Chapter Two
Lily stayed behind, outside her front door, watching the two men make their way on foot to The Pheasant Inn. An odd pair. One was tall, broad, and handsome, but mostly mute and looking as if he’d swallowed something foul. The other was much shorter, slim in his robes, bald and badly scarred on his face. He seemed to be the intelligent one of the two.
She turned away for a moment when the dark-haired Scot turned around to have one last look at her.
She hadn’t forgotten what he said. She was worthy of heaven. Her heart raced a little. No one had ever said anything like that to her before. Nothing that made her want to smile like a child going off to play. She wasn’t certain what to do about it. She knew she had to stop, but she didn’t know how.
She would admit that looking at Elias MacPherson was like lying back in the grass on a clear night and seeing stars light up the sky. His beauty was simply…resplendent. He was tall, with strong, straight legs and wide shoulders. Behind soft waves of dark hair, his startling blue eyes glittered with tiny shards of silver, ringed by long, lush, dark lashes. He was chiseled by the Master’s hand from face to foot.
She thought about every part of him, like how the muscles in his thighs had trembled and bulged while lowering Richard’s potted herbs. She remembered the heat and hardness of his body when he stood close behind her and reached for the jar of chamomile.
She stepped away from the house and headed back to the shop. To her husband. The man she loved. And she did love Richard. She would always stand by him and help him. She would never leave him for a sweet frame and some pretty words.
Richard deserved more than that. He’d saved her fromThe Savage Scot.That was what everyone had called Bertram Chisholm. For he had killed poor John Fenley, the tanner, for tripping over the beast’s long claymore while he ate supper in the tavern. He had forced his desires on Deirdre one of the tavern’s serving girls and then insisted she was a deceitful harlot who should be banished from the village. When Lily stood up to him about Deirdre’s fate, she was struck in the face and put to the ground. When his orders to banish Deirdre were not carried out, he killed Roger the reeve, the senior official under the crown to oversee the peasants, and announced himself the new reeve, then banished Deirdre himself.
When Lily stood up to him for the villagers, they’d grown fond of her and took care of her when her beatings were severe.
She reached the shop now and saw her dear husband gathering sage and comfrey and smiled. Where would her life be now if he hadn’t stepped into it?
“I showed them the house, my dear,” she called to him merrily. “They have gone to speak to Estrid and will return later.”
He nodded and smiled at her then continued mashing leaves.
They had no children, as their marriage was never consummated. With all his knowledge of roots and leaves, Richard could never find a cure for his inability to become physically aroused. And even if he could, Lily could not. She felt no physical attraction to him, but loved him more the way she might have loved her father.
She smiled in greeting as Joan, the miller’s wife and Deirdre’s mother, stepped inside the shop and pushed down her summer hood. Her bun was the same as Lily remembered it being for the last two years, but now it was silver instead of brown. “Good day to you, Joan. How is Deirdre?”
“Larger than a house,” the serving girl’s mother huffed. “When will this babe ever arrive?”
“She has a month, at least. Tell her not to forget to take the ginger for bloating.” Lily smiled. “How are your ankles?”
Joan lifted her skirts and grinned. “Oh, much better, Sweeting! The cardinalwort…no, what did you call it?”
“Bishopwort,” Lily supplied with a slight giggle when she heard Richard snort.
“Oh, aye! Look! No swelling for two days! I have come for more.”
Lily nodded and went to a small shelf on the wall behind her table. It was where she kept the most frequently used remedies. As she reached for the bishopwort, she remembered her Scottish guest reaching for the chamomile over her head and felt a little lightheaded.
“We have two guests staying with us, Joan.” Better to tell her neighbor now instead of after they terrified Joan when she saw them. “They are Scots. One of them is a priest.”
“A brother,” Richard called out, correcting her.
“Oh? Where are they coming from?” Joan asked with sudden worry creasing her brow.
“Dearest, what is it?” Lily asked as her neighbor twisted her skirts in her hands.
“Now, I do not know if ‘tis true, but Agnes told me, who was told by Ivett that a deadly sickness has ravaged Italy and now parts of France. Many are dead. Some fear ‘twill spread.”
“Our guests are from Scotland,” Lily hastened to let her know. She didn’t always listen to rumors and gossip, but this could be important—and sickness was Richard’s specialty. “What else do you know about this deadly sickness? Did Ivett tell you anything more?”
Joan shook her head.
Ivett was Osbert, the new reeve’s wife. Osbert had contact with men close to the crown. He heard rumors first, told his wife, and she always spread them.
Lily turned to her husband untying his leather apron and setting it aside. “I will go speak to Osbert about this and see what else I can find out.”
Lily nodded and watched him leave the shop.