The Chase

by Lynsay Sands

  A glance at Blake showed that he still slept the deep sleep that worried her so, and Seonaid stood to move toward the door. It would only take her a minute to have a word with Emmalene.

  She was just reaching to open the door when it did so on its own, and Seonaid was forced to step back to avoid it hitting her.

  "Oh, Seonaid," Aeldra said with surprise on spying her so close to the door. Then her eyes widened and her gaze shot to the bed. "Is he--?"

  "Nay, he's the same," Seonaid said quickly. "I was just ..." She hesitated, reluctant to reveal her plans to Aeldra. Her cousin would probably think she had lost her mind if she caught wind of them. Instead, she asked, "Is there something yer wantin'?"

  "Oh." Aeldra hesitated, then blurted, "Lord Amaury just suggested that as Blake will be a while recovering--He seems sure he will, by the by," she interrupted herself to say, and Seonaid knew it was an attempt to cheer her. "He says Blake is too damned stubborn no to, but as 'twill no doubt be a while 'ere he does ..."

  "Aye?" Seonaid prompted when Aeldra hesitated.

  "Well, he seems to think Little George and I should go visit his family in the meantime so they can meet me," Aeldra blurted out. "He seems to think Blake will want to head home the moment he is better and we will probably no be in this area again for a while, and--"

  "Go," Seonaid interrupted, and Aeldra peered at her uncertainly.

  "Go?"

  She nodded firmly, thinking this was perfect. For some reason she felt better about attempting changes to herself without her cousin here. Besides, Emmalene had said the first night they were here that Little George had suffered much tragedy lately, and Seonaid knew from the nightly conversations she'd indulged in with Blake since their wedding that the tragedy was the murder of the man's wife. He wasn't the only one to have suffered tragedy lately. Aeldra had lost her brother and surrogate mother in one fell swoop. Here was her chance to be welcomed into Little George's family. Seonaid was happy for her.

  "Ye wouldna mind?" Aeldra asked. " 'Cause if ye would, we could stay and--"

  "Nay. Go and have a nice visit. There's no sense yer sitting around here awaitin'. I'll send news when Blake wakes up."

  "Thank ye." Aeldra gave her a quick hug, and Seonaid frowned.

  "What're ye thankin' me for? 'Tis no as if ye needed me permission, Aeldra."

  "Aye," her cousin countered. "We did."

  When Seonaid started to shake her head at the nonsensical claim, Aeldra gently pointed out, "Little George is Blake's first. He serves him. With Blake unable to give permission, we needed yours to go."

  Seonaid stared as she realized it was true. She didn't like the idea at all, but it was the truth. Frowning, she shrugged uncomfortably. "When are ye leaving?"

  "Right away, most like."

  "Well, go on with ye then." She gave her a push toward the door. "Have a good time."

  "Aye." Aeldra started out the door. "Send a messenger if ye need me."

  "Aye. Oh!" Seonaid said, and her cousin paused at once to glance back.

  "Aye?"

  "Could ye ask Lady Emmalene to come speak to me when she has a moment?"

  "Aye." Aeldra grinned, then pulled the door closed, and Seonaid turned and walked back to the bed, considering all she had to do and learn.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The first thing Blake was aware of was a terrible pounding in his head. It was bad enough that he nearly groaned, but--suspecting it would merely add to his pain--he managed to restrain the urge. Then he noted the unpleasant, pasty taste in his mouth and wondered what the hell had happened to him. He hadn't felt this bad since shortly after earning his spurs. Blake had celebrated the occasion with wine, women, and song--for three days. The agony he'd suffered afterward was enough to convince him that alcohol was a substance best indulged in sparingly.

  Had he forgotten that long ago lesson and overindulged again? He didn't recall. The last thing he remembered ...

  Blake ran through the memories jostling about in his head. He'd traveled to Dunbar on the king's order to marry Seonaid Dunbar, had chased her all over Scotland, managed to get her back to Dunbar, wedded her and bedded her--he paused for a moment to allow those memories to claim him. His wife was making him think that marriage would not be the boring burden he had always feared it would be. She was not like other women; forever acting demure and prissy. She was ... fun.

