Highland Groom

by Hannah Howell

  “This was kind of ye,” she said.

  “Oh, it wasnae my idea, m’lady,” Geordie said. “The laird thought ye may want some.” He glanced at the journals. “Ye have been working all day on these books. Have ye found anything important?”

  “Nay,” she replied and wondered why she felt the need to lie to the man. “I begin to think my husband is right, that something else had compelled him to come to Dubheidland.”

  “So, ye will be putting them aside soon, aye?”

  “Aye.” She sipped at her wine, finding it a little bitter, but decided it would probably go well with the sweetened oatcakes. “I believe I might suggest the burning of them as it wouldnae be good for Alice to stumble upon them someday.”

  She exchanged a few idle pleasantries with Geordie before he finally left, then frowned. She had lied to him and had no idea why she had felt it necessary to do so. Diarmot apparently trusted the man and it was no secret that she was digging her way through Lady Anabelle’s journals for some clues about Diarmot’s enemy. Yet, the moment he had asked if she had found anything, she had grown wary and secretive. Mayhap Diarmot’s suspicious nature was infecting her, she mused as she returned to her reading.

  A glass of wine and several oatcakes later, Ilsa had her suspicions confirmed. Precious Love had been a part of Anabelle’s life from the beginning. The meeting had occured while Anabelle was fostered with the woman she referred to only as L.O. Ilsa judged Anabelle’s age to have been about fourteen at that time, yet the girl had obviously already had several lovers by then. The first man had not been welcome, of that Ilsa had no doubt. It was possible that had been when Anabelle had begun to hate men.

  Except for Precious Love, Ilsa corrected herself as she poured herself another glass of wine. Yet, if Anabelle loved this person why had she not married him? Why had she been so consistently unfaithful? It also appeared that Anabelle and Precious Love had talked about those other men, scorned and ridiculed them together. Ilsa found that beyond strange.

  Not sure why she did so, Ilsa sought out entries concerning private moments with Precious Love and lined up all the journals, each opened to such an entry. Sipping at her wine, she read each, from the first to the last. The way Anabelle wrote of her lovemaking with Precious Love differed in many ways from her writings about all her other lovers. The tone lacked the usual scorn, although there was the hint of triumph, so he may have been a reluctant lover at times. Precious Love had soft hands, soft skin, and smelled sweet. Not once did Anabelle describe Precious Love’s genitals, something the woman had delighted in doing when writing about every other lover. Precious Love was smaller than Anabelle and had beautiful hair.

  Ilsa cursed, finished her wine, and carefully reread every entry. She was so certain she had just discovered something very important her heart was pounding. Soft hands, soft skin, smelled sweet, small, beautiful hair, a lovely voice, and dainty feet. Ilsa made careful note of each description, wrote them down, and read her list twice. Then she very carefully added one line of praise contained in a tale about a brief tryst: Precious Love kens how to touch a woman, kens a woman’s needs and desires as no mon e’er could.

  “Curse it, how did I miss that?” she muttered, and stood up, eager to find Diarmot.

  Sweat broke out all over her body and Ilsa clutched the edge of the table. She did not feel well and was rapidly feeling worse. Certain she was about to be ill and not wanting to ruin the journals, she moved away from the table. The pain that gripped her insides was so intense she screamed and collapsed to her knees. She emptied her belly on the floor and—for a moment—felt better, then the pain struck again. Clutching her belly, she tried to stand, but when it proved impossible, began to crawl toward the door. She could hear someone rapidly approaching and tried to call out only to be sick again. Ilsa managed to move away from that foul mess and then curled up, huddled in a ball in a vain attempt to ease the pain tearing away at her insides.

  “Ilsa!”

  “Something is wrong,” she said when Fraser and Gay knelt by her, Fraser cradling her in her strong arms.

  “Tis obvious ye are verra ill,” said Fraser. “We must get ye to bed.” She cursed when Ilsa began to writhe.

  “Jesu, tis an agony,” Ilsa cried out. “Get it out!”

  Diarmot entered the room only a step behind Sigimor, Tait and Nanty right behind him. He watched Ilsa tear free of Fraser’s hold just as Sigimor reached for her. She was violently ill and Diarmot felt his belly clench in sympathy. Sigimor picked her up and started toward the door.

