Chapter 2

2

I t felt like an eternity before Beitris opened her eyes and found—nothing. No one had come down to her and demanded she leave, and when she looked up, the men were gone, and no one was there, forcing her out of the door.

"Beitris," Martha gasped as she rushed forward. "Are ye all right?"

Jerked out of her daze, Beitris scrambled to her feet and turned to gaze over the suit of armor, the pieces scattered at her feet. She felt at a loss on how to put it back together but still grabbed the helmet and the breastplate, only to have a footman stop her.

"I'll fix it, Miss. Please go with Wallace and find yer rooms," the man said kindly.

Utterly humiliated, Beitris kept her head down as they passed the grand stairs and headed down a wide corridor that led to a hall of rooms. She assumed these were the servants lived, but the man led them up to the floor above where the rooms were smaller.

"Please," Wallace said, opening a door. "Healer Agatha has ordered for ye two to stay here."

"Thank ye, sir," Beitris replied. "I hope I havenae broken any part of the armor when it fell…"

Wallace's blue eyes danced. "Nay, Miss, I am sure ye havenae. That armor had been through many battles long before ye came and survived. Those suits ye saw lining the hall were from English commanders and knights that the lairds of this house had fought in many battles and won. It will nay be long before it is put back together."

Shocked, Beitris shook her head. "In any case, please tell yer lairdship I apologize for it."

"Oh, I am sure he kens," Wallace said. "He saw ye when it happened."

Stricken, she asked, "He was one of the men on the landing then?"

"Aye. The tall, dark-haired fellow in the maroon tunic." With that, Wallace dipped his head in a bow and left them. Beitris turned to the room, her chest a riot of emotions.

The way the laird had looked at her—as if she was nothing. The cold dread she had felt before turned into smoldering anger. Who was he to look at her so arrogantly? He did not know a thing about her, and while she knew nothing about him either, that still did not make it permissible to look at another with such derisiveness.

She bit her tongue and turned to select one of the two beds, both bigger than the simple cot she had at home, and set her bag on it. She turned to the cupboard at the side of the bed and began to unpack her clothes and special care items.

"I'd not expected to see his lairdship so soon," Martha admitted. "Or, well, not at all. Even if he grew ill, I assume he would have other healers tend to him."

Still off-put by the man's attitude, Beitris uttered a noncommittal sound.

A bit oblivious, Martha went on talking. "He's handsome though, isnae he?"

"He is," Beitris replied. "But he seems to be a pompous man as well."

Martha's mouth dropped. "Why do ye say so?"

"The look he gave me when I fell after knocking the armor over," Beitris huffed. "Anyway, it matters nae. I daenae think I will be seeing more of him than I've already had. I am more interested in finding the healing hall and speaking with Lady Agatha. I want to thank her as soon as possible."

"That's sensible," Martha added. "I'd like to accompany ye."

With their things set away, they headed down the corridor, looking for a footman or a maid to point them on their way. She had no intention or desire to see Laird MacKenzie anytime soon, or at all if that was how he treated those who were lesser than him.

Fortunately, they found a servant girl who led them to another part of the castle, a floor above them; the room seemed to encompass the full floor. It had wide windows that let much air in, and dried heather perfumed the room.

Three rows of ten cots were lined against the opposing walls, leaving a wide walkway in the middle. Large wooden tables, topped with every healing instrument Beitris could imagine, were near the beds, all of them neatly arranged.

A few women, clad in grey kirtles with maroon sashes and caps, were moving around the room, and Beitris smiled. This was her dream, the one thing she had hoped for years on end.

"Pardon me." Beitris stopped a woman. "Is Healer Agatha here?"

"Aye, miss," she replied. "In the room beyond."

With a smile, Beitris said, "Thank ye." She left for the other half of the room, and ducked inside to find an older woman seated in a cushioned chair while sorting thin stands on a table into mounds.

"Pardon me, Healer Agatha." Beitris curtsied. "I apologize for interrupting ye, but I am Beitris Craig, and I want to thank ye from the bottom of me heart for choosing me to be a part of yer company."

