This Scot of Mine

by Sophie Jordan

  The notion made him sick.

  Nana shook her head stubbornly. “Unless ye love her, why should ye care whose bed she shares?”

  Heavy silence descended.

  Nana stared at him in challenge. Her words hung thickly between them, the accusation a throbbing pulse in the air.

  At last she tsked and shook her head in disgust. “Och. Ye do. Ye love her.”

  He came awake. “Dinna be daft.”

  “I hear no denial.”

  “You shocked me. Of course, I deny it. Obviously. But the topic is pointless. I cannot just give her tae someone. She’s a person. I do no’ own her.”

  “Don’t ye? She is yer wife now.”

  “I won’t give my wife tae another man and that is the end of the subject,” he said tightly, barely checked fury radiating through him.

  Nana huffed and shrugged. “Just like yer da, ye are. Lost yer head over a woman. She will be the death of ye, lad.” Her eyes misted and she looked away, blinking fiercely.

  “All will be well. You will see.” He shrugged. “Mayhap this time will be different.” He didn’t know where the words came from . . . he had not allowed himself to think such a thing, but apparently he had been.

  “Nay!” She wagged a finger at him. “Dinna ye say that! They all said that. Every one of them.”

  He sighed and shook his head the precise moment tearing pain lanced the side of his head.

  “Ow!” he cried, staggering to the side, one hand flying up to clasp his head where the pain originated.

  “Hunt!”

  A sharp sting throbbed in his skull. He pulled back his fingers to see a smear of blood. His blood.

  “What the devil . . .” Sudden dizziness swamped him and he took a shaky step.

  Nana arrived at his side with far more speed than he would have expected for her advanced years.

  She wrapped a bony arm around his waist to support him. He tried to shrug free of her, pride demanding he take no assistance from his frail grandmother, but the damnable dizziness forced him to lean into her. She took his weight with surprising ease.

  “There!” She pointed a gnarled finger down to a chunk of ice on the ground. Half of it, the sharp tip, was stained with blood. “An icicle.”

  Ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, he looked up to where several icicles hung from the stone archway in the shape of daggers.

  “Ye could have been killed!” she exclaimed.

  “It was an accident. I’ll have someone come clear the rest of those away so no one else gets hurt.”

  “’Twas no accident.” Her pale eyes glittered and her voice fell to a solemn hush. “’Tis the curse.”

  “Ah, Nana. You are reaching for what is no’ there. This was a simple accident . . . it could have befell anyone.”

  The worst of his dizziness had passed. He set Nana aside and entered the house, wincing and pressing his hand to his head in an attempt to stanch the flow of blood.

  He did not make it far into the hall before Nana interceded him. “Come. Ye require stitching.”

  “Verra well, but I’m famished. Do your work on me in the kitchen, if you must.” He pressed a kiss to her papery-thin cheek and moved ahead toward the kitchens, looking forward to eating something he himself had not cooked.

  She followed on his heels doggedly, grumbling, “Ye should no’ be here. Should never ’ave returned. No’ whilst she is here.”

  He didn’t bother commenting. The argument was becoming old. He wanted to lose himself in good food and better whisky and not have to talk or think about anything.

  Upon arriving in the kitchen, he greeted Cook, who quickly began arranging a platter of food for him. He was a fine chef, well acquainted with all of Hunt’s preferences. Cook set a selection of several meat pasties, dried fruit and some delicious-looking iced biscuits before him.

  “Och! Wot happened tae yer head?” Cook inquired, adding a tankard of ale to the fine fare laid out before him. Several kitchen maids halted amid their duties to eye him curiously as Nana dabbed clean the blood from his temple with a less than gentle touch.

  He grimaced at her ministrations but knew better than objecting. She would have her way.

  “’Tis nothing.” Hunt waved off the concern and bit into a piece of dried apple.

  “Nothing, he says.” Nana huffed, sifting through the hair of his scalp to better peer at his wound.

  Footsteps clattered against the stone steps leading into the kitchen from the side door. The tread was accompanied by cheerful feminine voices.

  He tensed and stilled, a biscuit en route to his mouth. They weren’t ordinary female voices. They were English. There could not be many Sassenachs wandering about—of that he was certain.

  My Sassenach.

  Clara cleared the doorway with her friend close behind her. Her cheeks were pink from the cold or exertion, her dark eyes shining. His stomach clenched. Aye. Nana was right. He should not have come back here. How could he keep himself from her?

  “Speak of the devil,” Nana grouched.

  Clara pulled up hard upon seeing him. “Oh.” It was the only sound to escape her—a breathless little mewl that tightened his skin and increased his awareness of her. She might be covered from neck to hem, but he remembered the hue of her skin, the taste of her breasts, their shape and texture in his hands. Hell. He was getting hard just looking at her. Even with pain knifing his skull, the sight of her filled him with hunger.

  Her knuckles whitened where they clutched the handle of a basket. Clearly she was about some task and he didn’t know what to think about that. He’d imagined her prostrate, locked away in her room from the world, but here she was, flushed prettily from her jaunt.

  “Oh, ’tis ye,” Nana grumbled, glaring across the room at the two females.