  “The wine,” she moaned.

  “What about the wine?” asked Diarmot.

  “Tis bitter. Too bitter.” She started to writhe again and Sigimor tightened his hold on her. “The wine is burning me!”

  “Fraser, put that wine somewhere safe so that we can look at it later,” ordered Diarmot and then he hurried after Sigimor, pausing only to tell Peter to have someone fetch Glenda.

  It took him, Sigimor, Fraser, and Gay to get Ilsa out of her clothes, into a clean shift, and hold her in the bed. Tait and Nanty waited helplessly by the door. She was violently ill only twice more, but the pain obviously continued. The things she said proved she was not completely in possession of her senses. Diarmot tried to talk to her, as did Sigimor, but he knew she was not understanding them. He was beginning to think they would have to tie her to the bed, when she suddenly swooned. Fraser was the first to ascertain that it was only a swoon, reassuring him and Sigimor who had both been afraid to move.

  “Help me clean up this mess, Gay,” Fraser said.

  “Nay, dinnae touch that yet,” cried Glenda as she hurried into the room.

  Diarmot took the dampened scrap of linen Fraser handed him and gently bathed Ilsa’s face as Glenda inspected what had come out of Ilsa. He tried to be patient when the woman moved to the side of the bed and thoroughly examined Ilsa. Then Ilsa opened her eyes and looked at him. He frowned for she briefly looked afraid of him.

  “The wine,” she said, her voice little more than a hoarse whisper. “The wine is bitter.”

  “What wine?” demanded Glenda and was taken to the tray of wine and oatcakes by Fraser who had brought it into the room with her.

  “Where did ye get that wine, Ilsa?” Diarmot asked.

  “From ye,” she replied and moaned, clutching at her stomach. “He said ye thought I would want some. But the wine was so bitter. Tis burning me!”

  “Tis poison,” announced Glenda as she hurried back to the bed. “Twas in the wine.”

  “Nay,” Diarmot whispered and hurriedly stepped back as Sigimor advanced on him.

  Diarmot drew his sword a heartbeat after Sigimor drew his. Tait moved to stand by his brother even as Nanty moved to stand next to Diarmot. Both young men drew their swords, too. Fraser cried out, but no one paid her any heed.

  “Ye tried to kill her,” said Sigimor. “Got weary of trying to drive her away with all your unkindnesses, did ye?”

  “Nay,” protested Diarmot. “I would ne’er—”

  “She said it herself. The wine was poisoned and ye sent it to her.”

  Sigimor tensed to attack and Diarmot heard Nanty curse. A chill coursed through Diarmot’s blood. His wife could be dying in agony and her brothers were eager to make him do the same. He had no defense to make the Camerons pause, Ilsa’s words carrying far more weight than anything he could say. Diarmot tensed to meet the attack, not sure how this could end without one or more of them dead, when he heard a distinct thud. For a moment, Sigimor stood, his eyes wide and his expression one of shock. Then, slowly, he collapsed onto the floor, obviously seriously stunned. As he fell, Diarmot could see Gay standing behind the man holding the heavy walking stick Diarmot had used while recovering from the beating he had endured in Muirladen.

  “Sometimes ye just have to knock some sense into a mon,” Gay said, staring down at Sigimor who was already shaking free of the effects of her blow.

  After staring at his small assailant for a momen
t, Sigimor slowly sat up and rubbed his head. “Ye could have killed me with that log ye are wielding,” he said.

  Gay snorted. “Nay likely. I needed to get your attention and there was nay hope of doing it politely once ye started to wave your swords about, was there? Nay, your blood was up and ye were past being reasoned with.”

  “Curse it,” Sigimor snapped. “Ilsa said he gave her the wine and the wine is poisoned. Do ye expect me to shake his hand?” He carefully stood up, then rubbed his head again where she had struck him.

  “Aye, she thinks he gave her the wine. Twas what she was told.” She sighed when all four men just stared at her. “After she said Diarmot had given her the wine, she said, ‘he said ye thought I would want some.’ Someone else brought her the wine and told her Diarmot sent it.”

  “Sounds like an accusation to me,” said Sigimor, but he sheathed his sword.

