Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

“ H appy Twelfth Night,” Amity called sleepily from the loft after the rooster crowed. Rory opened his eyes and groaned, his shoulder still aching. Early morning light crept in through the windows and with sudden panic, he realized he was alone in bed. Mercy’s side remained tidy, and he couldn’t for the life of him remember if she’d slept there at all or not.

“How are ye feeling?” Rabbie asked. Rory squinted and saw him leaning casually against the doorway, his calm always a tonic.

His brothers had arrived at the farm three days ago, surprising no one—not really.

“They’ll be back soon,” Amity had said with conviction every morning since Rory had returned. He hadn’t remembered much of those first few days, having lost quite a bit of blood and falling in and out of consciousness from Mercy’s broths. “When he doesn’t catch up to them, they’ll return.” She’d been right. They’d stalked up on Amity as she returned Cameo to the barn one night, and she’d told them everything. That Rory was convalescing in the cabin. That Crawley was dead. That they were free men, now, to live as Millers in the colonies.

“Like hell,” Rory muttered, trying to sit up. “Where’s Mercy?”

“Ye’ve slept in,” Rabbie said, stepping into the bedroom and walking to the bedside. “Again.” His dark red hair was pulled back and tied neatly, and he was wearing new clothes. He looked more at ease than before Crawley’s death, but not peaceful.

“Must have been that witch’s brew,” Rory answered, thinking of the vile concoctions that Mercy was feeding him day and night. He reached out and took the water from Rabbie’s hand gratefully.

“Witch’s brew,” Mercy repeated, appearing suddenly, her cheeks pink from the cold mountain air. Rory felt relief flood every part of him every time he saw her anew. He constantly needed her near. She shrugged her cloak off and smiled. “Wild lettuce and skullcap,” she said, producing a powdered concoction in a jar. “For the pain.” Rory wiped his mouth with the back of his good hand.

“Witch’s brew,” Rory said again, but his lips softened into a grin. He winced, though, as he pushed up against the headboard. He looked down and inspected his wrapped shoulder. Having a healer for a wife had its advantages, he admitted. She’d gone off again to that blasted beehive when he was too weak to stop her, and packed the wound with the honey she and Amity had collected. They’d brought water from the medicinal spring to him, had said strange incantations over his half-conscious body, and had both slept against him when his fever had brought on a bone-rattling chill.

In the tumult of his fever, he vaguely remembered the day he’d been shot. Someone leaning down and taking Crawley’s pulse. He thought he remembered two someones dragging the corpse away. He definitely didn’t remember being taken back to the farm. He would never forget, however, the pain of Mercy digging the bullet out of his flesh.

“Then how about some willow bark tea?” Mercy asked, setting a freshly cut slab on the side table. Rory eyed it suspiciously.

“Don’t do it, Rory,” Cailean called from his bed in the living room, his voice still thick with sleep. “I warn ye, it tastes hellish.”

“Cailean!” Mercy called back sternly.

“It’s the truth, Mercy,” Rory heard Cailean grumble.

“How about a spot of whiskey?” Rory asked, winking. Mercy pressed her lips together, then smiled back. She was the most lovely creature in the world, he was sure of it. Her braided hair was slung over her shoulder, and her delicate hands rested on her hips, which were filling out nicely with all the food the townspeople had been sending up the mountain with Amity whenever she went to town.

“Oh, alright,” she said finally, throwing up her hands and leaving the room in search of a bottle.

“It’s Twelfth Night,” Amity said as she descended the ladder from her loft. “Shouldn’t we all have a spot of whiskey?”

“Right now, ye’re my favorite sister,” Rory said, and winked at her when she appeared in the room. She went to his side and placed a gentle kiss on his temple.

“Whiskey for all, then,” Mercy called from the kitchen.

“Ye’re a stupid man, Rory,” Rabbie said quietly as Amity skipped back through the door to help Mercy.

“Aye, and don’t I know it,” Rory agreed, settling back and getting comfortable. Rabbie smiled softly and looked approvingly upon him.

“Sometimes I wish I could be a bit more stupid myself,” he said, sitting on the foot of the bed.

“I’m sorry for everything, Rabbie. I am,” Rory said, and he meant it.

“I know,” Rabbie said, sighing. “I just want ye to know that…”

“I do,” Rory cut him off. Their affection for one another need never be spoken, as it was already as loud as the cresting waves of the northern seas.

“Ye are the kind of man I hope to be,” Rabbie managed finally. “A good brother, a good husband, a good man.”

“Goodness!” Amity exclaimed from the window before Rory could tell Rabbie to shove those kind words back down his throat and never speak them again.

