The Healer by Allison Butler Page B

chamber. ‘What happened to her?’
    Mary stopped rearranging the pillows and stared down at the rose-hued cushion she held. ‘The ague.’ Squeezing the bolster to her chest, she sniffed and gently laid it on the bed with the others. ‘Such a bonny wee lass and far too young to leave us.’
    A knot of sorrow filled Lynelle’s chest as she watched the older woman struggle to bring her grief under control. ‘Forgive me. I...I didn’t...’
    ‘‘Tis good to speak of Rhona,’ Mary said, cutting off her apology. ‘‘Tis nice to have a lass of similar age to fuss over.’ She gave Lynelle a small, watery smile and walked to the door. ‘I’ll return with your attire soon.’
    Left alone, Lynelle padded on bare feet to the window and peered out at the new day. With the hour still early, the sky appeared to struggle between blue and grey. Meek sunlight filtered in from the east, and each ray of pale gold seemed to point out the puddles and wet spots from the deluge last evening.
    Had Rhona looked out her window each day and gloried at the gently rolling hills to the south? Was her hair as black as her brothers’ hair and her eyes the same silver-grey? Had William wept when his sister passed on?
    He was extremely protective of his younger brother, an honourable trait. Had he been as vigilant a guardian with Rhona? Had a healer tended Rhona? If so, what had happened to the healer?
    Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to clear her mind of her unwanted thoughts.
    Hearing Ada talk about the joy of aiding the ill and easing another’s pain had been the one bright spot in her cursed existence. Now Lynelle’s small experience with healing had given her the first real feeling of accomplishment in what she sometimes saw as her wasted life.
    It saddened her greatly to think anyone doubted the good of healing. Healing was a gift, a knowledge that needed nurturing. It must be, for if it wasn’t she had nothing else to believe in.
    Mary returned with her spare gown, and a young woman with bright red hair carried in a basin of water. Although the younger woman’s time in the room was brief, she sent numerous fleeting glances Lynelle’s way, before leaving along with Mary.
    After washing, Lynelle dressed and welcomed the small measure of normalcy wearing her own clothes afforded her. She then spent the better part of the day sorting what remained of her herbs and studying the contents of the sack the Elliots’ healer had given her.
    Other than the pot of salve, mortar, pestle, bowls and clean linens, the gifted sack contained only a small pouch of yarrow leaves used to stem bleeding. Lynelle’s own supply of feverfew was dangerously low, as she’d used the herb each day to make Edan comfortable and prevent a fever taking hold. She’d need to find a way to replenish her stock.
    How was she to do this while confined to her room? Her answer came late in the day with a knock on the door and a summons, not from Mary but from the laird himself.
    ‘Edan’s leg pains him,’ William said.
    Lynelle jumped to her feet and tore her gaze from the broad shoulders filling the doorway.
    ‘I will come immediately.’
    She retrieved all she needed and kept her gaze averted as she walked toward the door, expecting him to move. Instead, he turned sideways. Her eyes lifted, assessing his carved profile. Did he see her as nothing other than a healer, a prisoner?
    She sucked in a deep breath and fought the frustration heating her cheeks. Edging past him, his masculine scent teased her nostrils, and her breasts brushed his broad chest. She froze. Her breath caught. She darted through the doorway, crossed the dimly lit corridor and stopped in front of Edan’s chamber. William halted beside her. His size made her feel tiny, fragile. Her sudden vulnerability annoyed her and excited her in an unfamiliar way.
    She looked up into his dark, watchful eyes. ‘To prevent Edan pain, it would be best for me to tend him each morning and night.’
    William’s