  Clara’s gaze roamed over him, arresting on his head. “What’s happened to you?” She hurried forward as though all rancor was forgotten between them—as though they had not parted in a maelstrom of harsh words.

  She lifted a hand to his head, wincing as though the injury had been done to her.

  He pulled his head from her reach. “Just an accident.”

  Nana snorted.

  Clara sent her a glance before looking back to him questioningly. “What kind of accident?”

  “’Tis no accident—”

  “Nana,” he rebuked.

  Clara studied him for a moment, her eyes widening. “You think this is my doing?”

  The entire kitchen fell silent, watching the exchange avidly.

  “It was an accident,” he repeated loud enough for everyone to hear. “Nothing more.”

  Clara continued to stare at him. After a moment, she reached for his head again as though to examine him herself . . . as though she might find the truth there.

  He jerked away, reminding himself he must not invite her attention. For her or himself. It was best they didn’t touch in any fashion.

  She lowered her hand back down to his side. “I only want to—”

  “That’s no’ necessary. I do no’ require your assistance.”

  Hurt flickered across her face and he felt like a wretch—until he reminded himself that he did not want her to like him. In fact, it would not be remiss if she hated him. That would be for the best.

  She lifted her chin. “Of course, it was an accident. What else could it be?” Her eyes sparked with challenge. She looked back and forth between him and his grandmother.

  True to form, Nana took the bait. “Ye ken exactly wot it could be!”

  Clara shook her head. “Stuff and nonsense.”

  “Impertinent lass,” Nana sputtered.

  “Enough,” he thundered, leveling a look at both of them. “This is no’ the workings of the curse. Nana, you forget she would have tae be wi’ child for the curse to be at play here and that is no’ the case.”

  His grandmother jutted forth her chin defiantly.

  “Is that no’ correct?” he pressed.

  Nana gave a
reluctant nod and a grunt of affirmation.

  “Verra good,” he finished, glad that was settled.

  His grandmother, however, was not finished. She continued, “But do we ken fer certain that she is no’ carrying yer child? Because unless she can attest tae that, ’tis verra possible the curse is at work here.”

  With a sigh, he turned his attention back to Clara, waiting to hear her reassurance. Instead he only found her studying her shoes.

  “Clara?” he prodded. Her gaze snapped back to him, the color high in her cheeks again. “Can you please assure my grandmother that she has no fear on that score and she can put her mind tae rest?”

  She exchanged a quick glance with her friend, scanned the room uneasily and then cleared her throat. “Well, I don’t rightly have the answer to that matter. Yet.” The color in her cheeks deepened to scarlet. “It’s only been a fortnight, you see.” Her slim throat worked as she swallowed. “I cannot know yet.”

  His gut clenched. “I do see.”

  She was saying it was not likely, but not impossible either. Odds he did not like.

  “See!” Nana proclaimed.

  He glanced around, suddenly aware they had quite the audience. With an epithet, he reached for Clara’s arm. “Come. Let us have a word.”

  He was not certain what he hoped to gain by further conversation with her on the matter. Assurances, he supposed. He led her from the kitchen, feeling the eyes of everyone on their backs as they went.

  “What about yer head?” Nana called.

  “I’m fine.” It still stung, but the bleeding had stopped at any rate.

  “You should have that stitched,” Clara contributed.

  “When are your courses due?”

  “I beg your pardon?” She tried to pull her arm free as he led her across the gallery to the staircase leading to the second floor.

  He tightened his grip. “You heard me.”

  “That is none of your business, sir.”

  He released a single bark of laughter. “Sir, is it? And no’ my business, is it?”

  They started up the stairs, moving in unison. “You forget yourself. You excused yourself from the privilege of being my husband.”

  “Privilege?” He chuckled and slid her a glance, admiring the lift of her chin and her mettle. She was no cowering female. “Och, are you no’ a lofty one?” He climbed the stairs quicker, his longer legs moving faster than hers, forcing him to practically pull her after him. He knew he should shorten his pace, but he was feeling impatient. “The fact remains that we are wed. We consummated our marriage and I would like tae ken if there are consequences to that night, Clara.”

  She huffed out an indignant breath. “I don’t keep proper track of such things. Never had cause to before . . .”

  Before him.

  And that warmed him with unjustifiable pleasure. It shouldn’t matter and yet it pleased him to think he had been her first. “When was the last time?” He glanced at her profile. “Your menses? When did they last occur?”

  She flinched. “It was before I arrived at my brother’s.”

  “On the journey here then?” He glanced at her beside him.

  “Uh.” Her expression turned nervous. “At the beginning of the journey, I believe. Before we crossed into Scotland.”

  “The beginning?” he pressed, calculating the days. “That was some time ago then, was it no’?”

  He stopped on the landing and turned so that they faced one another.

  She expelled a breath. “I don’t think I’m late.” She winced. “Yet.”

  “Yet.” The word escaped him with violent force for all that he uttered it quietly.

  He dragged a hand through his hair and stepped back a pace to lean against the banister.

  A splintering sound registered seconds before he felt the rail at his back give way. One moment the wooden banister was there, supporting his weight, and then it was falling away, breaking.

