Page 9 of Fletcher

He wondered what she meant to do to the garments. “Fetch a mending kit from the Idonea, and a pair of cloth shears she may spare.”

“The wee lass, she’s spent a fair time weeping,” Meg said before she left.

Fletcher looked in through the door before he stepped inside the guest chamber. Lark had washed her hair, and now looked almost swaddled by the light wool gown she wore. Her bare feet, hardly longer than his palms, dangled a few inches above the floor. She had removed the bandage from her head, and now sat combing her fingers through her long, damp locks, making him wish he’d thought to bring a comb for her.

Seeing her face clearly even without touching her still startled him. Her slightly swollen eyes and nose confirmed what Meg had told him. “How fare you, lass?”

“Much better now.” Lark pushed her hair back and rose to her feet, making her too-long skirts puddle around them. “Thank you for the bath and the dresses.”

Now he saw why she needed the needle and thread, but wondered what could have caused her tears. “Your head, ’tis painful? Shall I bring the healer?”

“No, I just… It’s been a very long day.” She pressed the back of her hand against her cheek. “Is it all right if I alter these gowns to fit me better?”

“Aye, but you should first eat something.” He set the tray with the meal and brew he’d brought on a side table. “If the food, ’tisnae what you want, I may fetch more.”

Lark glanced without much interest at the bread, cheese and fruit on the plate. “This is fine, thank you.”

“’Tisnae fine for you to come here, I ken.” When she frowned at him Fletcher wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her close. “You’ve endured much.”

“I have plenty of experience.” She sat back down on the bench and stared into the flames crackling in the hearth. “I’m okay. You don’t have to babysit me.”

He thought for a moment until he remembered a time when the laird’s wife had used the same term.

“I dinnae tend bairns, although I like them well enough.” He crouched in front of her so he could see her eyes, which seemed filled with sorrow. “I ken what ’tis to suffer in silence. I’ll gladly listen, if you wish speak on what troubles you.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She looked down at the hands she held twisted in her lap. “You don’t need to do anything for me.”

“I cannae agree. Your face, ’tis the first I’ve ever seen.” When she frowned at him he nodded. “Every one of the clan, they’ve a weakness due to their mortal blood. Mine, ’tis been a kind of blindness. I’ve never beheld the faces of others, until you came. You’ve given me a grand boon, and so I must do what I may to repay you.”

Her brows drew together. “I’m really the only person whose face you’ve seen clearly?”

“The first, but no’ the last.” He took hold of her hand. “When we touch my weakness entire vanishes. You’ve allowed me look upon the faces of my brothers, Lady Valerie, and our vassals. I didnae ken their faces until today.”

“That’s wonderful.” Lark took her hand from his and looked back at the hearth. “You must be busy, though, so you should go back to work.”

“’Twas the kiss that fashes you, aye?” When she regarded him with a slightly more sullen expression he smiled. “I’ll make apologies if you wish, lass, but ’twas from my relief. I reckoned you half your age.”

She let out a breath. “You thought I was a child before I told you how old I am. No harm done, then.”

Fletcher wondered why she said that as if he’d somehow hurt her more with the explanation than the kiss. He should never have touched her, of course, but he couldn’t make himself regret that. Before he could say anything more, two maids came in to make the bed with fresh linens, reminding him that Lark had yet to rest.

“If you’ve any need, bid one of the lasses find me,” he told her, and then bowed before he left the chamber.

Fletcher knew the laird would be waiting in the hall for his report, but took a moment to walk the passages so he could brood on what to tell him. The fact that Lark’s touch dispelled his mortal weakness was more than a boon; it seemed to him a miracle, one he oddly wished keep to himself. He also suspected that once the Finfolk king Merrick learned Lady Joana’s ring had brought another lass from the future he would demand access to Lark, or leverage the incident to his advantage.

The Finfolk, all of whom were male, used their peculiar magic to transform willing female mortals into mates who could live underwater and share their long lives. They could only sire male children with their transformed wives, however, and that created a perpetual imbalance. According to the truce they held with the MacMar, their king had first right to offer for any female of bearing years found in their waters, and this had always served as a contentious matter between them and the clan.

Since Fletcher had rescued Lark and brought her to the island Merrick had no right to first offer. Yet if the lass refused to remain with the clan, the king would likely remove all of her memories of the future as well as Caladh before taking her away. That would mean Lark would end up without any notion of who she was or from where she had come when she was left to the mercies of whoever encountered her on the mainland. As she had no kin anywhere, nor any inkling of how females lived in this era, she would doubtless fall into ruinous circumstances.

I must protect her.

“How fares Mistress Ambrose?” a tired voice asked, drawing him from his thoughts.

He stopped in front of the stronghold’s infirmary, where Duncan stood leaning against the open door.

“She’s having a meal and some rest.” He glanced past him to see one of the elderly vassals from the village on the healer’s treatment table, his withered limbs and swollen belly not quite as alarming as the dark yellow caste to his skin. “How fares your patient?”

“’Twould seem old Gilroy’s lived on ale, whiskey and bitterness for two seasons.” Duncan stepped out into the hall and closed the door before he said, “That daughter of his finally wed last fall. He doesnae care for the husband, so he refuses permit her come and attend him anymore. He’s too crippled with whirlbone to get about or do much for himself. I reckon he sits by his hearth all day drinking and cursing his new son-in-law.”