by Deb Kemper
“What else but? I asked Collin to find her. When he does, I’ll send her back to her brother. She’ll not be a bother again.” His tone suggested the conversation was over.
“I prefer to be advised when he finds her. Please, send your dispatch to your cousin, in Inverness, and find out about Kieran’s situation.” She rose, holding the back of the chair. “I’d like to talk with her. There may be something I can do to help.”
Garth stood and reached for her elbow. “Are ye sure there’s nothin’ wrong with ye?”
She smiled and stretched to his cheek to kiss him. “Positive, I need a nap is all.”
“I’m off to the high seat. I need to wrap up a few things before….” He looked into the shiny pools of her eyes and sighed.
“I know, Garth. Go ahead. I’ll speak with Millie.” She picked up her teapot and cup and turned to the kitchen.
Himself watched her go through the tall oak door and close it softly behind her. I wish I kenned that woman. Her ways are not my ways. He left the dining room, for his duty, in the great hall by way of the front door.
Amalie eased into the kitchen. “Morning, Millie.” She took a deep breath; the sweet smell of yeast filled the air.
Millie looked up from kneading bread dough. “Morning, darlin’. How’re ye feeling?”
Amalie made a rolling motion with her hand. “Oh, my.”
“Do ye tell the master?” Millie watched her mistress under a frown.
“Nay, I canna do it. He’s about to leave for soldiering duties. I’d not have him distracted.” She carried her teapot to the basin of boiling water and dipped out a measure, carefully pouring it over the tealeaves.
“Tis his right to know, milady.” Millie took a more formal approach with Amalie when they disagreed.
“Aye, just not yet.” She glanced back at her chatelaine. “I’m going up to rest. Let me know if Collin comes with news of Kieran, please.”
“Kieran Aitkenson?” Millie snapped to attention. “Tha’ girl’s here?”
“Aye, poor thing. Collin’s set out to find her. I’d love to have a little time with her before…well, soon.” She took the back stairs up to her chamber.
At the nursery, she paused for a moment listening to the nurse’s calming voice as she read to Jessica and Ewan. I’ll come back later for lessons, after the nausea passes.
****
Later in the day, Amalie glanced up at the hearty rap on the nursery door. Nurse scurried to answer. Amalie rose and started out. “Keep reading, Mallow, I’ll be right back.”
She softly touched nurse’s shoulder and stepped into the hallway. Collin waited for her. A beautiful, bedraggled dark-haired woman waited at his side. Her navy blue dress, tattered at the hem, needed washing.
“Here’s…Kieran, ma’am. Where do ye desire I put ’er?”
Amalie reached for the visitor’s arm. “I’ll take her, Collin, thank you.” She lifted the woman’s chin to meet her eyes. “I’m Lady Mackintosh, Kieran. My name is Amalie. Welcome to our home.”
Collin waited a few steps behind, his thumbs tucked into his belt, alert to trouble.
Kieran watched Amalie through flat blue eyes, devoid of emotion or understanding. She glanced around nervously, evaluating escape.
Amalie nodded dismissal to Collin. “We’ll speak later. We’re fine, then.” They turned to the nursery. “We’re in the middle of lessons, Kieran, come along and join us, please.” She guided the woman into the room with the children.
Mallow left her book, carefully marking her place, and met Amalie and Kieran. She dropped a curtsy and nodded. “Ma’am.”
“Mallow, this is Kieran, Quentin’s sister.” Amalie made introductions, her hand resting on her guest’s back.
Kieran looked away, checking the exit.
Mallow grasped her wrist and tugged. Her manner and voice gentled with the frightened woman. “This way, miss, we’re just reading our lessons fer the day. Please, join us.”
Kieran followed, led by a gentle hand and smile.
Chapter 25
“I should be the one going, sir. I’m yer champion and as such am entitled to serve ye by takin’ yer place.” Collin argued with the laird.
“Not this time, Collin. Ye’re needed here to protect the castle and my family.” Garth pulled on his plaid and fastened it at his shoulder with a brooch. His claymore slid nimbly into its sheath on his broad back.
