Page 23 of The Highlander's Illicit Bride
“That didnae help with the smell at all,” he said. “It smells like a wet dog.”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” she replied with a laugh.
Struan watched her working, intrigued by the process. Her brow was furrowed and the pink tip of her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth, her face a mask of intense concentration as she worked. Isolde pulled jars and pots from her pack—it seemed that she had an entire apothecary in there. She worked with a self-assuredness and confidence he had not seen in her before. She really seemed to be in her domain and it was fascinating to see the change in her.
“Did ye train as a healer?” he asked.
“Nay. Nae formally. But the healer in me faither’s castle taught me the attributes of certain herbs, what should be used fer what ailments—all in secret, of course. If me faither ever found out she was teachin’ me… it would nae have been good,” she said with a shudder. “But she kept teachin’ me anyway.”
Struan thought back to Isolde caring for him while he was in the grips of a nightmare. He recalled the cloth she’d been using to wipe his brow had been scented with something and wondered if she had been trying to alleviate his dreams with some poultice or tincture.
Knowing that she was a skilled, if not formally trained, healer, made sense to him. She hadn’t been able to banish his dreams with whatever mixture of herbs she’d used, but she had pulled him out of them—something nobody had ever achieved before.
“All right, drink this down then,” she urged him.
Isolde pushed the cup toward him as she put the lids back on her supplies and started stowing them in her pack. His nose was filled with something that smelled like fresh grass, wet dog, and stagnant bog water with a slight undercurrent of rotting meat. And the gray-green liquid swirling around inside did nothing to dispel the bog water image in his mind. Struan picked up the cup and moved it closer to his nose, detecting the faint hints of citrus she’d blended in—likely to take the edge off the sharp stench.
“This looks and smells awful,” he said.
“Stop bein’ such a bairn and drink it down,” she said. “Medicines dinnae always look and smell pleasant. But I can promise ye that what’s in the cup is effective. Ye’ll sleep like a stone tonight.”
“A stone? I think what’s in this cup might kill me first.”
She laughed. “Ye’re actin’ like a bairn.”
“Because I dinnae want tae spend the rest of the night throwin’ me guts up,” he said with a grin. “Tell me, is that the secret? I spend all night sickin’ up, so I cannae have nightmares?”
She rolled her eyes. “I watched ye bein’ dragged about me faither’s castle in chains. I watched ye bein’ beaten by terrible men. And I watched ye square off with four of me faither’s personal guard. And never once did I see ye show the slightest bit of fear,” she said. “But a little tonic in a cup has ye quakin’ ye in yer boots and behavin’ like a bairn? ‘Tis unbelievable is what it is.”
He frowned and felt his cheeks warm. Struan supposed that she had a point. He sighed and shook his head.
“Fine,” he said and raised the cup. “Thank ye fer this.”
“Of course,” she replied with a nod.
Not giving himself time to think about—or taste—what he was drinking, Struan put the cup to his lips, tilted his head back, and quaffed the entire thing in one swallow. Despite his best effort, he couldn’t keep the sludge from hitting his tongue entirely and it filled his mouth with a bitter, greasy feeling. If anything, the citrus flavor she added seemed to make the whole concoction even worse.
“Good, eh?” she asked.
“Nay. Nae at all.”
She laughed like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “It might taste bad, but it will help ye sleep taenight. That much I can promise ye.”
Struan poured a cup of regular wine and took a swallow, swishing it around in his mouth as he tried to rid himself of the foul taste that clung to it. As he did, Isolde began preparing for bed. Struan took a moment to drink another cup of wine then followed that with a cup of water. Satisfied he’d washed away the taste of her tonic, Struan chuckled to himself then sat down on the edge of the bed as she tucked herself into it.
Isolde turned over quickly. “What dae ye think ye’re daein’?” Her eyes were wide, and she wore an expression of scandal on her face as she paled. Struan chuckled to himself.
“I’m gettin’ ready fer bed,” he said.
“Ye cannae think ye’re goin’ tae sleep in this bed with me?”
“Why nae?” he asked. “’Tis big enough.”
“’Tis improper! I willnae share a bed with ye.”
“Just turn over and pretend I’m nae here.”
She huffed in frustration. “Fine. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
