“I was doing nothing at all. That mad girl came in here, babbled something about fairies and spirits, and then decided I was here for her amusement.” Ruari winced as he tried to shift his battered body into a more comfortable position.
“And of course it ne’er occurred to ye to try to use her silliness to devise an escape.” Despite her sharp words, she quickly moved to give him some gentle assistance.
“Nay, I had no time to be so clever. That foolish child decided I was brought here to help her change from a child into a woman. Then somehow she made things fly around the room. ’Twas then that ye arrived.” He watched her as she checked his wounds. “I demand ye tell me what game ye are playing.”
“Game? What do ye mean?” She frowned when she noticed he had nothing to drink. “What happened to your tankard and the ewer?”
“Gone. And the game I speak of is those noises no one will explain and all that just occurred here. That lass spoke of spirits, but I am not such a fool.”
“Mayhap not, but I suspect ye are thirsty.” Sorcha went to the door, opened it, and, seeing her aunt Bethia, asked the woman to fetch some food and drink for Ruari.
“I grow verra weary of this,” grumbled Ruari as Sorcha returned to his bedside and he grabbed her by one slender wrist to hold her by his side. “Ye will tell me what I wish to learn. I demand some answers.”
“Ye are a verra demanding sort of gentlemon, arenae ye.”
“And I begin to think ye and all of Dunweare are mad. There is that woman Neil who isnae only as big as any mon I have seen, but ofttimes acts like one. Then there is that wee birdlike woman who fusses o’er everything, talks without drawing breath, yet says naught.”
“My aunt Bethia.”
“Aye, her. And then there is the woman who says not a word and flinches each time I but blink.”
“My aunt Eirie. She is a timid woman.”
“Timid as a much-whipped cur. And let us not forget that wee deluded lass who was just here. She spoke of being a changeling and of spirits. From what little I have seen of Robert, he appears to be a sensible mon save that he heeds what all of ye say. Oh, aye, and let us not forget the curse the child spoke of.”
“Ah, she told ye of our curse, did she?”
Before Ruari could reply, Bethia scurried into the room. She cast Ruari a nervous glance as she set a jug of mead, a small tray of bread and cheese, and a tankard on the table next to his bed. She paused, shifting from foot to foot when she saw how he was restraining Sorcha, but a quick shake of the head from her niece sent her hurrying out of the room.
“I have only been here a few days, but I begin to understand her skittishness,” muttered Ruari.
Sorcha twisted free of his grasp. Ignoring his scowl, she moved to pour him a drink. She handed him the tankard, pleased to see that he had recovered enough to drink without help. As she cut him some bread and cheese she briefly debated with herself on how she should answer his persistent questions. He already suspected that the Hays were all mad, so she decided to tell him the truth and let him deal with it however he chose to.
“What is all this talk of spirits and curses?” Ruari asked as he picked at the bread and cheese she set before him.
“’Tis said that far back in the thick mists of the past, one of the Hay women roused a fierce jealousy in a Pictish witch. The witch cursed her and every Hay woman to follow her. Whenever a Hay woman of Dunweare is to become a woman, she must suffer through the torments inflicted by ill-tempered spirits. ’Tis those spirits ye hear at night, Sir Ruari. ’Tis those spirits who took your drink. They are verra fond of hiding things. ’Tis those spirits who put your bedchamber in such disarray.”
“And ye believe this nonsense?”
She shrugged. “Why should I not? Each time a woman of Dunweare begins the change from child to woman the troubles begin. We have all suffered through it. ’Tis Euphemia’s turn now.”
Ruari took a deep drink of the sweet mead to wash the food down then shook his head. “I was of the opinion that ye had some wits, but ’tis clear that yours are as scattered as those of the rest of your clan.”
“I see that ye have your doubts about what I am telling you.”
“Doubts?” Ruari laughed, wincing at the pain it caused.
“While ye are feeling so amused, I may as weel tell ye the rest.”
“There is more?”
Sorcha found his ridicule more annoying than she knew she ought to. “The women in my clan are often born with special gifts.”
“Vast imagination?”
She ignored him. “I can see the spirits who walk the land, see them and speak to them.”
“Then why havenae ye had a stern word with the ones hurling your possessions around?”
“I can neither see nor hear those spirits and I fear the ones I do speak with ken little or naught about those troublesome ones. None of the Hay women with the gift has been able to reach them and reason with them.”
“How inconvenient. Tell me, can ye call upon any spirit ye wish to?”
Sorcha could hear the heavy note of mockery in his voice. To her dismay, it hurt. She was not sure why, but she wanted Ruari to believe her, to accept her completely. That could prove dangerous. She knew she was doing a pathetic job of protecting her feelings, her heart. It was why she had done her best to avoid him since their arrival at Dunweare, but her family had begun to grow too curious about how she was acting. Telling him the full truth about herself could so disquiet him he could kill her growing infatuation with his own words. Sorcha just wished it did not have to hurt.
“Nay, I cannae call on anyone I wish,” she replied. “I must settle for those spirits who decide to appear to me. My grandmother could reach out to others, but I have ne’er tried. I see and hear quite enough.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I realize ye find this amusing—”
“Why shouldnae I? ’Tis naught but a jest.”
“’Tis no jest. Did ye not just see what happened in here?”
“Aye, and I mean to learn how ye played that trick. If ye think to afrighten me, it willnae work.”
“To what purpose should I wish to afrighten you?”
“Who can understand the workings of a woman’s mind?”
“Opinions such as that could cause ye a great deal of trouble at Dunweare, sir.”
“And ideas such as yours can cause ye a great deal of trouble.”
Suddenly Ruari was angry and, to his astonishment, afraid for her. He reached out, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her close. Her closeness proved a distraction. He became intensely aware of her clean scent, the touch of lavender that wafted from her hair and clothes. Her thick, dark braid rested on his chest, and he could all too easily envision it undone, its silken waves caressing his skin. When he realized he was staring at her full mouth, hungering for a taste of her lips, he forced his thoughts back to the matter at hand. He could not believe she was mad or simpleminded, so she had to be suffering delusions bred of her kinsmen’s wild tales. It was time someone made her aware of how lethal such delusions could be in a land rife with superstition.
“I am fully aware that my gifts are not widely accepted,” Sorcha murmured.
“Not widely accepted? Such a gentle way of speaking, especially from a lass who has proven to have a sharp, stinging tongue. Such ideas can get ye killed, ye fool lass. Ye speak of things people dinnae understand, things people fear. Such tales can raise talk of the devil, and ye must ken what dire fate that can bring.”
“Aye—death.”