The Ghost, Greyson, Maeve [funny books to read TXT] 📗

tossed them back to the table. “Room. Food. Drink. Stable. No charge. It is the least I can do after all I kept from ye.”

Chapter Two

“Keigan—fetch another bucket of water for the soaking pot. The rain barrel’s almost empty, so ye’ll have to go to the burn.” Brenna stood in the open doorway, drying her hands on her apron. “And dinna be dawdling in the woods, aye? I need it now, mind ye.”

The fair-haired child looked up from the strip of bark he had just peeled from a long green stick. “Want this one, Auntie?” He held it up and showed her. “It’s tall as me!”

Brenna nodded. “Aye, that’s a fine one. Add it to the pot with the others.” She smiled as he placed the willow bark in the pot, then scooped up the bucket and scampered off into the trees. Her heart swelled at how tall he was getting. If only her sister could see him now.

A heavy sigh escaped her. How many times a day did she think those words? “Every time I look into those eyes that are just like hers,” she answered aloud.

Keigan had inherited his pale blue eyes from both his parents—or at least her sister had always said that de Gray’s eyes had been even lighter than hers. Like storm clouds split with lightning was how she had described them. Brenna had never met the man, so she wouldn’t know. That was yet another way she had failed her sister. Maybe if she had stayed at the keep with her instead of living in the woods with old Ursala to learn herbal lore, she could have kept Bree from making the choice that had cost her life. With an impatient jerk of her head, she smoothed her apron back in place. “No sense fretting about that now. What’s done is done, and canna be undone.”

Checking the reeds and bark soaking in the pot, Brenna decided to let them go a little longer. The more they soaked, the more pliable they became and less likely to split or break when she started weaving. She and Keigan had gathered enough to make several baskets and maybe even a yair for the narrow spot in the river. The lad preferred guddling for trout in the streams farther inland, but when it came time for smoking and drying food for the winter, yairs or woven traps provided more fish with a great deal less effort.

Noise from the path in front of the wattle and daub hut it had taken her and Keigan weeks to construct made her draw the dagger she kept sheathed at her waist. She also pulled an oblong shard of stone from her pocket that she had ground to knife-like sharpness and the perfect weight for throwing. After their daily games of throwing them at targets etched on trees, she and Keigan had developed deadly aim. A woman and a child living alone could never let down their guard. The leafy bushes along the overgrown path trembled and swayed, marking someone’s approach.

A hunched-over crone from the nearest village pushed through the last of the overgrowth and labored into the clearing. Brenna relaxed and put her weapons away.

“Greetings to ye, honorable Lady of the Wood,” the elderly matron wheezed as she struggled to catch her breath. She kept her eyes averted. None of the villagers looked at Brenna whenever they visited. They feared her almost as much as they needed her.

“Greetings, Morag.” She noted the woman’s flushed cheeks with some concern. The village was a good stretch of the legs from here, especially for the aged. “Rest a moment ’til yer wind returns, aye?” None from the settlement tarried long whenever they came seeking help. One had once confessed to her that the parish priest had warned them not to anger the strange, solitary woman with healing gifts so rare God Almighty Himself must have sent her.

“I dare not waste yer time, oh wise one,” the old woman said with a shake of her head. Her gasping breaths slowed, settling into a normal rhythm.

Brenna wondered if Morag was one of the few who still followed the old ways and believed her to be the goddess Bride incarnate. Keigan had told her of overhearing that rumor from a pair of women who had brought their bairns to her. She didn’t care who they thought she was as long as they left her in peace unless they needed healing. Their gifts of goat’s milk, eggs, even tools, and furniture made her and Keigan’s lives much easier. She did fear familiarity with the villagers. Too many risks came along with it. But her healing was the only way to keep her and Keigan sheltered and fed.

“I would ask for more herbs to ease my poor Alfric,” Morag said in a reverent tone. “He breathes much easier and even sleeps some after taking in the smoke.”

Brenna nodded and retreated inside the hut to fetch more thorn apple. She only gave the old woman enough for a few fillings of Alfric’s special pipe. Too much, and the man would die. With the dried herbs secured inside a piece of scrap linen, she returned to the clearing, placed the small parcel atop a large boulder, then backed away. All who came to the wood feared her so much, they never allowed her closer than a few feet unless their ailment required her touch. “Remember, Morag, only one pipe a day. No more. And only in the shallow-bowled pipe I made for him. Any more than once a day, and ye’ll find yerself a widow, ye ken? ’Tis important ye heed my warning.”

“Aye, m’lady.” The matron bowed, then shuffled over to the boulder and replaced the bundle of herbs with a folded cloth she pulled from the basket hanging from the crook of her arm. “Please accept this lovely shawl, m’lady. ’Tis woven from my finest threads and dyed green in yer honor.”

“I thank ye, Morag.” Brenna