The older woman looked up with a smile, her dark eyes still sharp in her wrinkled face. The cap she wore had a veil which flowed down her back instead of the short ones the others wore.

The room was smaller than the others, but Beitris understood why; the table was lower, and the lady was seated in a special chair catering to her age.

"It is me pleasure to have ye here, lass. I am told ye have done some wonderful work, healing men of rotting skin, ailments of the stomach, and ye saved a farmer from losing his foot after a spike was run through it."

Beitris felt her cheeks warm. "Thank ye. I am happy to be here and would love to start my duties as soon as ye bid me to do so."

"For the first few days, I will have ye observing what the other healers do as I assume some of our methods will be strange to ye. Also, we must take measurements for yer daily attire, which will be made in a sennight. Ye'll have a good handle on what we do here by that time."

"And I am looking forward to it," Beitris replied. "Thank ye."

"That lass trippin' over her feet was hilarious," Vincent Mills, Andrew's man-at-arms and best friend chortled as they entered Andrew's main meeting room. "She looked so prettily confused when she fell."

Thinking of the girl who had toppled his grandfather's addition to the row of war prizes, he rolled his eyes. The lass had drawn his gaze and held it with her lustrous brown hair spilling over her shoulders, framing her oval face and petite frame. Even with that dowdy dress, he could see her curves; they were well hidden, but there was no doubt they were there and bountiful.

She had beautiful, delicate cheekbones and wide eyes whose color he couldn't discern from that far away, but her beauty was not what called him to her—she seemed so innocent.

"The other miss is a pretty little thing, too," Vincent added. "Even though she looks a bit mousy and delicate. Who are they, though?"

"I have nae inkling," Andrew replied, clearing his throat. "But can we get back to the matter of hand? Why are we having reivers so early? They usually start raiding at harvest time."

"I cannot tell ye, sir." Vincent's mirth vanished as he fell into soldier form. "But I will find out why. I already have scouts searching for who these people are and where they came from. They could be nomads traveling from the far north."

"Could be," Andrew replied. "But we cannae take any chances. We need to find who they are and send them on their way."

"And if they are nay harmless travelers." Vincent rested his hand on his sheathed sword. "We shall dispatch them another way."

"Good," Andrew replied. "I am glad ye are seeing the importance of this."

"Oh, I am," Vincent replied, his tone slipping to sly. "Just as much as ye had looking at the other lass."

Eyes narrowing, Andrew defended himself. "I wasnae."

"We shan't play this game," Vincent replied, bracing his hand on Andrew's desk and grinning. "Ye might show as much emotion as the walls around us or the stones outside, but there are times when yer guise slips. I saw yer eyes flash when the lass fell like ye wanted to go and rush to her aid, be her shining rescuer, but ye kept away. Why?"

"I am about to marry," Andrew replied stiffly.

"So?" Vincent asked. "Yer nay paying the pied piper yet. What is the harm in enjoying yerself in the meantime?"

"I amnae in the business of warming a lass's bed and moving on," Andrew ground out.

"Ye cannae tell me yer nay intrigued by the lass." Vincent found a chair and dropped into it, stretching his legs out. "Nae even so much as to find her name?"

"Nay."

"Yer lyin'."

"Ye are one exasperating man." Andrew rolled his eyes. "The answer is nay."

"Let me tempt ye," Vincent pressed.

"Nay," Andrew replied, his tone now edging to a warning.

"Just give me one—"

"I said, nay," Andrew reiterated stiffly. "Ye will nae get me to do a thing, nay visit one of yer favorite pleasure houses or tempt that lass into me bed."

As Vincent opened his mouth to reply, someone knocked on the door, and Andrew knew it was Stuart. "Come in," he ordered.

The young man stepped in. "Lady Agatha has asked me to bring two of the newest healers to our castle—" he stepped aside, and the very woman he had told himself he would never come across again—stepped right into this room.

