Wild Highland Magic (The Celtic Legends Series Book 3)(13)

“Some.” He had cousins among the O’Neills.

“Then it’ll be quicker to send someone overland rather than to wait for a galley.” The doctor paused to clean blood and fibers from the hooked implement he’d been torturing him with. “You send word to your clansmen, and within a few weeks you’ll reach home, resurrected.”

Lachlan hesitated. “I’ve no coin to pay for a messenger.”

“People pay me however they can—herring, peat, butter, the promise of favors, the labor of their own hands. Because of this, many men owe me favors.” The doctor set to work in Lachlan’s flesh again, twisting and tugging. “I can have a message delivered where it needs to go, the sooner to see you home.”

Lachlan thought of his own father’s distress and worry, but he also thought about the blade plunged in his back, and the three strangers who’d done it. Hired men by the looks of them, but hired by whom?

“So that’s how it is.” The doctor twisted the hook to snare a stitch. “You want to stay dead.”

Lachlan grimaced, sweat popping out on his brow. “If the men who tried to kill me think they’ve succeeded, they may lay low for a time. Until I can swing a sword, staying dead is the wisest course.”

“Death sometimes is. Even if it means great grief for those you love.”

Lachlan puzzled over the comment as the doctor tossed the tool onto the tray and reached for a bowl of some greasy-looking stuff. The doctor slapped some on the wound. The pungency of the salve hit Lachlan’s nose just as its burn seared into his back. Lachlan stiffened, barely hearing the doctor’s sharp words to stay still.

“I take it,” the doctor said, “that you don’t know who wants you dead.”

“Many would profit from my murder.”

“That’s the way of clans and chieftains, Lachlan of the Western Isles. Is that what you’re telling me?”

Lachlan fixed his jaw. The doctor had already guessed that Lachlan wasn’t a common yeoman, but now he was guessing something closer to the truth.

“Am I to believe,” the doctor said, as he slapped more grease on his back, “that there is not a single friend in whom you can put your complete trust?”

“I trust my father,” he said through gritted teeth, “but among those who surround him hides a serpent.”

He’d been thinking about this, over and over, since the moment his mind had cleared from the pain. His most likely enemies were among the Campbells or the Lamonts, neighboring clans who were always starting trouble. But any man in the three septs of his own clan—the MacGilchrists or the Ewings or even someone among his own people, the MacEgans—had a motive to see him dead. Including his own Stuart stepmother, who looked at him with acid in her eyes for standing in line ahead of Fingal, his half-brother, her only son.

The doctor said, “I have men whom I trust. I’ll order that the messenger speak to your father only.”

“Such news can’t be contained. Once it’s delivered, it’ll be a race for who will reach me first, my father or his enemies.” The burn of the salve eased, leaving a stretch of his back throbbing. “Sending word of my survival would only put your family in danger, Conor of Inishmaan.”

The healer clanked the clay bowl of demonic salve back on his tray and fumbled about for something else.

“Once I’m better, I’ll hire onto a ship,” Lachlan said, sensing the healer’s frustration. “I can pass as a common sailor—”

“With this wound?” The doctor tossed the end of the linen across Lachlan’s shoulder. “It’ll be weeks before you have full use of it.”

“Am I to be crippled, then?”

“You’ll be able to wield a dagger eventually. Swinging a claymore will take more time. Pulling hemp ropes? That’ll rip the muscle for sure.”

“I’ll heal faster than you think—”

“I’m counting on that. Until then, you’ll stay here until you’re stronger or until your secrets wash up on my shore.”

“The only secrets I hold, Conor of Inishmaan, are those that will keep you and your family safe—”

“She’s not an ordinary girl.”

Lachlan swallowed his words. Not just because of what the doctor said, but for the rough, raw way in which he said it.

“I’ve kept her safe on this island for a long time,” the doctor continued, “away from the worst of the world.”

He couldn’t blame the man for wanting to hide such a beauty from men’s eyes, but he knew the doctor would not appreciate hearing such words from him.

“Cairenn can’t leave this island,” the doctor said, “without experiencing devastating pain.”

Lachlan frowned. What strange affliction would bind a woman to a place? No doubt, if he asked, the doctor would spit out some Latin name for the condition, but Lachlan’s Latin wasn’t so good that he would be able to determine if the disease was real or just a construct dreamt up by an overprotective parent.

“My eldest daughter, Aileen, is off in Wales,” the healer continued, as if he were yanking out each word. “It was she who most often helped me in this surgery.” The doctor stood up and seized the tray of implements. “Now that she is gone, Cairenn has taken her place.” The doctor strode with a heavy tread to his worktable, where he slammed down the instruments with more force than necessary. “I have business on the mainland that will take me away from here for a week or more. When I leave, it will be Cairenn who will see to you. Alone.”