But this healer, like so many others, was afraid of what was different and thus condemned it. Ignorance translated into fear, which quickly became persecution. The Hawk leveled a steely glare on the old man and growled, “Anything that might heal my wife would be good for her. I don’t care if it’s mummified toad brains. Or mummified healer brains for that matter.”
The healer shut his mouth and signed a quick cross.
The Hawk rubbed his eyes and sighed. The Rom were as good a chance as any. He quickly bade a guard at the door to dispatch a messenger to the camp.
“I think you’re making a big mistake, milord—”
“The only mistake being made in this room is you opening your mouth again,” Hawk growled.
The healer rose furiously, his ancient joints popping protest. With pursed lips, he removed a stone jar sealed by wax and a tight stopper from inside his overtunic, close to his body. He placed it on the hearth, then with the audacity and temerity often acquired by those who have survived plague, famine, and war to reach an advanced old age, the healer dared to snip, “You might choose to use it when your Rom fail. For fail, they will,” before fleeing the room in a flurry of creaking joints and thin flapping limbs.
Hawk shook his head and stared broodingly at the shivering woman on the bed. His wife. His lovely, proud, tempestuous dying wife. He felt utterly helpless.
Lydia crossed the room and pulled her son’s head into the comfort of her bosom. “Hawk, my sweet Hawk.” She murmured those nonsensical sounds only a mother knows.
A long moment passed, then Hawk pulled his head back. If he could offer no comfort to his wife, he would accept no comfort from his mother. “Tell me again exactly what happened in the gardens.”
“Come, sweet whore,” Adam commanded, and Esmerelda came.
She was beyond redemption now. Esmerelda knew who Adam Black was even as she went to him. Her people had always known, and were accordingly cautious. Particularly when dealing with this one, for to incite his ire, or merely to become the focus of his attention, could be the cup of death for an entire nation. And although such phenomenal power instilled immense terror in Esmerelda’s veins, so too was it an irresistible aphrodisiac.
What had brought him here? she wondered. It was her last coherent thought as he began to do those things to her body that turned her inside-out. His face was dark with passion above her, gilded in the amber glow of fire beneath the rowans. The scent of sandalwood and jasmine rose up from the steaming earth around them. It was wee morn when she was finally able to crawl from his forge.
Adam templed his fingers and considered his strategy as he watched the woman falter from his tent on weak legs.
“Fool!” The word came sharply, harsh and condemning.
Adam stiffened. “You called, my King?” he asked, addressing his unseen master.
“What have you done this time, Adam?”
“I was having my way with a gypsy girl, since you ask. What of it?”
“The beauty lies dying.”
“Adrienne?” Adam was startled. “Nay. Not of my hand.”
“Well, fix it!”
“Truly, my King, I had nothing to do with it.”
“I don’t care. Fix it. Our Queen would be furious should we jeopardize the Compact.”
“I’ll fix it. But who would seek to fell the beauty?”
“It’s your game, fool. Run it more tightly. Already the Queen asks about you.”
“She misses me?” Adam preened a moment.
Finnbheara snorted. “You may have pleased her in passing, but I am her King.”
Adrienne was burning. Tethered to a stake, like an ancient witch trapped amidst a mountain of blazing timbers while the villagers gazed placidly on. Help me! she pleaded through parched lips as she convulsed in the billowing smoke. Choking, choking, and then she felt the hideous sensation of a thousand fire ants scurrying frantically to and fro just beneath the top layer of her skin.
She was unaware of the Hawk sponging her brow, bathing her body with cool cloths, and wrapping her in soft woolens. He pushed damp tendrils of hair from her brow and kissed it gently. Stoking the fire, he turned back quickly to discover her thrashing violently against the snug cocoon of blankets the healer had assured him might ease her fever.
Desperation engulfed him, more brutal and pounding than the fiercest Highland squall.
A primitive groan escaped his lips as the Hawk watched her scratch viciously at her flawless skin in a vain attempt to assuage the attack of whatever fierce beastie the fever had conjured to torment her with. She’d scratch herself raw if he didn’t stop her, yet he couldn’t bear to bind her hands as the healer had recommended. A vision of her straining against the bonds flickered through his mind’s eyes, and he swallowed a bitter howl of impotent fury. How could he wage war against an unseen invader that had no known vulnerability? How could he defeat a poison that had no cure?