  “Could be, but could also be no more than what she said. Someone brought her wine and said Diarmot sent it. Was he told that by someone else? Sir Diarmot says he didnae send her any wine. Dinnae think ye have enough proof of a crime there to start hacking each other to bits and leaving we women with more mess to clean up.”

  Sigimor scowled at her. “Ye had to choose this moment to get bold and impudent, did ye?”

  “It seemed a good time,” Gay replied calmly. “Now, ye will cease this fighting until we can find out exactly what has happened. If ye cannae do it whilst ye are in the same room, best ye separate.”

  “Diarmot!” screamed Ilsa as she began to writhe upon the bed. “The journals, see the journals.”

  Sheathing his sword, Diarmot hurried back to Ilsa’s bedside and grabbed hold of one of her hands. “Hush, Ilsa.”

  “The journals. Ye need to read them, Diarmot. Ye need to.”

  “I have, Ilsa. Several times.”

  “Precious Love. Read about Precious Love. My notes are there. Ye must read my notes.”

  Before he could say anything, she screamed and, yanking her hand free of his, began to claw at her stomach. The brief moment of clarity she had just had was gone again. Diarmot found himself pushed from her side by Tait. When he took a step toward the man, intending to take his rightful place by Ilsa’s bedside, Fraser and Nanty each grabbed him by an arm, and started pulling him toward the door.

  “I should stay with her,” he protested, watching as Gay and Glenda wrapped thick cloths around Ilsa’s hands so that she would not hurt herself.

  “Those two men may have stopped trying to gut ye,” said Fraser, “because Gay talked some sense to them, but that doesnae mean they trust ye near Ilsa. The last thing that poor sick lass needs is four big fools fighting o’er her.”

  Diarmot realized Fraser and Nanty had pulled him out into the hall and he watched as Fraser shut the door, barring him from Ilsa’s side. “I didnae poison her.”

  “Och, I ken it, laddie.” Fraser patted his arm. “She is sick, probably didnae ken what she was saying or didnae say it right. She kens ye wouldnae hurt her.”

  “Does she? When she saw me at her bedside, she looked afraid of me.”

  “Weel, mayhap, for a wee moment, she wondered. Someone told her ye sent the wine. But then she was trying to tell ye something about those journals. Now, she isnae going to try so hard to tell ye something that important if she thinks ye are the one trying to kill her, is she?”

  “Nay, mayhap not. Her brothers think I poisoned her, however.”

  “Aye and nay. Ye cannae expect them to think clearly when their only sister is in such pain. And, ye havenae exactly endeared yourself to them, either. Now, why dinnae ye go and—” Fraser looked down the hall and cursed.

  Diarmot followed her gaze and echoed her curse. Only a few feet away stood Odo, Aulay, Ewart, Gregor, and Alice. Ivy was probably with the twins waiting for news. Alice was crying silently and the boys all looked as if they wanted to do the same. Little Ewart and Gregor would be easy enough to soothe, their tender years making them less apt to question what they were told. Diarmot fixed his gaze upon the one he knew would require the most careful handling. He moved toward Odo, Fraser and Nanty going toward the others. Diarmot suspected it would be some time before he got to those journals.

  “I am bleeding,” Ilsa whispered. “I am bleeding.”

  “Nay,” said Sigimor, “ye are just sick, loving. Tis poison ye suffer from, nay a wound.”

  She moaned softly and shook her head. “Nay, I am bleeding. I shouldnae be bleeding. Oh, tis so sad.”

  Glenda yanked back the covers and cursed when she saw the blood. “Is it time for your menses, child?”

  “Has the poison done this?” asked Sigimor when Ilsa did not reply to Glenda’s question.

  “Nay.” Glenda almost smiled when she looked at Sigimor for both he and Tait were alarmingly pale and had their gazes fixed steadily upon the walls. “I fear she is losing a bairn.” Glenda examined Ilsa more closely, noting how much she had bled. “Nay, I believe she has already lost it. That would explain why the pain was so severe. Stiffen your backbones, laddies. Gay and I are going to need help to clean the lass up.”

  Many harrowing moments later, Sigimor held his now clean, blanket-wrapped sister and watched Gay and Glenda strip the bed. He was all too aware of how small Ilsa was. How could such a delicate woman survive all this?

