They simply talked to bees. It seemed perfectly natural to her.
“You’ll be all right,” she reassured the earl, holding his hand and examining his wrist. Had she ever held a man’s bare hand? Doubtful. Her own father had died before she was old enough to know him. Her stepfather had sent her and Isobel off to a girls’ boarding school in England when they’d been six. Men were foreign creatures to be feared.
She’d learned a little better since, but she remained wary of the gender. Still, she didn’t want to helplessly watch a man die.
The welt on his wrist didn’t seem quite as angry now. She started to withdraw her hand, but his strong brown fingers caught hers. Not dead then.
“Can you stand?” she asked, watching his chest rise and fall. His breath didn’t seem quite so raspy.
“Who are you?” he demanded, rubbing the swelling on his jaw.
“Nan, the beekeeper. The pain will go down if we can pour some willow bark tea into you. I can’t carry you back to the house, but I can’t leave you here in pain.” She tried to tug her hand free. He held it tighter.
“Nan what?” His voice was still raspy.
“Nan Malcolm, of course.” The beauty of being part of a large clan was that she could use her name and live in plain sight and no one would know the difference. That her small world knew her as Lady Iona Malcolm Ross mattered little.
“Of course,” he said dryly. “Let’s see if I can stand without toppling again.”
“You topple verra politely,” she assured him, rising up on her knees. “If you’ll use your walking stick and my shoulder, we might haul you up.”
Dubiously, he studied her slender frame, but Iona was accustomed to being dismissed as weak. He followed her advice and used his stick as a brace to sit up. “Do I detect a Highland lilt?”
She bit back a frown. Her boarding school accent normally disguised her origins. She must be more upset than she realized. She ignored his question and aided him in rising. Assured that he could stand without her aid, she turned toward the house. “I’ll go ahead and let the others know. Winifred will have better remedies than mine.”
“Don’t,” he called after her. “You have no way of fighting off that dog. I don’t need physicking. Walk with me.”
Iona hesitated, watched as he used his stick to steady himself and noted his color returning. A big man like that could fight off adverse reactions more easily than others, she reasoned.
She preferred her usual strategy of avoidance. It was imperative for her safety and that of her sister and all the people at home who relied on her.
She flipped her veil back in place. “On the contrary, my lord, you will be safer without my presence.”
With that she began to hum. As she walked away, a steady stream of bees rose from the hives and followed her, keeping her safe from rampaging animals and reducing the numbers who might attack him.
Three
Gerard cursed the beekeeper, cursed his household of witches, cursed whatever malady caused him to topple from a damned bee sting. By the time he dragged himself back to the castle, the yard had filled with anxious women waiting to coddle him.
“Begone, the lot of you,” he shouted, like some curmudgeon from a ha’penny novel.
He was trained in courtesy. He never talked to anyone like that, much less his poor relations.
The beekeeper was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the dog or his agent. His Great-Aunt Winifred, garbed in unfashionable full crinoline and a widow’s black, gestured for the others to depart. “Have the tea and poultices carried to his lordship’s chambers.”
“I don’t want any damned blasted tea and poultices. I’m not an octogenarian.” He stalked toward the privacy of his tower keep.
“Then suffer through the night,” his aunt said without sympathy. “I can see you are breathing. We can hope you won’t strangle in your sleep.”
“I’m not an invalid. Tell Avery I want to see him.” He didn’t break stride.
“I’m not your housekeeper,” she called after him.
“I was under no illusion that you were,” he shouted back. “I thought you wanted to help. Sending for Avery is how you can do it.” Not by hovering, he muttered to himself.
She probably sniffed in disapproval, but he was too far away to hear.
Coming to Wystan was almost always a disaster. His estate was self-sufficient, but it was one of his many duties to oversee it. Theoretically, he supplemented his meager allowance with the profits, but the income was less each year, and he’d found no miracles to change that. Riches simply couldn’t be had from rocky fells and dales.
Soon, he’d have to become a lawyer just to buy clothes—except he’d have to work at night when his duties to his father’s extensive business and political affairs didn’t interfere.
In his suite, Gerard drank the nasty tea they sent. Despite his protest, he slapped the unwanted poultice on his swollen wounds, then picked at his dinner. He opened and closed the fingers the beekeeper had touched, fighting the notion that he’d almost felt her fear. His gift was for objects, not people. The last thing he needed in his life was people invading his head. He dismissed the thought as part of the pain he’d suffered.
He wasn’t normally an early to bed, early to rise sort of person, but what the hell was there to do in the country once the sun set?
He could study the stars through the old-fashioned telescope in the observatory, but he had little interest in places he couldn’t reach. He stored his other live artifacts up there though. He’d introduce the new one to them, see what happened. Did spirits talk to each other? They’d never done so to his knowledge.
He tried to recall the beekeeper’s face, but his eyes had been watering and nearly
