“Aye.” A frown sounded in the Maclean’s voice. “Well, we can no’ have yer family fretting. Ye write a message and I’ll have one o’ the men carry it to Buchanan fer ye right quick.”
Conran relaxed a little. He hadn’t been treated like a prisoner, but the way he’d arrived had made him wonder if they would refuse to allow him to send a message to Buchanan. He hadn’t really thought they would, but there had always been the chance. However, the Maclean was willing to send a messenger for him, so all was well.
He really should have thought to do so sooner than this though, Conran acknowledged. His brothers must be worried sick about him, he thought with a frown, and wondered if now was not the time that he should admit to the Maclean that he was actually Conran Buchanan, the fourth son, and not the sixth son and healer, Rory.
Considering how to broach the subject, he finished with the wound and then stood and moved to his saddlebag on the bedside table. Conran had intended to make another tonic for the man. One he’d made several times under Rory’s instruction. His brother said it was to build a patient’s blood and help them sleep, both of which could only aid in Maclean’s healing, he assured himself. It wasn’t that he’d planned to have the man sleep the afternoon away so that he’d be free to seduce his daughter. Truly. However, when Conran got to the table and picked up the saddlebag, it was empty.
“What the hell,” he muttered, opening the bag and peering into its yawning depths.
“Oh, aye, I forgot to tell ye,” Fearghas said behind him. “Tildy sent maids up to change me bed linens while ye were breaking yer fast this morn, and one o’ them knocked yer bag over. Yer weeds all got mixed together and in the rushes, so she swept them up and put them in the fire so the dogs would no’ eat anything that might make them sick.”
“What dogs?” Conran asked with surprise. He hadn’t seen one since arriving.
“My dogs,” the Maclean said as if that should be obvious.
“I’ve seen no dogs since I got here,” Conran explained his ignorance.
“They’ve been kept out in the bailey since I fell ill. But they usually sleep in here.” Frowning slightly, he added, “They’re probably following Evina around while I’m unavailable. Well, when she does no’ come up here,” he added.
Conran nodded and set the empty bag on the table, then began to rub the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he pondered what to do about having lost all of Rory’s weeds. Obviously, he needed to replace them, and quickly. The Maclean was on the mend and would survive without them, but Rory would need them. His brother was probably fretting up a storm over his disappearing without delivering them to Buchanan as he promised he would. That would have been the first telltale sign that all was not well and he had not left willingly.
“No’ to worry though,” the Maclean said now. “I’ve arranged to fix the problem.”
Conran let his hand drop from his face and turned in question to the man. “How?”
Fearghas opened his mouth, and then paused and smiled as a tap sounded at the door. “I’ll wager there’s the answer now.”
Curious, Conran turned toward the door as it opened, his eyebrows rising when Evina entered with a tray in hand and Gavin on her heels.
“Thank ye,” Evina murmured to Gavin as he opened the door and held it for her. She took several steps into the room and then slowed when she noted that Conran was still with her father. Usually he was out and below at table by now, leaving the way clear for her to take her noon meal with her father. It was what he’d done the last four days since their encounter in this room. She’d just assumed he’d continue the practice, and when she’d noticed he wasn’t at table yet as she’d carried the tray across the great hall, she had assumed he was simply in the garderobe or something. She’d been wrong.
Raising her chin, Evina continued forward and forced a smile to her lips. Keeping her tone light, she said, “They’re serving the noon repast below, so I brought up lunch for Father.” Focusing her gaze on her father only, she added, “We can eat together while Lord Buchanan goes below to take a break and enjoy his meal. As usual.”
Evina winced as the last words slipped out. Even to her they sounded a bit snippy, almost accusatory, as if she were commenting on the fact that he was still there and she didn’t like it.
“That’s sweet, me dear, but there’s going to be a change in routine today,” Laird Maclean announced, sounding suspiciously cheerful, she thought, and wished she could see his expression. That was the one thing most annoying about his constantly lying on his stomach to avoid pressure on his bottom. She could never see his expressions when they talked, and they’d talked a lot the last few days. Mostly about the Buchanan. Her father was constantly asking her questions about the man, or telling her things about him. She had begun to suspect the man was up to something. She still did.
“What change in routine are we having?” Evina asked warily, stopping next to the bed with the tray.
“Our healer needs more weeds,” her father announced. “Ye need to show him where to get them.”
“What?” she asked with alarm. “But he had a whole saddlebag full of weeds. He—”
“I fear they were lost this morn when one of the lassies knocked it over while changing me bed linens,” her father said, raising himself up so he could turn to look at her. “Unfortunately, they got mixed in with the rushes and had to be disposed of.”
“But . . .” Evina turned a blank expression to him. “I was here when they changed the linens. I do no’ recall—”
“I only noticed after ye left the room,” he said easily. “I had the maid clean it up when she returned with me emptied and clean bedpan. Ye’d left by then,” he added with a shrug, letting his head drop again. “Regardless, he ca no’ heal without his medicinals, so ye’ll have to take him out and help him hunt up more.”
Evina frowned, and shifted on her feet. Avoiding looking at the Buchanan, she finally said, “Fine. I’m sure Gavin can take him out to—”
“Nonsense,” her father interrupted at once. “The lad does no’ ken the first thing about weeds and where to find them. Besides, I have another job for him.”
“But . . .” She cast around desperately for an excuse, and then held up the tray. “What about the nooning meal? I was going to eat with ye and ye should no’ be left alone—”
“Tildy can sit with me,” he interrupted again.
“Tildy?” Evina said with amazement. Her father generally avoided any situation where he might have to be alone with the woman for more than a couple minutes. The maid had been mooning after him for years and her father acted like her affection might be infectious, avoiding her like she was a leper, and yet this was the second time he’d willingly arranged for her company.
“Aye. Tildy,” the Maclean said firmly. “That way, ye can go without worrying.” Apparently, thinking the situation was decided then, he lifted his head and turned to look at her cousin. “Gavin, go down and ask Cook to pack a lunch for yer cousin and the Buchanan. They can take it with them and eat as they hunt for medicinals.”