“The Chattan or the killin’ fields of France, have I let ye down?”
“Nay, but I represent the Chattan. I’m their leader, and as such must command a regiment. They need battle-hardened men.” He held out his palm to staunch the flow of objections. “Yes, I know ye’re one. But they need men the less experienced will follow on account o’ rank.”
“Can I say something to ye, not as yer champion but as yer friend?”
The Mackintosh stopped and turned to face the Irishman. “By all means, speak.”
“Balls!” The champion paced. “I have more experience than ye do. I ain’t been sittin’ on my pride fer the past twelve years.” His long fingers poked the air, his face flushed in the light. “I been trainin’ fightin’ men. Ye were here settlin’ squabbles over cows.”
“My final answer is still ‘nay’. If I’ve need of ye, I’ll send fer ye. Now, I must go, as the day holds a long ride and poor fare, along the road.” Garth turned away and opened the study door to find his children and wife waiting to bid farewell.
Jeremy Collin stormed through the study door, stopping long enough to bow to Amalie, and left without another word.
Garth sighed and opened his arms.
Mallow was the first to clasp him in a hug. “I’ll miss ye, Da. Promise ye’ll be careful.” She looked up at him with a stern
expression.
“Aye, I’ll do my best. Jessie?” He squatted to wrap his daughter, still frail from the bout of illness a few months earlier. “Ye do everything Mam tells ye, hear me?”
She nodded. “Ye’re not going to die are ye, Da?” Concern pinched her pale, thin face.
“No, darlin’, I’ll come back to ye in a fortnight without a scratch.” He brushed back a strand of blonde hair that fell across her brow. “I love ye, wee lass.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed. “I love ye more, Da.”
He stood and shifted her to his hip. Two steps landed him in front of his wife and son.
Ewan reached out chubby hands. “Da?” The curls of his light red hair bounced in unison.
Garth stooped to deposit Jessie on the stone floor and gathered his son into his massive arms. “I’m leavin’ ye in charge of the household, lad. Ye’re to take care of yer mam and sisters. Can ye do that for Da?”
The toddler nodded his head solemnly, dark eyes studying his father .
“On my return, we’ll take a picnic to the burn and catch fish fer supper.”
“I fish?” Ewan frowned.
“Aye, ye’ll do the fishin’. I’ll nap in the shade. Will it do fer ye then, lad?” Garth was as serious as he could manage watching the two-year old take it in. “We’ll bring ’em home fer yer mam and sisters to cook fer us.”
Ewan threw his head back and cackled. “I canna fish, Da!”
Garth set him down on his feet and watched the girls take each of his chubby hands and lead him away.
Garth wrapped Amalie into his arms. “My heart, I’ll miss ye awfully.”
“And I you, husband.” She kept the tears at bay through a smile.
“I may have to stay longer. I don’t ken what the king has in mind fer us but I hope it’s no worse than last time. I can do a couple weeks trainin’ then return to my family. Collin and Gordon will ride up with me then return to ye, though they’d both rather stay.”
She nodded.
“Grayson will keep the gate closed ’til they’re home.” He added.
“Aye, we’ll be fine. Daniel and Larena are here. We’ll be well. Take care you don’t come to harm, milord.” She rel
eased him and crossed her arms.
“I don’t want to do this, Amalie.”
“’Tis your duty, Garth. I knew it when we married. Though at times like this, I wish we were farmers or stock herders, anythin’ but what we are. The good God of heaven has seen fit for us to be here, at this time and place, for a reason.” She laid her hand on his cheek: her voice dropped to a whisper beside his ear. “May God bless and shield you, make His face shine upon you, and give you perfect shalom.” She placed a gentle kiss on his mouth, her eyes closed. “Now go, before I lose heart.”
He turned away from her, glanced back again once, at the entrance, and threw her a kiss.
As the door closed she rested both hands on her abdomen. “Come home to your children, milord, and know we’ll be waitin’, every day agony, in your absence.”
Chapter 26
Garth penned a note to Amalie:
The British took me in the Battle of Sherrifmuir, having been injured toward the end. Nothing much, but I have a great deal of pain in my left leg. Currently we all wait for the medical man.