  Seonaid played with him; wrestling and laughing, not worried about her hair being disturbed, or her gown getting torn, or her nails being broken. And when they had camped out on the way to Sherwell, she had not fussed about the discomforts of travel, or stood cowering when he fought off their attackers. ... Actually, he almost wished she had. Blake had been distracted during the fight, worrying about her battling at his back. It was part of the reason he'd not been able to keep his feet when she'd bumped into him, but had stumbled into--

  Blake's thoughts came to an abrupt halt as he remembered the sword slicing into his side. The ride afterward was something of a blur to him, but he did recall they had been headed to Eberhardt. He suspected he had been sliding in and out of consciousness most of the way.

  Well, that explained why he felt so awful, Blake thought, then blinked his eyes open and glanced to the side as a softly muttered curse caught his ear. He recognized the room he had slept in when last at Eberhardt. He didn't, however, recognize the woman who sat sewing in the chair at his bedside. His first thought was that she must be a servant. Dark hair peeked out from beneath a head dress, but the woman's face was hidden from him, her head bowed, her attention on a bit of sewing in her lap.

  The gown she wore didn't appear to be servant's garb, however. It was a plain style, but of a cloth too rich to be a servant's. He wondered who she was, and then in the next moment wondered where the hell his wife was. He had been badly injured. Would it have been too much to expect her to tend to him rather than leave him in the care of a complete stranger, lady or no?

  Blake must have moved or made a sound, for the woman suddenly lifted her head to peer at him. Her eyes immediately went wide, and she tossed her sewing aside to shift forward on her seat, closer to the bed. "Ye're awake!"

  Blake stared at her in amazement. It had taken him a moment to recognize the face framed by the circlet and veil she wore, but he knew the voice at once. God's toes! The dark-haired stranger at his bedside was his wife. In a dress. And she was sewing! Blake opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more, but no words came to mind. He hadn't a clue what to say.

  "Ye canna speak?" Seonaid guessed. "Doona try to, yer probably parched. Ye've had naught to eat or drink for days. I'll fetch ye some broth. They've been keeping a pot of it on the fire for days in case ye woke up. Doona go back to sleep, I willna be long."

  Blake stared after her as she stood and hurried out of the room, the dark blue gown swaying with her movement. The only thought in his head was to wonder what had happened to his wife. It was a thought that was to repeat itself often over the next few days.

  Seonaid pulled the door closed and rushed down the hall to the stairs. Blake was awake! She could hardly believe it. Her husband had finally woken up, and it had happened without the least bit of fanfare. She had glanced up and there he was, eyes open.

  "Lady Seonaid, what--?" Lady Emmalene paused at the top of the stairs at the sight of a flustered Seonaid rushing down the hall toward her. "Is he awake?"

  "Aye."

  "Thank God!" Her relief was obvious but quickly replaced with an expectant smile. "How is he feeling? What did he say? Does he like your new dress?"

  Seonaid blinked. She'd forgotten all about the transformation she'd been working on these last two days. Lady Emmalene had been more than enthusiastic in helping her. She'd set the servants to work on a dress at once, suggesting a plain style so that it could be done more quickly. The women had finished it but hours earlier, and Seonaid had donned the blue gown, then sat patiently while Emmalene had dressed her hair and arranged a matching dark blue circl
et and veil on her head.

  She felt uncomfortable in the garb but knew she would grow used to it in time. Seonaid also missed her sword, but Lady Emmalene had insisted she should not wear it.

  That was not all Lady Emmalene had done. The woman was training her in womanly pursuits, such as how to direct servants, the ins and outs of managing a large estate, and sewing. Seonaid had been practicing the last skill when Blake had awoken.

  "Seonaid? Did he not like it?"

  "I doona ken," she admitted. "He canna speak. 'Tis his throat, I think; dried out from so long without liquid."

  "Oh, aye, of course." Emmalene turned on the stairs and started back down. "You stay with him. I shall fetch some broth."

  "Thank you." Seonaid whirled back the way she'd come and rushed to the bedchamber door, only to pause once there. "Doona rush or stride about," she reminded herself. "Walk like a lady." It was an oft-heard refrain as Emmalene had tried to help her become more ladylike.