  He saw a flash of Clara’s horrified face.

  Heard her scream.

  His arms sawed through the air, seeking purchase, groping for anything to grab.

  Except there was nothing.

  Only air.

  Chapter 16

  Clara seized hold of his arm, a desperate cry on her lips. “Hunt!”

  He was a great deal heavier than she, so she started to go with him, her slippers sliding over the runner. It all happened quickly, in the span of moments, but it felt like a prolonged fight—a battle for his life. She dug in her heels and yanked hard on his arm, pulling him until he changed direction and fell forward against her.

  Her back struck the safety of the wall. Hunt followed, collapsing against her with ragged breath.

  Her own breath fell fast and hard, as though she had just run a great distance. Her blood pumped swiftly, the panic of the past few moments not even close to subsiding, coating her tongue in a sour film.

  “What . . . happened?” she panted.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “The banister gave way.” His gaze came back to rest on her face, widening ever so slightly at whatever thought tracked through his mind. “I would have fallen if you had no’ grabbed me.”

  She shook her head and let out a shaky breath. “But you’re fine.”

  “Twice in one day,” he muttered. His gaze crawled over her face, searching, it seemed. As though the truth hid within her.

  Her stomach knotted.

  He looked back behind him. “The banister was strong oak. There wasn’t the slightest wobble to it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  She thought she knew what he was saying and it was impossible. She would not believe it. Accidents happened all the time without reason. That’s why they were called accidents.

  Footsteps rushed below.

  He dropped his hands from her arms.

  She released the air from her lungs and inched away from the wall to peer down at the remnants of the banister and balusters littering the floor.

  “Och!” Hunt’s grandmother jerked to a halt below. She eyed the debris and then looked up where they loomed. “Ye almost fell?”

  He didn’t answer, merely stared grimly down at the old woman. It was answer enough apparently.

  “It happened again!” She shook a fist up at them. “Twice in one day ye nearly died!”

  Hunt turned his grim gaze on Clara.

  She shrugged inadequately. “A coincidence, surely.” Even her voice lacked conviction.

  “Perhaps,” he replied, his voice flat and equally without conviction. He looked shaken; his features drawn.

  Nana’s voice rose from below. “She’s wi’ child! Just as I said. There be no other reason for this.”

  Murmurs broke out among the servants gathering below.

  “It has begun!” she called up at them.

  Clara shuddered at the ominous words. It has begun.

  It could not be. Her hand went to her stomach as though she could verify this from one brush of her hand to her belly.

  “Perhaps,” he said again and there was such a dead look to his eyes that she wanted to flee to her room and shut the door on him. On this strange place where people believed in a curse and they actually had Clara herself wondering if there was some veracity to it.

  She’d dreamed of motherhood, of course. She’d had a brilliant mother . . . and now watching her mother with the twins, even being on hand for so much of their upbringing . . . well, Clara had looked forward to her own turn one day.

  When things ended so badly with Rolland she had accepted that motherhood would not be in her future. She’d accepted it and refused to allow herself to dwell on the unfortunate circumstance.

  And yet here she was. Perhaps, quite possibly, increasing with a child.

  And this man loathed the idea. As he loathed her.

  It was unbearable.

  “But likely not.” She nodded toward the space where the banister once stood. “It was simply loose. Clearly in need of repair. It’s an old cast
le,” she offered, letting that implication sink in and hopefully sway him against notions that the curse was in effect.

  That she was with child.

  He nodded once in seeming agreement. “It is an old castle. Some things are in disrepair, of course, and require tending.”

  “Of course,” she echoed, except she knew that he did not believe what he was saying one little bit. The banister was strong oak.

  “In any event, you will keep me informed . . . of your condition.”

  She nodded. “Of course. I am certain in a few days’ time you shall rejoice at finding yourself still with no progeny in sight.”

  Days passed, and she had no news to impart that would bring about rejoicing, which was an odd thing. Didn’t people usually rejoice when they learned a child was on the way? Clara was secretly rejoicing, marveling at the life inside her. Was it a boy? A girl? What would he be like? Could he have blue eyes like his father? Would she?

  “Will you tell him?” Marian asked.

  She shook her head, her stomach churning. “I do not know for certain.”

  “Clara,” Marian chided gently. “You know it is so. Why do you dally?”

  She nodded. Yes. She knew. Even if time had not passed without nature’s evidence presenting itself, there was the fact that her breasts were tender to the touch and it was near impossible for her to get comfortable at night. She tossed and turned in her big, empty bed. There was a general achiness and soreness about her hips. She had never experienced such symptoms before. It hinted that her body was undergoing some manner of change—such as readying and making room for the baby growing in her womb.

  “Hello, there.” Marian lightly tapped her beneath the chin, regaining her attention. “This is a blessing. You’re to have a child.”

  “Yes. I know.” Clara nodded, feeling the irrational burn of tears.

  “And that husband of yours will soon see the error of his ways when you deliver him a healthy babe.”

  She nodded again. “Of course.” She believed that to be true . . . so why did a thread of fear lurk within her? “I will tell him tonight.”