Highland Sword. Ruth Ryan Langan

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      “I’ll need willow bark. Essence of balm. Wood anemone, and cool water from a Highland stream.”

      Merrick struggled to rein in his impatience. “I saw you heal yourself, as well as my steed, with nothing more than a touch. What need have you of these things?”

      “There is more here than a fever. More than a mere tumble from a tree. Your son lies gravely ill, my lord. Do you wish him cured, or merely brought back from the edge of death?”

      Without warning his hands closed around her upper arms, dragging her to her feet. His face, inches from hers, was tight with fury, his breath hot against her cheek.

      “I didn’t risk life and limb to spar with your tart tongue, woman. You’ll get everything you need. But never forget, if I find you playing me for a fool, I’ll see that you pay dearly.”

      He released her and turned on his heel, shouting for the housekeeper, who came running.

      “Our healer desires willow bark, essence of balm, wood anemone and cool water. See that they are brought to her at once.”

      “Aye, my lord.”

      He turned to Allegra, who hadn’t moved. “Will you require anything else?”

      “That’s enough. For now.” Trembling from his touch, she turned her back on him and settled herself once more beside the boy. She knew if she were to check, she would find bruises on her upper arms. The lord’s hands were strong enough that he could easily snap her bones with but a single touch.

      There was such violence in him. Though he kept it in check, it was there, bubbling just beneath the surface, threatening at any moment to boil over, scalding anyone who got too close.

      Was his anger the cause of so much darkness in this place? Or had the darkness caused his anger?

      She needed to put aside her fear of the lord if she were to open herself to the needs of his son. Still, it was disconcerting to have the man here, hovering about, weighing her every move. He was a distraction. One she could ill afford, especially since she was having such trouble concentrating.

      The lad’s mother was no longer in the land of the living, but was now on the other side. Of that Allegra was certain. But from the troubled look in her eyes, it had not been a peaceful passing. Perhaps, Allegra thought suddenly, the lord had had a hand in her death. That would explain why she hovered so near, wishing to protect her son from the same cruel fate.

      Allegra laid her hands on the lad’s head and closed her eyes, struggling to shut out the man and his problems while absorbing the boy’s pain. At once she was thrust back into a Highland meadow. She had a sense of the boy’s voice, high-pitched with excitement. Hamish climbing. Laughing as, surefooted as a mountain cat, he moved from branch to branch. Allegra felt the momentary distraction. Was it a flash of memory? Something or someone just above him, hidden in the branches? Whether it was man or beast, it seemed dark and frightening. Had he been startled? Pushed?

      She probed deeper. The glint of murky liquid in a silver goblet. A muffled gasp. Then the image was gone and there was a quick little skitter of fear as the lad’s foot slipped, and he realized he’d lost his grip. Then he was tumbling, head over heels, toward the ground.

      She absorbed the jolt as he landed in the grass and lay watching the sky above him spinning in dizzying circles. Allegra felt the room spin and wanted desperately to press a hand to her stomach. But she dared not let go of the lad now, when they were so closely connected.

      Again something. A flash of memory. A face peering down at him. A whispered voice that sent icy chills along the lad’s spine. Then, before he could hold on to it, the memory was gone.

      Ever so slowly the clouds came into focus, and then he was struggling to sit up.

      Allegra’s own mind settled.

      “Hamish?” It was a feminine voice. “Are you hurt?”

      “Nay.” He got to his feet.

      “Want to climb again?”

      He shook his head. “I must go home.”

      “Not yet. Come. We’ll climb higher.”

      “Nay.” He refused, though he knew not why. He knew only that he had to go home. Now. This instant, while the fear had him by the throat. He struggled for a reason. “Mistress MacDonald said Cook was making biscuits the way I like them. Drizzled with honey. I mustn’t be late.”

      Hamish started toward his father’s fortress in the distance.

      Allegra wondered at the sudden flare of heat as the boy had another flash of memory. Just a flash, but it was enough to cause a spark of absolute terror. The spark flared into flame, burning so brightly it obscured all thought but one.

      Danger. Danger. He had to get home at once.

      Then he was running. Running so hard, so fast, his heart was thundering, and the breath burning his throat. There was but one thought Allegra could discern. He had to get to his father’s home. There was something important he had to tell him as soon as he returned from the battle. His very life, and that of everyone here in the castle, depended on it.

      Allegra looked up at a commotion in the doorway as the housekeeper directed servants to set up a table beside the boy’s pallet. At once the connection was broken, and the boy’s thoughts scattered and fled and were lost to her. She took in several deep breaths to calm her racing heart.

      “We fetched what you’ve asked for.” The tiny woman was out of breath from her hasty climb.

      “Thank you.” Allegra sighed. Now she would have to begin again.

      As she let go of the boy’s hands and sat back, she glanced at the housekeeper and had to turn away to hide the sudden smile that threatened.

      The poor woman was too terrified to enter the room. Instead she’d remained in the doorway, calling out her directions while holding on to the door. Perhaps, Allegra thought, she meant to slam it in her face if threatened with harm.

      The servants looked equally afraid, working so quickly they nearly knocked each other over in their desire to escape.

      At least, she thought, there would be few interruptions. Except, of course, for Lord Merrick MacAndrew. He was now pacing back and forth in front of the fire, a goblet of ale in his hands.

      He paused to stare at her, and she felt as though she were staring down the devil himself. Such anger there. Such darkness.

      He drained his goblet, then resumed his pacing.

      It was then she noticed that his cousins, Mordred and Desmond, had also remained. Both men were seated in the shadows, their gazes narrowed on her with fierce concentration. Perhaps they thought to protect the lord from the wicked witch.

      This was, she feared, going to prove to be a very long night. And with each passing minute, she could feel her strength ebbing.

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