Daughter of the Mist by Quinn Taylor Evans

Author:Quinn Taylor Evans [Evans, Quinn Taylor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0821753479
Publisher: Zebra Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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Chapter Thirteen

"Ye have magical hands, lass," Malcolm sighed, the only outward sign of pain in the grimace that contorted his features. "Gentler than the healer with her foul-smelling concoctions, or the old hag Drusilla with her equally foul potions that she keeps brewing."

Brianna smiled. In the days since Tarek and the Scots had returned, she had found an amicable truce with Malcolm. He seemed more accepting of the alliance she'd made.

"Drusilla means well."

"Bah! The woman's a charlatan. Not one man will claim that she has magical powers. And she keeps sprinkling that wretched brown powder about." With typical Scots nature he grumbled, "I tried to get her to tell me what was in it. I don't trust the old hag."

Brianna's eyes glinted with laughter, the first in many days for three more kinsmen had died of their wounds. With the loss of so many others, it had been a sad time at Inverness. Of late there seemed to be too much sadness, and she discovered the pleasure of a smile. It felt good to find a little laughter amid so much gloom.

"You are brave!" she exclaimed. "You might not like what you hear. From what I've been told, she favors eye of newt and bat wings." She laughed again at Malcolm's horrified expression, quite gruesome when taken as a whole with the cut that angled down over his forehead and a nasty bruise from the butt of a sword handle.

"It's good to see you smile again," his own expression transformed then, into what might have passably been a smile in response. He added his agreement to her earlier thought.

"There has been too much loss and grief at Inverness."

She finished adjusting his bandage. He lay on a pallet before the hearth in the main hall. The others lay about them, dozing, or taking hearty broth under Enya's careful eye and firm manner. The woman had lost three patients after their return from battle, she refused to lose any more.

"Aye, there has been," Brianna agreed.

"But there would have been far more to grieve, if not for the barbarian," he added by way of grudging acknowledgment, bringing her surprised gaze up to his, for in the days since their return he had not spoken again of what happened during the battle. Only that first brief admission that Tarek al Sharif had saved his life. A debt of honor for any man, but a most serious one for a Scot as proud and stubborn as Malcolm.

His gaze did not quite meet hers, and from their long friendship she knew he wrestled with that pride.

"Ye were right, Brianna," he finally admitted, his mouth snapping shut around the words that seemed most difficult for him to get out.

"The Normans are fierce warriors. But yer husband fought like a true Scot. I would swear he has highland blood, for the man showed no fear or hesitation, and a cunning any Scot would envy. Where we rushed in he wisely chose his own place and time to join the battle.

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