Taming The Lion

“I am certain you were, but—”

“Brita is her name, and her father is Roland, the head distiller. She helps with preparing the barley mash. She told me that Lady Catlyn keeps records of everything they do in a book.”

“Callum.”

“But this could be what you’re looking for,” the lad cried.

Ross groaned and sat down on the stool beside the bed. “Aye, it could be, but I do not want you endangering yourself by prying into things.”

“I wanted to help.” His lip came out. “Dallas came by to see how I was. He said that he and the other lads are gathering information. I just wanted to help,” he said again.

“You can help by getting well. But not too quickly.”

“What?”

Ross smiled and ruffled Callum’s carrot red hair. “The Boyds are a wary lot. The only reason they have let us stay is because you and Ned were hurt. Ned took an arrow to the arm, but he’s already up and about. Once you are well enough to ride, they will doubtless send us on our way.”

“Even if we have not found the recipe.”

“I can not use that as an excuse, can I?” Ross asked dryly.

“That is true,” Callum said seriously.

Ross hid a smile. “But if you were to act weak-like.”

“They would have to let us stay,” Callum said.

“It will not be easy, lad. You must pretend to sleep a lot and not ask questions. Sick men have not the strength or the will for that.”

“I suppose.”

“Meantime, I will look for this book you’ve mentioned.”

Callum smiled. “You can count on me, my lord.”

“Visiting the patient, Sir Ross?” inquired a dry voice. Freda stood in the gloomy corridor. Old and gnarled as an ancient tree, she leaned heavily on a walking stick and stared at him out of dark, suspicious eyes.

How much had she heard? Ross wondered.

“Freda,” Callum whispered. “I’m glad you’ve come. My shoulder aches something fierce.” He had slumped against the pillows, his usually pale skin adding to the deception.

“Oh, dear.” The old woman swept into the room, stick thumping out a frantic tattoo as she crossed to the bed. Muttering under her breath, she fussed with the bandage, then laid a hand on his forehead. “Ye don’t feel warm.”

“Inside I do,” Callum said weakly.

Ross rolled his eyes. Is this what he had become, a man who encouraged the honest youths in his care to lie? It little eased his conscience that the safety of his clan was at stake.

“Hmm, well, I dinna suppose it would hurt to dose ye with my sorrel tonic, just to be safe.” Freda straightened and looked at Ross. “My lady inquired after the lad a bit ago. I told her he was mending fine and like to be fit for the saddle in a day or so, but if the fever takes him...”

Ross nodded, glad this was only an act. “I would not be able to lme with myself if something happened to him,” he honestly replied.

“Hmm. Catlyn said ye were fond of this scamp.” The healer smiled at Callum, then hobbled to the chest in the corner and began to rummage through it. “Where is that sorrel?”

Callum grinned slyly at Ross.

Ross scowled. “Take care you do not overdo, Callum. I leave him in your capable hands, then, Dame Freda.”

“Aye.” She waved him off with a weathered hand. “Run along but mind ye stay out of trouble. Don’t need any more injured men cluttering up the place.”

Ross grunted. “I’ll be back later, Callum. See you mind Dame Freda.” As he stepped into the corridor, a figure materialized from the gloom. Ross’s hand fell to his sword.

“Easy.” His cousin, Dallas MacLellan, moved into a pale circle of torchlight, his expression taut. He made an excellent spy, for his brown eyes and unremarkable features attracted little attention. Few guessed that beneath that plain exterior dwelt a mind as sharp as flint. “I strolled past the doors you believe lead to the distillery, but a pair of guards now stands watch before them.”