Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

" S he should warm up quite quickly now," Meg said, coming to join him, placing a flask of some concoction on the nightstand. She surveyed his handwork and gave a brief nod of approval. She picked up Maeve's wrist, circled it with her surprisingly long, soft fingers, and frowned. "The lass is skin and bone. Has she nae been eatin'?" she asked, giving him a penetrating look with her large, almost hypnotic eyes.

"I dinnae ken." Arne shrugged. "I've nae seen her fer three years. I've nay clue where she's been. I just pulled her out of the water from the shipwreck, like I told ye," he explained, feeling like the healer was looking into his soul. If she was, she showed no sign of seeing the chaos raging within. Nevertheless, he was quite relieved when she looked away.

"Is that so?" she ruminated, releasing Maeve's wrist and gently setting it down on her chest. She gazed down at Maeve's pallid face intently. "A bonny lass, but an unhappy one, I think. She's been through many a trial this one. Ye need tae take good care of her, lad."

"I must stay at the village fer a wee while fer work. Would ye give me the medicine she needs so I can tend tae her mesel'?" he asked, adding as an afterthought, "I have money. I'll pay whatever it costs."

Meg looked up at him, chewing her thin lips for a moment as if pondering something. Finally, she sucked her remaining teeth and said, "I need nay money, lad. Ye can bring me some firewood or some food at me cottage near the kirk if ye like. There's the medicine there, look." She gestured at the flask on the nightstand. "Just give her a cupful of that when she wakes and then every hour or so. It'll bring her strength back. But as I told ye before, above all, let her sleep. She'll likely nae be able tae speak much fer a few days. Her throat's raw from the salt water."

"Aye, I guessed as much. Thank ye, I'll dae as ye say," he replied, making a mental note to have a load of firewood and plenty of provisions delivered to her as soon as he got back to the castle. "In the meantime, I'm very grateful tae ye fer yer help and kindness."

The woman cackled like the proverbial witch, giving him another of her white-toothed grins, sending a shiver up his spine.

"Ye've fine manners tae go with yer handsome looks, lad, I'll give ye that. I've taken quite a shine tae the both of ye," she said, shaking her head.

"Well, I'm glad tae hear it, and I'm sure she will be wantin' tae thank ye hersel' when she's able tae," Arne said, a little spooked but with total confidence in Meg's healing abilities. "Her name's Maeve, by the way," he added, nodding at the figure in the bed.

The old healer gazed up at him quizzically. "Are ye sure about that?" she asked in her little girl's voice.

Arne frowned. What on earth could she mean by that? He decided she was a little fey, as some healers were known to be.

"Aye, Maeve Carter. That's her name," he replied decisively.

"Well, Arne MacLeod, she should be right as rain in a few days, but let me ken if ye need anythin' more or she takes a turn for the worse. Right, I'll be off," she declared, going to fetch her bag and making for the door. "I've quite a few patients still tae see, the poor things. What a terrible calamity."

"Aye, terrible indeed," Arne agreed, opening the door for her. "Good night tae ye then, Mistress Meg. Thank ye again."

When she had gone, he went to sit by the bed, wanting to keep a close eye on Maeve. She was till sleeping soundly. He idly wished he had ordered some ale and whisky for himself, for he felt he could do with stiff drink. Plus, sleeping on the floor was going to be uncomfortable, and a few drams would surely help.

But alas, events had overtaken his original intentions for blissful oblivion, and he had forgotten all about it. He did not want to risk leaving her to go down to the bar in case she took ill or woke up and did not know where she was. He had just about reconciled himself from doing without ale, whisky, or blankets, and sleeping in the chair when there was a knock at his door.

Wearily, wondering if it was Meg come back for some reason, he went to open it.

"The things ye ordered, Sir," lisped a young maid, holding out a tray with a smile.

Arne frowned, confused. "I didnae order anythin'," he told her, realizing too late that he could have claimed the tray as his own without much harm to whoever had ordered it.

