house. “It seems we’ve fallen into a nest of English royal hopefuls. I don’t know if it means much for us, but it could be dangerous.”
Searc sat up and glanced toward their horses. “I found a rock in Gaoth’s hoof, picked it out.”
“Is he lame?” Ewan walked over to his stallion and ran a hand down his nose. He hadn’t been limping.
Searc joined him there. “No, just rubbed red in the sole. It would be good if he could rest it tonight. Where is Dory?”
Dory. Her name alone kicked Ewan’s stomach into a knot and rushed heat through his blood. “She’s bathing in the house. I think the woman planned to stay the night from the beginning.” He wouldn’t put it past her to manipulate their whole trip. She certainly wasn’t the weak lady in distress he’d originally thought.
“The lass will feel better when she’s clean and rested. Maybe she won’t be so stubborn then. My mother is always more pleasant when she’s had a bath and a good night’s sleep.” Searc scratched the dog’s soft head. “I think I’ll call her Maggie, after a wee lass back home with fluffy hair.”
Ewan raised one eyebrow. “I think being stubborn is in her blood.” He lowered his voice even though they spoke Gaelic. “What do you make of her magic?”
“I’ve lived with magic all my life,” Searc answered, referring to his mother Rachel. “It doesn’t concern me. Are you afraid of the lass?” He grinned.
“Nay! But before Meg I didn’t know it really existed. I’d heard rumors of your mother’s powers but thought they were exaggerated.”
“’Tis common in women perhaps?” Searc asked.
“Nay.” Ewan shook his head. “Most witch hunters create the charges they condemn people with. And Meg and Rachel don’t control the weather.”
“If Meg’s father had actually been Boswell instead of Colin Macleod and she and Dory were half-sisters, there might be some connection,” Searc said.
“But Meg inherited her healing magic from her mother, not Boswell.”
Ewan watched the windows along the side that Dory resided. “It glows like the same blue light, though.” He shook his head. “She must be related to Meg and your mother by blood in some way.”
“That would mean I’m related to the lass,” Searc commented.
“Aye,” Ewan said. “Best think of her as a sister then.”
…
Dory sunk low in the perfumed water. Never before had she felt something so luxurious. Warm, fresh water surrounded her in the small wooden tub. She leaned her damp head on the edge, letting her now-clean hair cascade to the floor to start drying on the white linen at the base of the tub. She’d bathed daily on board ship, but that had usually entailed a swim in the cold ocean or a sponge bath with captured rainwater. Once when she’d been ill, before she knew what her magic could do, Captain Bart had wiped her down with warmed water when she couldn’t stop shaking from the chills. But even that hadn’t felt anything like this decadent treat.
“I may never emerge,” she whispered behind the screen she’d set before the warm hearth. Her new friend, Jane, was lucky indeed to be able to enjoy this upon request.
Dory slid the jasmine-scented soap, which had been supplied with the tub, over her arms. Tiny soap bubbles joined in little groups along the surface, broken only by the twin islands of her bent knees. One by one she lifted a leg and lavished it with sweet soap.
The bedchamber door opened. “Dory? Where are ye?”
“Ewan?” she squeaked and submerged until her chin touched the filmy surface. “I’m taking my bath.”
“Still? Ye’ve been in here an hour. What are ye doing?”
She couldn’t see his shadow because the fire threw light on the canvas screen. But his voice was close. “It takes time to wash long hair.”
She heard him sniff. “Smells like a blooming garden in here.”
“’Tis the soap. I like it.”
His boots clipped along the floor boards as he neared. Her gaze scanned the
Searc sat up and glanced toward their horses. “I found a rock in Gaoth’s hoof, picked it out.”
“Is he lame?” Ewan walked over to his stallion and ran a hand down his nose. He hadn’t been limping.
Searc joined him there. “No, just rubbed red in the sole. It would be good if he could rest it tonight. Where is Dory?”
Dory. Her name alone kicked Ewan’s stomach into a knot and rushed heat through his blood. “She’s bathing in the house. I think the woman planned to stay the night from the beginning.” He wouldn’t put it past her to manipulate their whole trip. She certainly wasn’t the weak lady in distress he’d originally thought.
“The lass will feel better when she’s clean and rested. Maybe she won’t be so stubborn then. My mother is always more pleasant when she’s had a bath and a good night’s sleep.” Searc scratched the dog’s soft head. “I think I’ll call her Maggie, after a wee lass back home with fluffy hair.”
Ewan raised one eyebrow. “I think being stubborn is in her blood.” He lowered his voice even though they spoke Gaelic. “What do you make of her magic?”
“I’ve lived with magic all my life,” Searc answered, referring to his mother Rachel. “It doesn’t concern me. Are you afraid of the lass?” He grinned.
“Nay! But before Meg I didn’t know it really existed. I’d heard rumors of your mother’s powers but thought they were exaggerated.”
“’Tis common in women perhaps?” Searc asked.
“Nay.” Ewan shook his head. “Most witch hunters create the charges they condemn people with. And Meg and Rachel don’t control the weather.”
“If Meg’s father had actually been Boswell instead of Colin Macleod and she and Dory were half-sisters, there might be some connection,” Searc said.
“But Meg inherited her healing magic from her mother, not Boswell.”
Ewan watched the windows along the side that Dory resided. “It glows like the same blue light, though.” He shook his head. “She must be related to Meg and your mother by blood in some way.”
“That would mean I’m related to the lass,” Searc commented.
“Aye,” Ewan said. “Best think of her as a sister then.”
…
Dory sunk low in the perfumed water. Never before had she felt something so luxurious. Warm, fresh water surrounded her in the small wooden tub. She leaned her damp head on the edge, letting her now-clean hair cascade to the floor to start drying on the white linen at the base of the tub. She’d bathed daily on board ship, but that had usually entailed a swim in the cold ocean or a sponge bath with captured rainwater. Once when she’d been ill, before she knew what her magic could do, Captain Bart had wiped her down with warmed water when she couldn’t stop shaking from the chills. But even that hadn’t felt anything like this decadent treat.
“I may never emerge,” she whispered behind the screen she’d set before the warm hearth. Her new friend, Jane, was lucky indeed to be able to enjoy this upon request.
Dory slid the jasmine-scented soap, which had been supplied with the tub, over her arms. Tiny soap bubbles joined in little groups along the surface, broken only by the twin islands of her bent knees. One by one she lifted a leg and lavished it with sweet soap.
The bedchamber door opened. “Dory? Where are ye?”
“Ewan?” she squeaked and submerged until her chin touched the filmy surface. “I’m taking my bath.”
“Still? Ye’ve been in here an hour. What are ye doing?”
She couldn’t see his shadow because the fire threw light on the canvas screen. But his voice was close. “It takes time to wash long hair.”
She heard him sniff. “Smells like a blooming garden in here.”
“’Tis the soap. I like it.”
His boots clipped along the floor boards as he neared. Her gaze scanned the
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