The food is awful. The English live on swill. Still, because of my rank, I receive privileges kept from other men.
I miss ye, lamb, and our wonderful children, our home and most of all, ye in our bed. Give the bairns a kiss from Da and I’ll see ye, as soon as allowed. Ye are all my heart.
Garth.
He folded the page and placed it in his pocket. He closed his eyes and laid back, in a cold sweat, on the cot. He shivered, hung between fever and chills, without a doubt fighting infection in the wound.
Great God o’ heaven, hear this undeservin’, miserable wretch cry out to Ye. Help me get home to my family.
He wrapped his arms tightly round himself and shuddered. He slept, again dreaming of the battle and his capture.
Garth’s cell door swung open. He sat up on the side of the cot, head reeling.
“Mackintosh?” An Englishman in a white jacket addressed him.
“Aye.” He shook his head to dispel the nightmare that plagued him. “Ye the physician?”
“Aye, I’ll take a look at you now.” A second man followed. “This is Rory. My name’s Livesey. He’ll cut away your trousers leg so we can get a good look at the wound.”
Garth studied the medical man for a moment. “Lord Heath Livesey?”
“Aye.” The man smiled. “I think you boast my handiwork on your left cheek.”
Garth nodded. “Ye stitched me up, in a lavender field in the south of France.”
“Aye, I remember it well, sir.” Lord Livesey agreed with a nod and offered his hand.
Garth took it and shook.
Rory knelt in front of the Laird of the Chattan and cut the fabric of his trews away. “What, no kilt, Scoti?” He chuckled as he peeled away fibers imbedded in the wound.
Garth held his breath and raised his eyes to Livesey. His voice came out strained and hoarse. “A real wit. Guess ye’re never bored wi’ him around.” The throbbing pain in his left leg felt like awls jabbed into the raw flesh.
Livesey rolled his eyes and frowned. “He’s a gem for sure. How long have you been here?”
Garth shook his head. “No idea, maybe two days, a week. Time ceased to exist when they brought me inside.”
“Has your family been notified?” Livesey scanned the notes he carried.
“Dunno that either. No one’s said.”
“Do they know who you are?” Heath Livesey frowned. “That you’re Garth Mackintosh?”
“Aye.” He grimaced when Rory peeled away dead skin. “I hope yer hands are washed, Rory. My Irish wife has a penchant fer a lotta cleanin’ up, before tendin’ wounds.”
“What’s that to me?” He raised his eyes, with a sneer.
“If I die from infection, ye’ll have a hell of a fury on yer hands, man. Jest tryin’ to keep ye alive.” Garth’s prodding of the irate Englishman resulted in more pain as he poured half a bottle of alcohol into the open wound without warning.
Garth gasped. A low moan escaped. His eyes teared.
Lord Livesey took over. “Enough, Rory! Lie back on the cot, Mackintosh. I want a look at the injury.”
Garth complied, swallowing the desire to clip Rory once on the chin as he raised his left leg to the cot, with a great deal of effort.
“I should have been called to see you at once. There’s quite a lot of infection inside. The wound looks toxic. We need to scrape it out and see if we can save your leg.” He glanced at Garth’s pale face, sweat beading on his brow. “Let’s have you down to the surgery and take care of the issue. Hopefully, we won’t need to amputate.” He turned away. “Rory, get help to carry the cot down, straight away.” He made the cell door. “Oh, and Rory, be pleasant or you’ll pull privy duty for the remainder of the time we’re here.”
Rory nodded sullenly and glanced back at Garth.
****
“Hello, gatehouse!” A rider in English uniform approached the castle walls.
Grayson strode through the side door and met him, on foot, outside. “What business have ye here, English?”
“A message for Lady Mackintosh, sir.”
“Alight and walk through.” Grayson held a beefy hand out toward the doorway. He kept his eyes roving for any indication the messenger brought more company before following the man inside.
The rider secured his bay mare to a rail. “Would you perhaps be able to water my horse?”
