Page 17 of Dorchad

“I’ve no time for such.” He set down the whiskey and went to the door, halting to look back at the war master as he recalled what he’d told him. “Forget what I said. She’s an innocent. Dinnae touch her.”

The war master lifted his goblet in a mocking toast. “I shouldnae dare, Chieftain.”

Settling into her new home at Gealladh required some major adjustments, but after a few days Rebecca forgot about the inconveniences of medieval-era life and began enjoying fourteenth century Scotland. Just breathing the cold, crisp air every day proved invigorating, and traversing the passages, staircases and enormous gardens gave her plenty of exercise. She enjoyed the simple yet delicious dishes the clan’s cook prepared for the two daily meals, and spent many happy hours alongside Lucy as she helped her with the search for the cluet. She wanted to look for herbs and other plants that she recognized as natural remedies, like willow bark for pain relief and chamomile for alleviating stress and digestive issues.

“Find the facking rag before it empties your future of women,” Tair told them one morning at breakfast. “For we surely cannae make happy every independent female from such a time when they’re permitted to work and fight as men, and live alone without protection.”

Rebecca had already noted that the laird tended to use sarcasm freely, especially when he was worried. “You don’t seem to mind your wife being independent, my lord.”

The laird eyed Lucy. “I yet watch her closely, I assure you.”

“That’s not the reason you watch me, my darling.” With her usual affection his wife popped a berry into his mouth. “We’re going out into the forest today to search the woodsmen’s shelters. Dr. McIan also wants to get some bark from the willows near the water.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but you cannae leave the safety of the keepe.” Dorchad appeared out of nowhere, bowing to Tair before addressing Lucy again. “A night patrol found a skiff hidden in the trees behind the stronghold. ’Tis likely the band of thieves came some days past to hide out on the island.” He turned his gaze on Rebecca, and his voice hardened. “Until we capture them, you shall no’ venture beyond the outer wall.”

In that moment, two of the clansmen got to their feet and began pushing each other as they growled in Scots Gaelic.

Lucy shot to her feet and pointed at the nearest arch. “No fighting in the hall during meals,” she called out to them, “or you clean the privies until I like you better.”

Both men grimaced and sat back down. One fumbled the blade he was using to cut up his food, and it skittered across the table and then flew at Dorchad as if he were a magnet. The chieftain caught the utensil as if he were expecting it to hit him, carried it back over to the table and handed it to the clansman.

“How does he do that?” Rebecca murmured, amazed.

“Plenty of practice,” Lucy told her.

Before she could say anything to the chieftain he walked off, pausing to speak to a group of men coming in through the arch before heading out.

Rebecca grew frustrated. She could wait on the chamomile, but she’d hoped to get some willow bark so that she could make a pain-relieving brew for herself, as the cold weather made her back stiff and sore, especially in the mornings. Dorchad hadn’t even given her a chance to speak to him.

“Do as he bids, my lady,” the laird told his wife.

“Does Chieftain Dorchad always tell you what you can do around here like that?” Rebecca didn’t realize how resentful she sounded until she saw Lucy’s raised brows and the laird’s scowl. “I apologize. I’m just not used to how he orders people around.”

“He commands in my stead, and ’tis wise to obey him.” Tair stood and bent over to kiss his wife’s brow. “’Twillnae take long for Cath to track these eejits. I must go and attend to the drills with Dorchad in the lists while our war master searches. You might look in the dungeons today, Wife.”

Lucy made a rude sound. “I have spent more than enough time down there in the stink, thank you, Husband. Tell your second to watch himself during archery practice.” After the laird left she turned to regard Rebecca. “All right, what in heaven’s name is going on with you and Dorchad?”

“Nothing at all.” The fact that she’d been so obvious made her wonder just why she’d reacted that way, too. “I guess he doesn’t like me very much. Why do things keep, ah, flying at him like that knife?”

“He’s a magnet for anything in the air around him—things that are shot, thrown, or even dropped like that knife,” the laird’s wife said. “It’s the weakness he has from being half-mortal.”

“He’s playing dodge-ball forever,” Rebecca murmured, a little ashamed of herself now. “Is that why he’s always in a bad mood?”

“Maybe. Dorchad really doesn’t like anyone, except maybe Sgathan.” Lucy’s gaze shifted, and she made a face. “Bloody hell, it’s like I conjure him up every time I speak his name.”

The seneschal bowed to her when he reached the table, and then regarded Rebecca. “Doctor McIan, we’ve a visitor in need of aid. Our healer’s gone to visit kin in the south, and shallnae soon return. Our lady mentioned you ken much of injuries to limbs and such. Would you agree to examine him?”

“Of course, I’m glad to help if I can.” She glanced past him. “Where’s the patient?”

Rebecca and Lucy followed Sgathan to his work room near the kitchens, where a short, slender young man with light brown curly hair sat by the fire. As he rose to his feet to bow to Lucy she noted how he favored one side, and the odd way his left arm hung.

“Hello, Kiamh.” The laird’s wife performed introductions before she said to Rebecca, “Do you want to take him up to the infirmary?”

“I will, if that’s necessary, but I need to talk to him first,” she told her.

“Great, then I’ll leave you two to do that.” Lucy turned to Sgathan. “I need to have a word with you out in the hall, please.”

Once they departed Rebecca regarded the young man. “Could you tell me how you got this injury?”