  Nodding, she opened the door and walked inside, forcing herself to take small, measured steps. It was a bloody nuisance, but Blake deserved a proper wife, and proper wives did not stride around with purpose like men.

  Always try to smile serenely. Men have many trials and tribulations during the day and appreciate a wife who has a soothing smile.

  Her hostess's voice echoed in her head, and Seonaid plastered what she hoped was a soothing smile on her face as she glanced to the bed. She was relieved to find he was still awake and had not dropped back off into his deathlike sleep again.

  "Lady Emmalene is fetchin' ye some broth," she announced, trying to speak softly, as Lady Emmalene did. Well, as Lady Emmalene did when she wasn't bellowing.

  Blake stared at his wife, noting the way she was talking and the softening to her voice. She looked beautiful, of course. The color of the gown suited her, but he did miss the way her braies clung lovingly to her slender curves. His gaze slid to her face and hair, and he thought she wore the circlet and veil well, though her hair looked just as nice pulled back as it once was, and he really liked it best when it was down like it was every night when they slept.

  Aye, she looked lovely, but she didn't look like his Seonaid. And where was her sword? It was a question he kept to himself for two days while he recovered. When he did finally speak, Blake found that his throat was indeed sore. It took two days for it to get back to normal. But that wasn't why he didn't, at first, speak. It was just the excuse he used.

  Mostly, Blake didn't speak because he didn't know what to say. Everyone else was busy talking most of the time anyway. Seonaid recounted their ride to Eberhardt for him, and their arrival, as well as Emmalene's sewing him up. Amaury told him about his search for their attackers and daily affairs at Eberhardt. And Emmalene chattered away about what had happened at Eberhardt since his leaving the last time.

  No one explained, however, what had happened to his wife. The change in her had not been confined to her dress. Her whole demeanor was different. She no longer practiced swordplay daily in the bailey as she had at Dunbar, but sat by him most of the day, insisting he rest and sewing whatever it was she was working on. And usually with the most awful grimace on her face. It alternated with a forced smile that she plastered on her lips whenever she looked his way. She now walked in jerky little steps and spoke in a hushed voice he had to strain to hear ... when she spoke at all.

  Blake fondly recalled holding her in his arms of a night, recounting tales of his youth, then listening to the few bits and pieces she was willing to tell about her own. In truth, he had done most of the talking, only occasionally managing to coax a story out of her. But now she didn't talk at all. She just smiled the most horrid, unnatural smile he had ever seen, and Blake watched her and wondered what had happened to his wife.

  It wasn't until the third morning that he finally asked the question. Amaury stopped in to talk to him, and Seonaid excused herself to go below and speak to Emmalene. Amaury had started out telling him that they still had not found the men who had attacked them but would keep looking, and Blake nodded, then--unable to stay silent on the subject any longer--asked, "What happened to my wife?"

  The question came out sounding slightly gruff, but it no longer hurt to speak. Much to his disgust, Blake had done little but sip broth for two days. But it had eased his sore throat and he had even been allowed solid food that morning.

  "What happened to--" Amaury stared with bewilderment. "I do not know what you mean."

  Blake shifted impatiently in the bed. Amaury had not known her before her arriving here and so might not realize there was a difference in her demeanor. Unfortunately, Aeldra and Little George, who did know her, were not there to ask. Blake had been informed that the couple were visiting Little George's family.

  "Did my wife sustain a head injury in the attack?" he asked.

  "Nay."

  Blake frowned. "Has she been hit in the head since our arrival here? While I was unconscious?"

  "Nay," Amaury repeated, looking mystified at this line of questioning.

  "I see," Blake said. "Then what the hell have you done with my wife?"

  Amaury stared blankly. "I--nothing. What--?"

  "The woman is in a dress," he pointed out. "A dress, Amaury. And she is sewing. Or trying to. Dear God! What happened while I was unconscious?"

  "I--Did she not wear dresses before coming here?"

  "Nay," he assured him. "She was not wearing one when we arrived, was she?"

  "Nay, but I thought perhaps that was for travel, and--"

  "We were not carting about a wagonload of trunks that might be full of gowns, were we?"

  "Nay," Amaury admitted with sudden realization.