“Indeed, sir. Perry! Come along, lad, and take care of this man’s ride.” Grayson waved him forward. “Follow me, to speak to milady.”
As Collin approached from the stables, he caught sight of Grayson and the visitor. His piercing gaze followed them to the great hall. A moment later, so did the rest of him. He lingered at the door, stepping inside covertly to lean against the cold stone wall.
Grayson looked back at the visitor and spotted Collin then dropped his head, signaling to the champion his presence may be required. Collin ambled to the spot Grayson seated the guest.
“Collin, our English friend has news of the laird. I’ll fetch milady.” Grayson continued to the kitchen.
“So ye bring us word of The Mackintosh?” Collin’s hand rested near his pistol.
“Aye, my instructions specify I speak only to the Lady Mackintosh.” He glanced back to the kitchen where Grayson disappeared.
Collin rested a brogued foot, on the bench, the man sat upon and waited.
Amalie rushed out the kitchen door in a flurry, untying her aparan on the way. Grayson stayed behind her, still wary. He checked with Collin, exchanged a nod.
“Sir, you bring news of my husband?” She patted her hair in place, having ripped off the kertch she wore.
The man stood and inhaled. “You are the Lady Mackintosh?”
“Aye, aye, Amalie Sullivan Mackintosh. Please, tell me what news you have of him.” She wrung the aparan between her hands.
The man looked away, then back to her eager face. “Ma’am, your husband’s been fatally wounded.”
Amalie paled. Her knees buckled. Grayson caught her from behind and seated her on the bench, his hands grasping her shoulders.
Millie approached the group slowly, folding her aparan on the way. She kept her eyes on Amalie.
“How?” Amalie squeezed the word out, placing a hand over her faint heart.
“In the Battle of Sherrifmuir, ma’am.” The man removed a page from his pocket and unfolded the printed letter. “His left leg was ripped open, became infected. The message from the physician’s office reads,” his eyes dropped, ‘“has not long to live. May be deceased by the time the messenger arrives at the castle.”’ He looked up into her dark eyes, brimming with unshed tears. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
Millie stood behind her, taking over from Grayson.
Grayson stepped aside, ran his large, rough hand over his whiskers.
Collin watched Amalie for any sign he needed to take control of the situation.
“I see.” She spoke ,softly
clutching the rough table, she leaned upon.
Millie held Amalie’s shoulders to keep her on the bench.
“Where is he?” Collin’s deep voice echoed in the quiet hall.
The messenger looked back at him. “Aviemore, sir. If you wish to send a contingent of men to collect…well, to see to him, I’ll wait for you.”
“Aye, I appreciate it. Give me five minutes.” He turned on his heel and left them.
The messenger bowed to Amalie. “I’ll take my leave, then.” He followed closely on Collin’s exit.
Grayson stood beside Amalie.
Millie looked up at him. “Either carry milady or fetch Gordon to her.”
“I’ll take her meself. She don’t weigh nothin’ atall.” He bent and scooped her up in his enormous arms, heading to the back, through the kitchen to the castle.
Amalie held herself together, barely breathing until her face burrowed into Grayson’s mighty shoulder.
She shook.
She sobbed.
She cried.
She screamed.
Millie did her best to keep her own emotions in check, hurrying ahead to open doors for the gatekeeper. “Take her to his chamber, please.” She swiped tears from her well-lined cheeks.
Mortimer arrived, with a sleeping draught, as soon as Amalie lay down.
Millie sat with her lady, in the master’s chamber, until she slept.
Millie rocked in the ancient chair, reliving the first night she spent in the castle, as a young girl. Twas but sixteen summers, come to this strange place from the Emerald Isle. The darkest, coldest winter of my life, spent inside these stone walls. The master a bairn, losin’ his mam, like he did, barely weaned. Heartbroken and no one to comfort ’im but a scared girl who barely understood a word of Gael. How many miles have we rocked in this old chair, The Mackintosh and me? Lord, comfort milady and give us grace fer the days ahead. In her thoughts, she wandered through the years as her heart throbbed with grief for the boy she raised as her own.