"'Tis down fer this room," the maid said, "fer Mr. Arne MacLeod, Sir."

"D'ye ken who ordered it?"

"Aye, Old Meg. She said ye had urgent need of some sustenance."

A chill ran up Arne's spine. "But—" he began to say but then thought better

of it. "What have ye got there?" he asked curiously.

"Erm, some ale, some whisky, some fish stew, some bread, and a slice of sweet pie, I think," the girl recited. "D'ye nae want it, Sir? Shall I take it back?"

"Nay, nay, bring it in. Would ye put there on the table lass, please?" She obediently did as he asked and departed. Arne stared at the tray, wondering how the hell Meg had guessed he was thirsty and hungry. But then he decided his hunger was more important right then and sat down at the table to eat and drink his fill.

He had just downed the first dram and was pouring himself a mug of ale when a realization hit him, sending another tingle up his spine. Part of the conversation he had had with the healer earlier came back to him.

"Well, Arne MacLeod, she should be right as rain in a few days, but let me ken if ye need anythin' more…"

She had used his given name. But how? He had never told her who he was.

Strange indeed, he thought, taking a long draught of the ale before glancing over at the bed. But maybe nae as strange as having Maeve in me bed again after all this time.

He finished his meal and then went over to sit with her, leaning his arms on the side of the bed, finally having the opportunity to really look at the face of the woman he had once loved so much, then hated, and never thought he would ever see again.

She had changed much, and yet not at all.

Her naturally pale skin now seemed deathly white, framed against the curling mass of jet-black hair that lay over her shoulders. In the flickering light of the candles, the long, damp strands glimmered almost blue, like a magpie's back.

Her once plump cheeks were now hollow, filled with shadow. The lips he had so often kissed seemed the same, though, full and red. The eyes he had gazed into so many times with a heart full of love, and often lust, were closed, the long black lashes laying like miniature fans upon her cheeks.

In truth, he was profoundly shocked to see that the bonny girl he had last set eyes on three years before, her cheeks and eyes glowing with health and happiness, smiling whenever she looked at him, her belly big with the baby they had made with love—or so he had foolishly believed at the time—had been overlaid by a mature woman, one who radiated the ethereal yet sorrowful beauty of a fabled tragic heroine.

His anger wavered in the face of it. The urge to simply throw himself down beside her, to take her in his arms and kiss her, to forgive her everything, was strong. His hands curled into fists against the coverlet as he struggled against it, summoning strength from his inner hurt and fury.

How can such an angelic face hide so much treachery?

"Wake up, Maeve, and get better. I have questions fer ye, many questions," he whispered. "And I have many things tae say tae ye too."

Ye must ken how ye ripped me heart from me chest and made it impossible fer me ever tae trust a woman again. I want tae make ye pay in kind fer all ye've taken from me.

Raven could see the light shimmering above her as she swam upwards towards it, holding her breath, desperate to make it to the surface, to see the sun again. Finally, just when the air in her lungs was about the run out, she made it, bursting out of the water, and into the golden light and warmth.

She jolted awake, opened her eyes, and looked around her. A simple room, a fire in the grate, light outside the window. And a man with his head resting on a bed, which she was occupying. He seemed to be asleep, and as she looked at him and recognized his short, white-blond hair and strong, chiseled features, she realized she must be dreaming or dead.

To test her theory, she tentatively reached out her hand and gently brushed his hair with her fingertips. It felt soft, just as she remembered it.

She jumped and retracted her hand when he raised his head with a sudden start, and their eyes met. His ice-blue gaze pierced her like arrows as he stared at her.

"Arne?" she said, already confused but more so when no sound came out of her mouth. Frowning, she tried again. "Arne? Is it really ye? Are ye real?" But still no sound came, and her throat felt terribly sore. Her head ached badly too.

