by Maya Banks
A ragged moan escaped his throat, and she realized that he must be in pain again. It had been quite some time since the earlier dram, but she’d require the help of one of the men to force another down his throat.
Hurrying to the door, she hoped that either Geoffrey or Deaglan would be outside, as Brodie had assured her. When she opened it, she breathed a sigh of relief to see that, indeed, both men were at their posts—one beside the door and the other on the other side of the hall, sitting on the floor, his back against the wall for support.
When they saw her, they rose to their feet, any sign of fatigue quickly wiped away.
“I have need of your aid,” she whispered. “The laird is in pain and ’tis time for another potion. I cannot do it myself.”
“Of course, mistress,” Geoffrey said. “Deaglan and I will see to the matter.”
The men followed her back inside, and Deaglan collected the small cup that held the mixture he’d concocted. With Geoffrey’s help, they held Bowen’s head and shoulders up enough that they could tilt the cup into his mouth.
Bowen coughed and sputtered, but most of the liquid went down.
They settled Bowen back onto the bed and then turned to Genevieve.
“He should rest easy for the next several hours,” Deaglan said. “If you have need to return to your chamber, we will keep watch until you return.”
She wasn’t sure what to make of that. Whether it was an offer for her to rest or a suggestion because she stank of blood and sweat from the earlier battle. Either way, she must look a mess and, truth be told, she would appreciate the opportunity to wash.
“I should like to take a moment to change my clothing and rid myself of the smell of blood,” she said with a faint smile. “I shall return in a short while.”
Both men nodded, and she quickly retreated from the chamber to go next door to her own.
Stripping out of her clothing, she went to the small basin along the wall and poured water from the pitcher into the washing bowl. She’d love a full bath—it might take two to scrub the blood, dirt, and smell of death from her body—but she dare not risk venturing outside the keep, not only because of the dangers presented by a possible attack but from the McHughs themselves.
She had no way of gauging the current mood of the clan, or if Brodie had indeed uncovered more traitors than the one who had tried to murder Bowen. It was a sure bet that by now word would have spread as to her part in Meagan’s husband’s death and that she’d singled him out as a betrayer.
Having intelligence didn’t signal being a coward. A smart lass knew when to stay out of direct fire, and she had no intention of braving the McHugh clan until she was certain as to what occurred after the attack on the keep.
She brushed her hair and took a washing cloth to the long strands, scrubbing as best she could the dirt and matted blood from her tresses. When she was reasonably satisfied with the result, she donned a clean dress and then sank onto her bed. A bed that she still marveled was her own. That she didn’t have to share with anyone or fear that she would have unwanted bodies there.
She lay her head down and closed her eyes, enjoying the comfort of her pillow. It was heaven. And yet she’d slept so soundly next to Bowen. It was an oddity she wasn’t sure she understood.
Never did she sleep too soundly. Too many times she had awakened to Ian’s abuse, and she’d learned to always be prepared—even in sleep—for the worst. But the entire keep could have been laid siege to over the last hours and she wouldn’t have known.
Surely it was because she was exhausted from the stress of the day, as well as from the mind-numbing task of stitching Bowen’s wounds.
It had been no easy feat, and there had been extraordinary pressure for her to seal the wound properly. One misstep could have earned her serious reprimand and censure. She shuddered to think what her punishment might have been.
One of the ties securing the furs over the window had loosened, and a light breeze lifted the end, allowing the first faint shades of dawn into the room. Soon the keep would be alive with activity, though she was uneasy about the sort of goings-on that would be initiated.
’Twould be best if she remained here or in Bowen’s room until such time as she was forced out. She had no desire to face what awaited her. She was delaying the inevitable, but at the moment, she cared not. She was more concerned with her self-preservation than with anything else.
When a knock sounded at her door, her dread immediately intensified. She scolded herself for being so quick to draw conclusions. It could simply be one of Bowen’s men, seeking a report on his condition. Or Brodie himself come to ask how Bowen had fared through the night.
As she was attempting to right herself enough so that she could rise from the bed, the door swung open and she frowned at the breach of her privacy. Not that she’d been guaranteed any such thing. But she’d assumed, and she should have learned better by now.
Relief was instant when she saw it was Taliesan poking her head through the door. Genevieve immediately smiled in welcome, happy to see a friendly face.
“Oh, ’tis good you’re awake. I much wanted to speak to you regarding the laird’s condition and what is happening within the clan,” Taliesan said. “May I enter?”
“Of course,” Genevieve said, motioning her forward.
