Free Wild Roses by Miriam Minger Page B

whose switching
tail she had just stepped upon. Duncan had been so grim only moments ago, and
now to hear him laughing, a low, rich sound that seemed to rumble from his
chest and even more strangely, make her want to smile, too . . .
    "I thought that might happen. Clement loves cats
as much as mixing his potions. He has eleven of them, usually underfoot. Look
over there."
    As Duncan eased his hold so she could turn around
although he kept his hands at her waist, Maire saw that indeed, a sleek pair of
half-grown kittens swatted at a frayed twist of rope beneath one table while
more cats were dozing throughout the room, some curled on the floor, others
atop casks and barrels. Even the snow-white beauty that she'd unknowingly
affronted had settled into a fluffy ball of fur behind a huge mortar and
pestle. Maire thought how much the feline reminded her of Triona's beloved
Maeve, named after the legendary warrior-queen of Eire.
    "Do you like cats?"
    She started, meeting Duncan's eyes yet unable to fathom
his expression, the lighting was so dim. It seemed so curious for such a
formidable-looking man to be asking her such an ordinary thing, but she
supposed his mind wasn't always filled with fighting and rebel clans and all
the responsibilities his rank must entail. Yet she didn't have a chance to
answer as a stout fellow with a shaven crown, wearing a somber gray monk's
robe, hustled into the room, his voice humbly apologetic as he lit a second
lamp.
    "Forgive me, Baron, but the Greek text I was
reading begged for me to finish the page—ah, now!" Clement twisted around
his girth to study Maire. "Is this the young woman who last night so
worried our Faustis?"
    "Her name is Rose. I know little else about
her." Duncan's voice had grown as grim as before as the friar drew closer
to Maire. "She remembers little else, in fact. The injury to her
head—"
    "Oh, yes, those can be very bad. Very bad,"
Clement seemed to say more to himself, his broad, kindly face full of concern
as he gently shooed a yellow cat from a stool and gestured for Maire to come
and sit.
    She did, very conscious of Duncan dropping his hands
from around her waist, her skin still feeling warm where he'd held her. Yet she
made herself focus upon the friar; he seemed to note well her awkward gait as
she moved to oblige him, but she felt only compassion emanating from the man.
Nonetheless it did little to soothe her sudden nervousness.
    Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, would he guess her ruse? Her
face grew flushed as she sat, and Clement's hand went at once gingerly to
examine the bump on the left side of her head. Maire didn't have to feign her
grimace or her sharp intake of breath.
    "Ah, forgive me; of course it is still tender,
terribly so." Patting her cheek as a father would do a child, Clement gave a sigh and then stepped back, still studying her thoughtfully
while Maire's disquiet only grew.
    "So what is your judgment?" Duncan said
finally to break the stillness, his voice low and impatient. "Have you
some potion that might help her?"
    "Time will heal her best, Baron, but yes, I
believe I've something to ease the soreness . . ."
    As Clement turned to a nearby table and began searching
rather noisily among vessels and bowls, Maire's gaze went to Duncan. She wasn't
surprised he studied her, too. He did not appear angry at the friar's
conclusion, but the hard set of his jaw told her that he wasn't altogether
pleased.
    "How much time, Clement? A few days? A week or
more? By the blood of God, if her clan doesn't know soon that she is
safe—"
    "Such an injury has no rhyme or reason, Baron; I
cannot say how long it may be. The shock of the attack upon her clansmen too,
may be more at the heart of her malady. She must be treated most gently while
she is among us—ah, here it is."
    Maire's eyes widened as Clement drew a plum-colored
vial from the clutter on the table, the friar clucking his tongue with
satisfaction.
    "I've some wine to mix with this powder if you'll
both give me