  “Are ye certain she lost a bairn?” he asked.

  “Aye,” replied Glenda. “I wasnae at first, but, aye, she lost a bairn. Twas but newly begun, nay much more than a promise. She suspected. Tis why she said she shouldnae be bleeding and that it was sad. Tis for the best. Twas surely damaged or killed by the poison. Best to clean the womb and start agin. It would have been nay more than a lingering poison in her body.”

  “Do ye think she has been damaged?” asked Tait as he gently brushed a stray curl from Ilsa’s forehead.

  “Nay, twas a clean loss,” replied Glenda as she helped Gay put clean linen on the bed. “The bleeding is nay more than it should be. Your sister’s body is its own healer, best I have e’er seen. The way it was throwing out that poison was a wonder.”

  “Weel, Ilsa has always been quick to, er, throw out what her body didnae like. E’en as a wee lass. She would eat something which didnae agree with her and, I swear to ye, it couldnae have been in her belly many minutes before it was flung out.”

  “Aye,” agreed Sigimor. “Ye kenned it was coming, too, for she would get the oddest look upon her face.”

  Glenda crossed her arms over her chest and gave Sigimor a knowing look. “And, of course, her brothers ne’er gave her something just to watch what happened.” She chuckled when he and Tait blushed faintly. “Aye, tis just what lads would do. Set her in the bed.” The moment Sigimor did so and tucked the blankets around Ilsa, Glenda felt Ilsa’s face. “Sleeping weel. She will be weel, lads. Ye hardly needed my help. Her body was doing my work for me, throwing out all the bad as fast as it could. I didnae e’en have to purge her. She was purging herself better than I e’er could.”

  “So, the poison is out of her?”

  “She willnae be dying of it. Suspicion some lingers and she will be sickly for a few days. I will try to force some healing potions down her and all. She willnae be able to eat anything too hearty, either. Oh, and she cannae nurse the bairns.” She sighed. “Ere I would feel that would be safe, I suspicion her milk will have dried up. That willnae please her. That and losing the bairn, weel, her spirits will be fair low for a wee while.”

  “Diarmot,” began Gay.

  “I am nay letting that bastard near her,” snapped Sigimor. “He tried to poison her. She said so herself.” His eyes widened slightly at the way Gay growled at him. “Wheesht, lass, ye sound like a Cameron.”

  “I am nay surprised. I have been with ye lot long enough I have probably caught the disease. Diarmot didnae give her that poison. Someone told her he had sent the wine. Nay more. The mon may act like an idiot, but he isnae a murderer.”

  “Aye,” agreed Glenda. “Heed the lass. The
laird is a troubled mon, but he would ne’er do this.” She held up her hand when Tait and Sigimor both started to protest. “Fine, be wary if it pleases ye, but nay more than that. Keep him away from her if it makes ye happy, but, if ye take a sword to the fool, ye will be guilty of killing an innocent mon. Aye, and the mon your sister loves, the father of her sons. Are ye willing to bear that weight just because ye cannae hold your tempers for a wee while?” She nodded when both men grimaced. “Good. She will soon wake and set ye right, anyway.”

  “I will sit with her for now,” said Gay. “The bairns will be needing to be fed in a few hours and one of ye will have to come here then. Best if I take my turn now.” The moment Sigimor and Tait left, Gay looked at Glenda. “Ye were telling them the truth?”

  “About Lady Ilsa getting better?” Glenda kissed Gay on the cheek. “Aye, lass. Twill be a few days ere she heals, but she will heal. The hardest thing will be convincing those two lads that the laird wasnae guilty of this.”

  “Not if Ilsa doesnae believe her husband is guilty. The Cameron brothers may act witless at times, but they arenae. They will just need some time to think it all over. I ken they are nay sure e’en now for they let me stop them from killing the laird. If they really believed he had tried to kill Ilsa, we would still be mopping up his blood.”

  Glenda grinned and nodded. “Aye, we would. Nay doubt about it. Weel, I will go to that wee fine room they gave me last time and have a rest. Ye ken where to find me if ye need me,” she added as she left.

  Gay settled herself in a chair by Ilsa’s bedside. She was exhausted, but knew she would not sleep until she had seen Ilsa wake up and speak sensibly at least once.