Entering the laird's meeting room, Beitris stopped only two paces in. It was not hard to see that either man was not expecting her—almost as profoundly as she had hoped to not meet the man from before again.

There was no mistaking which of the two men standing in front of the hearth was Laird MacKenzie, and Beitris found it challenging not to stare.

Curtsying, she said, "Good afternoon, me Laird. Me name is Beitris Craig, one of yer newest healers, and with me is Martha Gordon, me assistant."

He had high cheekbones and beneath the dark slashes of his brows, the cold look in his ice-blue eyes, and the hard set of his mouth, warned that he was not a man to be trifled with. She supposed the man at his side, who stood like a warrior with his hand on a claymore's pommel, was his commander.

He wore a maroon tunic tucked into brown leather trews, but the span of the tunic couldn't hide his broad shoulder, well-muscled arms, or flat stomach.

Laird MacKenzie stood and came around his desk, his chin and jaw arrogantly jutting. "Ye are the lass from before."

"I am," she replied, notching her head up just a little.

"I'm nae the laird yet, so ye may call me Sir or Middleton. I hope ye didnae injure yerself when ye took that tumble." The deep tones held a faint tilt of humor, and when the words sunk into her chest, annoyance birthed there.

Is he mocking me?

"Solely me pride, me Laird," she replied. "Sadly, there is nay balm for that. I would have preferred to mortify meself in private, but sadly I had a derisive audience."

"Derisive, ye say?" His arresting eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted into a cynical smile. "And who was that person, hm?"

She shook her head. "I wish I could say. I was preoccupied with reassembling me shattered pride. I do apologize for toppling yer heirloom, me Laird."

"Thank ye, and I apologize on behalf of that person, whoever he was."

"I accept yer apology," Beitris replied.

From the corner of her eye, she saw MacKenzie's man-at-arms' head flash between them as if he could see the discord growing between them.

"And ye?" MacKenzie turned to Martha. "Martha Gordon, is it?"

"Aye, me Laird." Martha curtsied. "I am delighted to be in yer service."

While the two spoke, Beitris saw the solider clamp his lips tight, like he had done earlier, but this time it was not because of her—he was facing his laird. She turned her gaze away from him, too, training her eyes on the window behind them.

Why the jest between them, and why do I feel like I am a part of it?

"Well, I do welcome ye two to me home," Larid MacKenzie said, "And I trust Healer Agatha on placing ye here. Tell me, Miss Craig, what spurred ye on to be a healer?"

Beitris clenched her jaw. "Me maither was one, and I saw how much she cared and looked after those in our village. I saw how it pained her when she couldnae help others when they fell so ill they died. I decided I would take on the mantle and find the cures she wasnae able to administer."

"I see," Laird MacKenzie replied, tilting his head. "Do ye nay believe what the good book says, ‘it is once appointed for man to die?' Nature will take its way, Miss Cohen."

"Craig," Beitris replied, forcing her hand not to clench at her side. "And nature will heed its call, but there are things one can do to stall it and live another day. I believe in the latter."

He stared at her, his lips curving at the edge. "I see. Life and death are in yer hands, me lady, but I truly do hope that it willnae be too taxing for ye two. Ye are rather young after all."

Before she could unknot her tongue to reply, Laird MacKenzie gave her a mocking bow, and his tall, virile form went back around his desk, a clear dismissal.

The gall of him!

She stared after him. Unbelievable. He is such a high-handed bampot!

Forcing a smile, Beitris curtsied. "Good evening, sirs."

Walking away, she bit her tongue. MacKenzie had not even bothered to introduce the man in the room as if she were not worth knowing who he was. The man had mocked her again, this time right before her face. She knew he was smart enough to pierce through her not-so-subtle hints, but even with the opportunity to truly apologize, he bushed it off.

MacKenzie embodied everything she had heard about the upper classes arrogance and contempt toward those deemed below their notice, men fueled by lofty sights and self-gratification. Fuming, she walked away and headed to her rooms.

That is enough of him for a lifetime. I'd be happier if we never met again.