Page 35 of The Son of a Highland Witch
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“Awake, dearest Laird Alastair. Awake, dear. Be healed, me dear.”
Erica had never watched such a sweet scene before. She could tell that Brigette was a devoted healer and could not understand why anyone would ever mistake this for witchcraft.
They had found the laird lying abed in a dreadful state. His linens were soiled and his water pitcher empty, even though it was clear the man had a keen thirst. Brigette had ordered Finn to send in some servants. She wasted no time in berating them when they came into the chamber but set them to work cleaning and tidying. Soon the shutters were open and light was pouring into the room while the servants dusted, swept, and polished. Finn had been sent down to the freshest mountain stream to fetch water while Erica assisted Brigette in making a healing elixir. There was no comment from those down in the hall, and Erica doubted if they even knew about the changes happening in the south tower chambers—or cared.
“Pass me the mint?” Brigette asked, holding out her hand for the fresh herb Erica had run down to the kitchen gardens to pick. “It is to imbibe the elixir with zest, else the taste is too bitter.”
Laird Alastair Buchanan was barely conscious. He had raised his head to drink down two large mugs of the lemon and barley cordial Brigette poured out for him and then sunk back down into a stupor. Finn’s mother had lifted him out of the bed with one strong heave of her shoulders and supported his wasted body while the servants changed the bedding. They ripped the old mattress off the slats and replaced it with a soft goose down bolster. Then four servants tucked crisp linen sheets over the bolster so Brigette could lay the laird down again. She did not thank them for their efficiency; in Brigette’s eyes, everyone in the castle was to blame for the appalling state Alastair was in.
The final ingredient was added to the elixir. It was thick and black. Erica eyed this addition with suspicion; the mixture’s smell became heavily earthy and pungent when the black liquid was poured into it.
Brigette, as sharp-eyed as her son, smiled. “Can ye guess what it is?”
Erica hazarded a guess. “Sleeping potion?” She had her misgivings. Erica thought poor Laird Alastair might have already slept enough.
Brigette smiled as she lifted the laird’s head up slightly to pour the elixir into his mouth. “It’s poppy extract from the south lands across the sea. They have a secret way of intensifying its properties so it relieves pain and reduces heat…and aye, it also makes an invalid sleep.” She watched carefully as the laird’s breathing grew slower. Brigette placed one cool hand on his forehead and then said, “Go down to the hall, Erica. I must stay here and look after him, but ye cannae. Those men down there are decidin’ yer fate, lassie. Be gone and then come back here with yer report.”
When Erica entered the hall, she found the rest of the Buchanan clan in an uproar.
“He’s nae sick!” Jamie was shouting into her father’s face. “He’s just ill an’ auld, which means I’ll be laird even sooner! Ye want yer daughter to marry a laird, don’ ye? So, let’s be heading for the kirk tomorrow and be done with all these questions!”
Erica hid a smile. Shouting had never been her father’s favorite thing to do unless he was the one doing it.
“Dinnae try forcin’ me hand, lad!” Laird O’Donnell yelled right back. “Ye communicated some worrying things to me in yer letter, and I have a right to ken why ye did so!”
Robert Buchanan stepped in. “Now, now. Let’s no’ be hasty. The thing is this, Stuart: If—nay, let’s rather saywhenbecause me brither will definitely die soon—Alastair dies, we will have to delay the weddin’. There will be a wake to prepare an’ a long period o’ mournin’. Ye get me drift? The sooner the ring is on yer daughter’s finger, the sooner she will be Lady Buchanan. Understand?”
Laird O’Donnell did not like having his hand forced, but he wanted Erica to marry a laird too. However…
“I must see Laird Alastair for meself before I decide if the wedding is to happen,” he said in a loud and firm voice.
Erica tried not to let her heart jump with fear at these words. For some reason, the nagging feeling that she was destined to be with some other man would not leave her.
“For all I ken, the man is still as sprightly as a stallion in spring and might be all set to remarry in order to have a son of his own! Seeing as I’ve ridden all the way here, I want to ken a wee bit more. Where are all these daughters of his anyway? I heard tell he has a stable full o’ them?”
Robert seemed to have taken control of the conversation. He shot a darkling look over at Jamie to shut him up before replying. “They have all been fostered out to other clans. Ye can hardly have expected us to keep the girls here after their mither passed away, do ye?”
Laird O’Donnell replied, “An’ yet ye all expected me own daughter to come here an’ exist amidst such a masculine environment, did ye?”
The expression on the O’Donnell’s face needed no translation. He was not impressed.
Robert began to backtrack his information.
“The girls demanded it. What would ye have us do? Yer daughter’s light and feminine touch here will tempt them all to come back, never fear.”
Laird O’Donnell continued to frown. “The heartless girls were no’ eager to come back home to nurse their faither when they heard he was ill?”
No reply.
Stuart O’Donnell sighed. “Give me a while to think on things. This is no’ what I expected to find here. Erica tells me there is nay housekeeper or chatelaine set to hand the keys over to her, nay head gardener to order the herbs an’ flowers, an’ nay control over the alehouse. Ye run a very loose ship here, Robert, an’ if ye think to enslave me daughter to tighten it for ye for free, I have half a mind to rethink the settlements.”
And on those words, Laird O’Donnell left the hall.
Erica pattered up the south tower steps to tell Brigette the news. She bumped into Finn on the spiral staircase.
“Och, pardon, Finn. Yer arms must be tired after hauling those buckets o’ spring water up an’ down these stairs.”