  "Well, there you are, then." Blake nodded, then informed him, "Except for our wedding day, she has not worn a dress in all the time since I met her in the chapel at St. Simmian's. Until now," he allowed. "Seonaid does not wear dresses. She does not sew. She does not take mincing little steps, she strides. And where is her damned sword?"

  "I do not know." Amaury glanced around the room in search of the missing item. "What does it look like?"

  "Like a sword, Amaury," Blake said dryly. " 'Tis special made for her and slightly smaller and lighter than a man's sword, but otherwise 'tis just like every other sword you have ever seen."

  Amaury shrugged helplessly. "I did not notice it on the night you arrived; everything was so rushed and worrisome. And I have not seen her much since your arrival. Your wife has stayed up here most of the time, tending to you as she should."

  "Well, surely Aeldra was not up here all the time before she and Little George left for--"

  "Ah, yes!" Amaury exclaimed. "I did see Aeldra's sword. Very well made, and perfect for her size." He paused and eyed him with interest. "Do you mean to say Seonaid has a similar sword?"

  "She not only has a similar sword but normally dresses in braies like Aeldra, and walks with strong, purposeful strides like Aeldra, and--The two are copies of each other, except that Aeldra is small and blonde while my Seonaid is tall and svelte, with that beautiful raven-colored hair."

  "Ah." Amaury nodded slowly, then shook his head. "I have never seen her so. As I say, I did not much notice her on the first night, what with my worry over you, and she has been up here most of the time with you since then. She sounds fascinating."

  "She is fascinating. Or she was, before we got here. Since I have awakened in this bed, she has been ..." He sighed helplessly. She was turning into a girl. Like Emmalene. "Emmalene!"

  "What?" Amaury asked with alarm as Blake sat up in bed.

  "Emmalene," Blake repeated grimly. "Your little wife must be influencing her. She is turning my Seonaid into a girl."

  Amaury's eyebrows rose. "Was she not a girl when you married her?"

  "Aye, but--Oh, you know what I mean. She was a woman, but strong and fun."

  "Emmalene is strong and fun." Amaury had begun to glare.

  "Aye, but Seonaid did not fuss over--Where did she get the dress?" Blake
interrupted himself.

  Amaury frowned. "I think Emmalene had the servants make the dress," he admitted, then added reluctantly, "And I gather she had been spending time up here with Seonaid the last two days 'ere you woke."

  "Ah ha!" Blake tossed the linens aside and shifted to sit on the edge of the bed.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Getting dressed. Where are my clothes?"

  "Here." Amaury picked up a bit of white linen from the chair by the bed and tossed it to him. "Here is your tunic. Your doublet and braies should be here somewhere. But I do not think you should be getting up just yet."

  "I have to." Blake snatched the tunic from him and began to tug it on. "I have to get Seonaid away from Emmalene before she completely ruins my wife."

  "Ruins her?" Amaury's eyes narrowed and turned cold. "My wife is not ruining yours. Seonaid can only benefit from Emmalene's assistance."

  "Seonaid does not need assistance. She was perfectly fine the way she was. I liked her the way she was!" Blake tugged the tunic into place, then stilled as he noted that one arm was longer than the other. One sleeve stopped midway between elbow and wrist, while the other hung past the tips of his fingers. Then he spotted the needle dangling by a bit of thread from the unfinished hem.

  "Ha!" Amaury pointed to the needle and thread. "This is her work, is it not? See! She needs proper training. You should be grateful my Emmalene deigned to take the time to do so."

  Blake glared at his old friend, then moved closer on legs that were so weak still that they were shaking. Ignoring that, he poked a finger into Amaury's chest and snarled, "I have servants to sew for me. My wife is perfect just the way she is."

  "Blake?"

  He glanced to the side to find Seonaid and Emmalene standing in the open doorway, staring at the two of them. He felt a moment's panic, worrying over how much of the argument she had heard, but judging by the smile trembling on her lips, he was guessing she and Emmalene had only just arrived.

  "What are ye doing up?" She moved forward around the bed, her steps faltering as she took in the tunic he wore. A frown claimed her lips, and he thought he heard her mutter something about having more work to do on the top, but then she stepped between him and Amaury and urged him back to bed. He let her. It seemed better to get back into bed willingly than to have his legs give out under him.