He sat up in his chair. "So, ye're awake at last, are ye?" he said, his voice hard and honed by anger, sharp as a sword's edge. It was that which convinced her she was awake and not in some strange afterlife. She watched him as he shook his head, his face a cold mask. "I cannae believe that after these past three years we meet again like this, after ye almost died in a shipwreck, sailin' on a boat at night with a bunch of fugitives."

A shipwreck? Fugitives? Memories of the voyage on the birlinn and terror she had experienced flickered through her mind, but it was hard to make sense of the scattered fragments. Arne had been in her dreams, she recalled, carrying her in his arms, making her feel safe, yet at the same time afraid of his wrath. There was a little boy there too. Thorsten? No, Thorsten was too young, so it could not have been him, she thought sadly, her head thumping.

"Was it ye who saved me?" she asked, but again, nothing came out, and she almost cried with frustration as well as the pain in her head and her lungs and her throat.

Arne reached over and took something from the table next to the bed, a horn flask, and poured some liquid from it into a cup. He handed it to her, unsmiling, his glare icy. "Drink this. The healer left it fer ye."

Raven reached out and took the cup, but her hands were shaking so badly, the contents threatened to spill. With a look of annoyance, Arne helped her drink it, gently putting an arm around her back to raise her slightly and holding the cup to her lips. Her throat was so sore, she choked on the liquid, unable to help coughing as it went down. Some spilled down her chin and onto the covers. With stony patience, he put the cup aside, took out his handkerchief, and mopped up the spill, tossing the hanky aside when he was done.

She tried to speak again, to thank him, but it was no good, and she saw he shared her frustration at her inability to use her voice. "The healer says the seawater has harmed yer throat but that it will get better in a few days. Ye just need tae rest and take yer medicine. 'Tis probably best if ye dinnae try tae speak anymore until then. She says ye should sleep."

She nodded, the movement sending waves of pain lancing through her skull. Already, she felt exhausted and was glad when he laid her down again.

"I have tae go tae work now, but I've arranged fer a maid tae come and check on ye throughout the day, tae help ye with yer needs."

Raven nodded her thanks, watching while he donned his jerkin, his coat, and his boots. Then, he buckled on his sword belt and, without a backward glance, left the room.

As soon as she was alone, the tears came like a merciful release. She mopped them up with his damp, discarded handkerchief, having nothing else to hand. She cried and cried, wishing she had the strength in her limbs to get up and fetch a paper and pen and write the words that were engraved upon her heart: When can I see Thorsten?

The next few days and nights were long for Raven as she slowly recovered from her ordeal, waiting for her voice to return. The concoction the healer had left for her to drink made her sleep and made the pain in her body go away, but not the pain tormenting her mind.

Arne's coldness was not surprising—she thought she had reconciled herself to the fact that he would hate her—but since she had never stopped loving him, the reality was proving rather more difficult to bear than she had imagined.

He stayed out for most of the day and only returned in the evenings, bringing dinner, which he would help her to eat with the same chilly efficiency she had come to expect. He dutifully made sure she took her medicine, that she was helped to wash and change her nightdress and use the chamber pot, that she had all she wanted to drink or eat. Not that she could eat much. Her stomach was too twisted into knots.

She was truly grateful for all he did for her but fancied herself to be rather like a condemned prisoner being nursed back to health after an illness only to be executed.

At night, he slept on the floor by the fire, wrapped in blankets, leaving her with guilt to add to her collection of heart wrenching, troubling emotions before she slept once again.

Knowing the man she loved despised her was bad enough. But the longing to see Thorsten bordered on torture and seemed to grow stronger with every moment she lay helpless in the bed, gnawing at her insides like a rat. Sometimes, she felt so despairing, she asked God why he had spared her in the wreck, if it would not have been better for all if she had just been left to perish. Only the thought of seeing her little boy again kept her going.

On the fourth day, she awoke during the afternoon while Arne was out and found she could speak again. Her voice was hoarse but back. With an increasing sense of trepidation, she stiffened her resolve and awaited his return.