Beyond the Highland Mist

Page 28

Adrienne flushed with pleasure. The added heat did alarming things to her head. “You said you wed again. Do you have other children?” she asked, trying desperately to hold on to the gist of the conversation.
The smile returned to Lydia’s face. “Oh, aye. Adrian and Ilysse. They’re in France with my sister, Elizabeth. In her last letter she warned me that Adrian is becoming an incorrigible rogue and she’s just about given up on civilizing Ilysse.” Lydia laughed. “Ilysse can be a bit high-spirited and unmanageable at times. You would like her.”
Adrienne wasn’t certain how to take that, so she didn’t comment. Besides, she wasn’t feeling at all well. Her vision was now double, her stomach a roiling agony, and her mouth felt dry as cotton swabs. She struggled to swallow. “Wallah hubbah hah?” she croaked.
“Adrienne?” Lydia gazed at her with concern. “Adrienne!” She placed a hand against the younger woman’s forehead. “You’re burning up!”
Adrienne groaned as she pitched forward and collapsed on the cobbled walkway.
“Hawk!” Lydia screamed.
CHAPTER 9
“POISON.” HAWK’S FACE WAS GRIM AND DARK. HE CAREFULLY studied the tiny dart the aged healer had laid upon the cloth.
“Callabron.” The healer combed his fingers through his long white beard and lowered himself into a chair by Adrienne’s side.
Hawk groaned. Callabron was not a gentle poison. A vicious and slow toxin, it would cause lingering pain for days before it ended in death by suffocation as the toxin slowly paralyzed the body from the outside in.
The Hawk knew there was no cure. He’d heard of the toxin during his service to King James. It was rumored to have claimed the lives of many royal siblings. When one sought to remove a future king, one took no chances with a poison that might fail. Hawk dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his sore and bleary eyes furiously. The intensity of the heat from the high flames wasn’t helping. But the heat would help her, the healer had said. It might break the fever. Still … she would die.
Take me, just leave her unharmed! Hawk wished with all of his heart.
“We can ease her pain. There are things I can give her …,” the healer said softly.
“Who?” the Hawk raged, ignoring the old man. “Who would wish to do this? Why kill her? What has she done?”
The healer flinched and squeezed his eyes shut.
In the doorway, Lydia drew a labored breath. “ ’Tis Callabron, then?”
“Aye. The skin has blackened around the opening, and those pale green lines streak out from it. ’Tis the deadly bite of Callabron.”
“I won’t lose her, Hawk,” Lydia demanded.
Hawk raised his head slowly from his hands. “Mother.” The word was a plea, hopelessness in and of itself. Mother make it better. But he knew she couldn’t.
“Some say ’tis more humane to end the suffering in the early stages,” the healer offered very softly, not meeting the Hawk’s gaze.
“Enough!” the Hawk silenced him with a shout. “If all you can bring is gloom and doom, then get thee gone!”
Pride and indignation stiffened the healer’s back. “Milord—”
“Nay! I’ll have none of it! We’ll not be killing her! She won’t be dying!”
“Perhaps the Rom might know of some cure,” Lydia suggested softly.
The healer sniffed disdainfully. “I assure you, milady, the Rom know nothing of the sort. If I tell you there is no cure, you may rest assured that none could heal her. That vagrant band of cutthroats, cheats, and lightfingers certainly couldn’t—” The old healer broke off abruptly at the Hawk’s dark look.
“ ’Tis worth trying,” the Hawk agreed with Lydia.
“Milord!” The healer protested vehemently. “The Rom are no more than shabby illusionists! They are—”
“Camping on my land,” the Hawk cut him off sternly, “as they have for over thirty seasons, with my blessing, so guard your tongue well, old man. If you’re so certain they know nothing, why should you care if they come?”
The healer sneered. “I just don’t think wild dancing and chanting and nasty-smelling bits of mummified who-zits and what-zits would be good for my patient,” he snapped.
The Hawk snorted. It was obvious the healer knew nothing of the truth about the Rom, the proud band of people who’d fled country after country seeking only the freedom to live as they chose. Like so many who dared to fight for what they believed, they were frequently misunderstood and feared. The gypsy tribe that camped at Dalkeith was a tight community of talented and wise people. Although arguably superstitious, the Hawk had found many of their “instincts” accurate.