“What is it?” Mercy called, a hint of worry in her voice.

“I think you’d better come and see.” Rory tried to peer out the window nearest him, but it was too high.

“Heavens,” Mercy said breathily. Just then, Rory heard a commotion outside and the goats bleating nervously.

“What is it?” he asked angrily as Cailean and Rabbie joined the sisters by the window. Cailean turned and grinned.

“Let’s get him up,” he said, and Rory’s requests for more information were summarily ignored as the four of them helped him out of bed and wrapped him in a blanket. He walked slowly to the cabin door and Amity beamed as she flung it open. There, in the clearing, was a crowd of well-wishers, all holding steaming pots and plates of this and that.

“Ho, Millers,” Mr. Bell called out, unloading a vat of cider from a wagon. Mr. Jenkins helped him lower it to the ground. “We thought you all might be in need of some holiday cheer!” Rory felt his eyes sting with gratitude. Familiar faces smiled back. William was there, as was Mr. Gideon Strauss, and the Clintock cousins. Rose was managing most of the others, while Theo sat on the edge of a wagon, wrapped in two blankets and a cloak. There were others who he didn’t recognize, surely patients of Mercy’s who had heard of what had befallen them two weeks prior.

“I can’t believe it,” Rory murmured as Cailean and Rabbie bounded down the cabin stairs. They gathered spare wood from the barn and began to build a makeshift table. Amity set about starting a fire in the pit.

“Now that we’re truly married…” Mercy began.

“Truly married?” Rory asked, peering down at her.

“Yes,” she said slowly.

“We were always truly married, wife,” he said, pinching her bottom with his good hand.

“If you say so,” she said, lifting a brow and swatting him away.

“I do.”

“Well, right. We’ve always been truly married. But now that you’re free…”

“Spit it out, woman,” he said, though his words were as warm as the fire she’d lit in his heart.

“You don’t mind about me not being able to…” She closed her mouth and looked shiftily around the clearing as their friends moved about.

Rory pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have never known ye to be roundabout, Mercy. Are ye asking about bairns again? I don’t care a fig. If ye want bairns in yer life, I’ll find some. If ye don’t, I’ll chase them away with a great oak branch. I’ll even light it on fire, depending on how much ye don’t want them about.” She laughed and he bent down to kiss her, seeing that she was satisfied.

“I wouldn’t mind a few bairns running about,” she said softly, and he followed her line of sight to Cailean, who was red-faced as he stood toe-to-toe with Rose. She tried to pull a plank of wood from his grasp, and he yanked back.

“Never going to happen,” he said, and she laughed softly.

“You don’t know a thing about love, do you, husband?” she asked, and he smiled down at her.

“I now know a thing or two.”

They watched with common awe as the party came together in the clearing. Every now and then, someone would come up to the cabin stairs and tell the Millers how glad they were that the madman Crawley had been dispatched, or how relieved they were that Rory was on the mend, or how sorry they were that Mercy had been alone up here when Crawley attacked her.

“It won’t happen again, Mrs. Miller,” Gideon Strauss said, then nodded to Rory. “I personally have been derelict in my duties as a neighbor. Consider me a frequent visitor, from here on out,” he said, obviously shocking her. Rory merely grinned.

“Ho, nephew!” Bell said as Gideon Strauss walked away with a tip of his hat. Rory laughed.

“I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Bell,” Mercy said as the old man climbed the steps to greet them, and Rory squeezed her hand when he heard how close to tears she was.

“Nonsense,” Bell said with a wave of his hand. “It’s a small country. We’re all related somehow, are we not, Mr. Miller?”

“Aye,” Rory said, and shook his hand. “Ye’re a natural conspirator. There’s no doubt we’re family.”

Once Bell had left them with many well wishes, Mercy sighed. “They love you as much as I do,” she whispered, lacing her fingers with his.

“Do they?” Rory asked playfully, looking down at his treasured wife. Her eyes were bright, swimming with emotion, and her full lips spread into a grin.

“No,” Mercy said, shaking her head, sending her plait bouncing. “I don’t believe anyone could love you as I do.” Rory’s heart felt fit to beat from his chest.

“Just think, lass,” he said dreamily, “of all the time we wasted no’ being together.” Mercy looked up at him curiously. “If ye had just let me take ye that day in the creek,” he started to say, and Mercy elbowed him, hard, in the stomach. “Oof. Will ye not offer an injured man a bit of clemency?” he asked, and she stood on her toes to kiss him.

“Only when he deserves it,” she whispered into his mouth, and he hugged her against his chest with his good arm as they watched their friends and family light little fires around the clearing and arrange a feast in their honor.