“I…” he cleared his throat and began again. “I am havin’ trouble sleepin’.”
“You are a Scot,” she said softly and glanced at the old man as he entered the shop.
Hell. He’d forgotten to use his King’s English. He rarely used it anymore, and only in certain circumstances that would aid his Highland endeavors. “Aye. D’ye not serve Scots here?”
“Do not take offense at her words, kind sir,” the old man hurried forward. “Of course, we serve Scots. We serve whoever needs us. Pardon me, I am Richard Bennett, the village apothecary, and this is my wife, Lily. Lily, some chamomile tea for the stranger.”
Elias stared at him for one more moment then closed his mouth. His wife? Had he heard right? Did the old man sayhis wife?
He wondered why her true father would sentence her to this life. His gaze found her again, reaching for a blue jar high up on one of the shelves.
He went to her and reached over her to pluck the jar from the shelf. He handed it to her over her shoulder and looked into her eyes as she turned to thank him. He didn’t want her to be married. He was supposed to respect her vows—and he did. He was supposed to forget her and walk away—but he didn’t.
She turned, almost in his arms. He stepped away. What the hell was wrong with him? He turned to Simon and almost asked for help. Was he having a breakdown? He’d heard of such things happening to men of battle. Sleepless nights was one of the symptoms. That’s what he had come here for. Medicine. Not a woman. Especially not another man’s wife.
She weighed some of the herb on a scale and then folded the amount in a sheet of parchment.
He nodded when she instructed him on how to prepare the tea then pulled out his pouch of coins to pay and leave, but the man—her husband, stopped him.
“Are you staying in Sevenoaks or just passing through?”
“Both,” Elias answered. “We are passin’ through, but we are stayin’ fer a few days.”
“Where are you and your priest—"
“Brother,” Simon corrected again with a sigh. “Notice the brown robes, the bald head.”
The apothecary shrugged his sagging shoulders. “Where are you staying?”
“The Pheasant Inn.”
“Pah!” the old man breathed out emphatically. “The place is not fit for pigs. We have a bed in our home. You will stay there.”
“Nae.” Elias backed away. He couldn’t stay and ignore the apothecary’s wife. And what if he awoke tonight from one of his night terrors and she saw him? “We have already made—”
“Do you need me to speak to Estrid, the owner of the inn?” Richard the apothecary offered.
“Nae.” Elias laughed softly. “Dinna speak to anyone on my account.” He looked at Mrs. Lily Bennett and shook his head. She was forbidden. He needed to leave.
“Look,” said the old man. “You are strong and able bodied. I could use your help around here, stranger. Both of you. Stay for as many days as you have planned, free of charge.”
“God is good,” Simon said with a smile. “What do you need us to do?”
“Nae,” Elias interrupted, glaring at his friend. “We truly canna stay. I dinna mean to be rude, but I will—”
“You can start by telling us where you are from and your names.”
“Brother Simon,” Simon said pointing at himself, and then at Elias, completely ignoring his friend’s scowl. “Elias MacPherson of Invergarry, a commander in—”
“We arena stayin’ long.” Elias glanced at the apothecary’s wife and found her sizing him up.
She creased her delicate brow at him and turned away, looking rather disappointed.
Elias wanted to defend his curtness and his stubborn refusal to stay, but he remained quiet.
“We have supper three hours after sunset,” Richard told them. “My wife will not serve you if you are late. Please come inside before midnight so we know the door to our home is locked.
“Now, please go with Lily so she can show you where we live. After that, you can return here and move those sacks against the wall out to the back shed.”