“Tell me what it is,” she demanded.
MacKerrick drew his head back. “You doona trust me?”
“Well, why will you not tell me—”
“It’s nae horsemeat,” he cut her off pointedly, and Evelyn felt properly chastised. She noticed that, up close, the highlander’s amber eyes were ringed with dark green, and his lips were full and oddly soft-looking for one of such savage appearance. His mouth fascinated her, and she wanted to study it while falling back asleep…
“Eve,” MacKerrick insisted.
She blinked, realized she had nearly dozed off while sitting up and frowned into MacKerrick’s wide, concerned face.
“What’s wrong with me?”
He brought the cup in her hand—his fingers guiding them—to her mouth. “Drink,” was his only answer.
Evelyn did as she was told and sipped. The liquid was warm and thin and…absolutely the most intoxicatingly delicious tea she’d ever drunk. The beverage was still quite warm but, after her first hesitant swallow, it was as if she could not help but gulp down the entire mug.
She lowered the mug with a gasp to catch her breath and looked at MacKerrick.
He was smiling. “I told you ’twas good. More?”
“There’s more?” Evelyn asked in disbelief. “More” was a concept she’d put completely from her mind since leaving England.
MacKerrick took the cup with a chuckle and refilled it from a tall clay urn, set near the fire pit. “A whole wood full of it, lass.” He returned to the side of the bed and handed her the mug.
Evelyn raised it to her lips and gulped and immediately regretted it as her mouth, tongue and throat were washed in the boiling hot liquid.
“Easy,” the highlander chastised. “It hasna had time to cool.”
Evelyn’s eyes watered from her scalded mouth but she only blew on the surface of the tea.
“Pine,” MacKerrick said.
Evelyn glanced at him, saw he was watching her mouth when she pursed her lips to blow. “Pardon?”
“The tea—pine needles. With a splash of mead for sweetness,” he added with a grin. “You’ve had nae greens—nae fruits—for weeks, lass.” He gestured to her arm. “Those bruises, the sleepiness…you’ve need of fortification.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And this simple tea will cure all that?”
Conall nodded. “Most of it. Along with what’s in yonder fine pot.”
Evelyn looked to the fire again, still blowing on the delicious brew, and saw the large pottery crock in which she’d buried the horsemeat. Its lid was barely tilted and the tiniest wisps of steam were only just escaping.
MacKerrick rose from the bed and drew a short blade from his belt. Crouching down on his haunches, he wrapped his hand in the hem of his long, tuniclike shirt and moved the lid of the crock away. Evelyn caught a glimpse of rich, brown liquid and mayhap—could it be?—a speck of green, as the highlander stirred the concoction with his dagger.
He replaced the lid and looked up at Evelyn, wiping his blade on a rag before sheathing it. “Stew,” he offered.
Evelyn’s throat tightened with a welling of emotion that stemmed from both relief and desire. She sipped at the tea and noticed the tremors in both hands and arms. Stew. My God. A wave of unexpected—and very unwelcome—nausea misted her face, chest, and back with perspiration.
“You’ll be fine in a day or so,” MacKerrick was saying to her now, approaching the box bed. The angles of his hawklike face were softer than she had seen them since meeting the highlander. He truly was a handsome man.
“Thank you,” Evelyn managed to croak in a low voice. She was grateful for the care this large stranger had shown her, but his generosity also laid a heavy burden on her. How could she continue to demand that MacKerrick depart the hut when he had quite possibly saved her life? But if ’twas she who must go, to where would she and Alinor hie? They would most certainly starve on their own. ’Twas worse than ironic.
There was a time when Evelyn would have been terrified of the dilemma she now faced. She was an only child reared by her father, a lord, and her every need had been met, often before she recognized she had a need. She had been surrounded by friends and rarely quarreled with anyone. Betrothed to her fondest childhood companion, she was slated for a life of endless privilege. But she had thrown it all away to join the hellish priory, where no one was her friend. Where she was condemned verbally and punished in terrible physical ways for simply being who and what she was. It was no religious haven to escape the frightening unknown of marriage and motherhood as she’d hoped—indeed, Evelyn’s fear was made worse by the young women the priory took in, unwed and with child. Evelyn herself was forced to assist countless births, and the outcomes of the majority of them were not good.
Life became a practice of fear for her, and her every thought was consumed with planning her escape. That bright dream was smashed to pieces, though, when her father had been killed and she was summoned to the home of the man she’d scorned. Her only chance had been to take up with the old witch she’d met there and run.
And she had survived it. Survived it all till now, on her own. And so she was not afraid to drag this impasse before the large highlander, now feeding Alinor bits of horsemeat from his fingertips. Mayhap regretful, but not afraid.
“Sir,” she began.
The highlander glanced up. “Aye, lass? Are you needing more tea?”
“Nay, thank you.” Evelyn noted with chagrin that the man seemed recovered of his manners since their initial meeting. “We cannot continue in this fashion. Surely you understand that.”
MacKerrick raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry to say that I doona.”
“We…I mean to say—” Evelyn hesitated. “We cannot both keep residence in this cottage. Together,” she emphasized.
“And why is that, now?” he asked easily, wiping his hands on his shirt and moving to where a wooden bowl and dipper rested near the bubbling crock of stew.
“’Tis entirely improper, that’s why.” Evelyn watched him remove the lid from the crock once more. “Before traveling to Scotland with Min—my aunt, Minerva, I was dedicated to a priory. Before that, I was a lady in my father’s home. I cannot hope to maintain my dignity whilst living in such small quarters with a man I know naught of.”
“I see,” the highlander said thoughtfully. He ladled stew into the bowl, but said no more.
Evelyn sipped from her mug, cleared her throat. “Well…what do you propose we do?”
MacKerrick rose with the bowl and brought it to the bedside. He took the mug from Evelyn’s hands and replaced it with the bowl of steaming, fragrant stew.
“I propose we do naught,” he said.
“But—” Evelyn began.
MacKerrick held up a palm. “I am the MacKerrick, Eve—chief of my clan. My honor is as steadfast as any English laird. Especially to Buchanan kin,” he said. “I canna allow you to leave for…for fear of your safety. And I came to the hut to hunt—a thing I do well. My townsfolk are starving, Eve. I canna fail them.”
For some reason, his speech sent chills spiraling around Evelyn’s spine. But he was not done. The stew in her hand was untouched, forgotten, as his voice continued to mesmerize her.
“There is weather coming—a fierce storm, do I read the signs correctly. Neither of us would survive a journey of more than a half day.” He bent to pour more tea into the mug, sipped thoughtfully from it himself, then looked at her.