Page 5 of The Splendor of Fire
Father helped the man sit up and rested him against his chest. “My daughter is going to feed you some broth.”
The man’s eyes fluttered. “I’m hungry.”
“Good. She’s got the best broth on Skye. It’ll heal you right up. The stuff might even grow back an arm.”
At this, the man’s eyes shot open and he looked at his wounded shoulder. Father chuckled. “Only a jest. I forgot you’ve been unconscious. Do you remember your name, lad?”
Moira scooped a large spoonful of broth and brought it to his mouth. His cracked lips parted and he drank. “Léonid MacKinnon. My friends call me Léo. Did you say we were on Skye?”
His deep, sensuous voice spoke Gaelic, but it was accented. She wondered what more there was to his story. He was the half-brother of Laird Niall MacKinnon, and as Father put it, the family scandal. How it was possible Léo could be more scandalous than Niall, Fingon, or Elspeth, she didn’t know.
“We’re just off the coast of Skye on Pabay.”
“Pabay? Then this is…”
“Cràdh Prison.”
Léo groaned. Not knowing what else to do in the face of such depressing news, she brought another spoonful of broth to his mouth. He drank and licked at the trickle that escaped from his full lips. His honey-brown eye opened a crack. “It’s good.” The eye opened farther and studied her, then slid shut again. She wondered if he was remembering their kiss.
After a few minutes of careful feeding, the broth dwindled in the pot and she backed away, replacing the cauldron in the fire to dry and season.
“What’s your name?” His voice had gone warm and made a shiver travel down her spine.
Looking over her shoulder, she found him studying her again. Agood question without a definite answer. She formed the letters with her fingers. M-O-I-R-A.
He regarded her with confusion. Father cleared his throat. “Moira.”
Léo looked at him. “She cannot say it herself?”
Embarrassment washed over her.
Father settled onto the stone floor beside her. “No. Came down ill after a spell in the sea when she weren’t but four years old. Took her voice away.”
All but a hoarse, barely audible rasp. Moira turned her back and bundled the last of the supplies in Maw’s basket. Feeding the soiled linen into the fire, she tuned her ear to their conversation.
“How long have I been on Pabay?”
“You arrived last night. I arrived at first light this morning. I’m the priest responsible for the holy church’s benevolence mission at Cràdh. I come once a week to take care of prestigious prisoners.
Léo scoffed. “Prestigious, you say?”
“You’re in bad shape. The guards sent word to me to come immediately—that means you’re quite prestigious. That’s why I’ve brought my daughter to help tend you.”
Léo cleared his throat. “I thank you for your help. Are these your hose I’m wearing?”
Father gave a loud chortle, no doubt remembering the Finn McCool comparison, but politely disguised it as if he were clearing his throat. “Er—excuse me, a tickle in my throat. Aye, they’re my hose. I have a tunic here for you also, but we need to wait for your shoulder to heal before we put it on. I don’t think it would fit you anyway. I may need to get Moira to stitch two together to cover you.”
Léo chuckled, then moaned in pain, shifting on the straw mat. She hurried back to him and helped him settle back down. The gold disc caught in the light as it rested against his muscled chest. He caught her looking at it, then him, and she blushed.
“How long until I’m healed?”
Father clicked his tongue. “I’d say at least a month. Maybe longer.”
“You are a healer?”
Father chuckled. “No indeed. I’m only a priest. My wifewas the healer.”
Léo’s eyes began to droop again. “A priest with a wife….It’s good to have a wife.”
