her the tea, but I think she may have revealed her discomfort too late for that cure. It has spread to other places in her body, which is why she has succumbed to fever.”

“What must we do, Bridget?”

She blinked for a moment in confusion. She had forgotten that she was Bridget and not Shoney. She glared at Ronan, realizing then that he had given her the name she’d chosen as her alias when they had first met. Only then she’d been Bridget MacLean.

“Bridget?” Shoney said to Ronan with annoyance.

He smiled at her and shrugged. “It suits ye.”

Her scowl deepened as she gestured toward the door. “Leave us now,” she said to Aidan. “And take yer friend.” She turned her back on the men as she picked up her vial of mugwort oil, but a gentle touch on her shoulder drew her attention. She twisted her head to find Ronan standing behind her.

“Thank ye for coming, Shoney,” he whispered.

She motioned toward the door impatiently. “I will do everything in my power to save her. Now go, please. We will call ye if we have need.”

“The meadowsweet tea is brewing, Bridget.”

Shoney smiled at Una. “Good. Now wait just a few minutes before ye administer it. Flora, I need ye to fetch me a large head of cabbage and be swift.”

Shoney had a hunch that the tiny lady could move quickly, and she did not disappoint. She darted from the room with yellow hair flowing behind her, reminding Shoney of the little Yellowhammer birds that whizzed by her window in the morning.

“Morna, mugwort oil is much stronger than the tea and will penetrate her whole body, which just might do the trick, but first her pain needs to be eased. How is the tea, Una?” Shoney asked.

“’Tis ready,” she replied.

Una knelt beside Anwen’s pallet and tried to lift her head, but Anwen was writhing and shaking, making it impossible for Una to feed her the drink.

“Right,” Morna said. “Step aside for a moment, Una. Bridget and I will hold her down.”

Shoney helped Morna steady Anwen’s head, and they each held down a thrashing arm as Una gently poured the tea down her throat. Before long, Anwen was asleep.

“She burns so hot,” Morna whispered as she stroked Anwen’s face.

“Give her the oil. We must stop the infection,” Shoney urged.

Just then the door flew open. Flora stood gasping and waving a head of cabbage. “I found one,” she cried and rushed to Anwen’s side.

Shoney took hold of the cabbage and told the women to turn Anwen on her stomach. Then she pulled off several of the biggest leaves and arranged them over her lower back. Next, she positioned a long piece of dressing over the leaves and instructed the women to help her turn Anwen back over. After laying several more cabbage leaves across Anwen’s stomach, she firmly tied the dressing in place so that the leaves pressed into her skin .

“Cabbage leaves will draw out the illness,” Shoney explained.

She worked through the night with Morna, Una, and Flora at her side. The women never faltered or complained of fatigue. They listened carefully to her instructions and performed each tasked as asked. For so long she had been without the companionship of women, and now she was exchanging knowledge and sharing in the struggle to revive a woman who carried the spirit and hope of the clan.

She looked at the pale, peaceful face. She had lessened Anwen’s pain, for she slept now without tremors or tears. But her fever was still very high. She worried that even if the mugwort oil rid Anwen of the infection, she had burned too hot for too long. If she did recover in body, her mind still may be lost.

Having exhausted all medicinal remedies, Shoney turned her mind to the great women who had come before her. She prayed for them to come sit by Anwen’s side and expel the darkness possessing her body.

“Ladies, come sit with me and join hands.” None questioned Shoney. They sat together on the bed, forming a circle around Anwen.

“Ye’re her kinfolk, her sisters in life. She needs to know that ye’re here, that she’s not alone in the dark.”

“Would ye have us pray?” Morna asked.

“I would have ye sing. She will hear yer song. ”

It was Una who crooned the first fragile note, and one by one the other women joined in until their voices combined into one ethereal sound.

Hail to thee, thou new moon,

Guiding jewel of gentleness.

I am bending to thee my knee,

I am offering thee my love.

I am bending to thee my knee,

I am giving thee my hand,

I am lifting to thee mine eye,

O new moon of the seasons.

Thou queen-maiden of guidance,

Thou queen-maiden of good fortune,

Thou queen-maiden my beloved,

Thou new moon of the seasons. ?

Shoney closed her eyes as the song washed over her. It was as fragile and airy as moonlight. She decided then and there that she was not so different from the Gaelic women who surrounded her. They too were born of the land and the sky.

Shoney knelt by Anwen’s side as the haunting music continued. She pressed her lips to her forehead. It still burned with heat. Shoney gently stroked her cheek and studied her peaceful face. At first glance, Ronan seemed to resemble only his father with the same golden-brown hair and bright amber eyes. But now she could see the shape and set of his eyes were from his mother .

For the first time in many hours Shoney thought of Ronan. She pictured him pacing the hallway or racing across the moors on his horse as he tried to outrun his grief. He put his faith in her abilities and his beloved mother’s life in her hands. But as she looked at Anwen lying there, she could not help but see her own mother’s face during her final hours. She was just as frail as Brethia had been and her breathing was as shallow.

“Mother of all,” Shoney whispered. “Let her live.”