She patted the edge of the bed encouragingly, aware that she’d never been so openly inviting to another person in all her time here.
Taliesan seemed delighted with the overture and limped over, her gait much quicker and smoother this morn. Genevieve hoped that meant Taliesan’s leg wasn’t paining her as much as usual.
Taliesan settled on the bed next to Genevieve and impulsively reached over to hug her.
“What was that for?” Genevieve asked in bewilderment. But she found she didn’t mind the affectionate gesture at all. It made her feel … wanted. Liked.
“You just looked as though you needed it,” Taliesan said kindly.
“I did, and thank you,” Genevieve said with a smile.
Taliesan’s expression sobered. “What goes on, Genevieve? The Armstrongs and Montgomerys alike are being close-lipped about the laird’s condition, which has fueled gossip that he lies dying in his chamber. There is much worry as to what our fate will be if that happens. ’Tis widely known that Patrick instigated the attack, and that some of the men who swore allegiance to the laird turned betrayer.”
“How many?” Genevieve asked sharply.
Taliesan’s eyes widened. “You do not know?”
Genevieve grimaced. “I know not anything. I spent the night tending the laird’s wounds and watching for any sign of fever. I’ve only just come to my chamber a short time ago.”
“Then ’tis sorry I am for disturbing you. You should be resting.”
Genevieve shook her head. “I am well rested,” she lied. “I would know what is occurring within the clan. Brodie left Bowen’s chamber last eve to determine if there were more traitors in our midst.”
Taliesan sighed, her mouth turning down in an unhappy frown. “ ’Tis a sad and disgraceful tale I bring you. There were three other McHugh warriors who remained behind and made a vow to support Bowen Montgomery. ’Twas discovered that they played a part in the killings of two men. One a Montgomery and one an Armstrong. They are to be executed, and the clan is in uproar over it.”
“ ’Tis not less than they deserve,” Genevieve spat. “They follow in the old laird’s footsteps. A path steeped in treachery and dishonor. They bring shame to your clan’s name. The clan should be first to want justice to be served.”
“But they are husbands and fathers to our clan’s women and children,” Taliesan said quietly. “ ’Tis not such a simple matter when wives and children will be left without a husband and father.”
“Aye, I know it, but they should have given the matter due consideration. The consequences of their actions were spelled out long before they chose to travel the path they trod.”
“When will it end
?” Taliesan asked softly. “Our clan is bathed in blood, betrayal, and treachery. All because of Ian McHugh.”
“Nay,” Genevieve said fiercely. “He carries not the full blame. Patrick McHugh allowed his son free rein. Patrick was laird, not Ian. He was too weak and dishonorable to stand up to his son and correct the wrongs that have brought this clan low. ’Tis on him and Ian that the clan should turn their ire. Not me. Not the Montgomerys or the Armstrongs. They set in motion all that has occurred when they made the choices they made.”
“You are right, of course,” Taliesan murmured. “But ’tis still sad that brother is pitted against brother. Father against son. Wife against husband. ’Tis no position for any clansman to be in. We are family. If we don’t stand together, how can we stand for anything else?”
Genevieve grasped Taliesan’s hand. “Aye, ’tis sad indeed, but there is naught you and I can do to change it. ’Tis their decisions. Their choices. They must live with the consequences.”
Taliesan sighed. “I know you are right, but I still have no love of the entire sordid mess. It makes me fear for the future of our clan—our bloodline. Already we have a Montgomery laird. How long will it be before there are none of us left and we are but spoils of war, scattered to the winds, our name naught but a black memory carried to generations after us.”
“You take far too much on your shoulders, Taliesan,” Genevieve said gently. “You are wise for one so young, and you think deeper on matters than your kinsmen. You can only take responsibility for your own actions and act with honor in every encounter.”
“I know you are right. ’Tis not me who is wise, Genevieve, but you.”
“If I was wise, I would have found a way to kill Ian McHugh long ago and save us all the misery of his actions,” Genevieve said, her voice so cold it sent a shiver down her own spine.
And ’twas true enough. Killing Ian would surely have meant her own death sentence, and yet that would have been preferable to the life she’d endured. But she’d stubbornly clung to her existence, refusing to be beaten down. Her damnable pride would not allow her to concede defeat to Ian or any other McHugh, most especially not Patrick McHugh. She would not have given him the satisfaction of ordering her death. And that was supposing that she would have even been killed. Just as easily she could have been consigned a fate as bad as the one Ian had heaped upon her. Given to the McHugh men to play the unwilling whore. Passed from one to the other and perhaps given as bounty to another clan.
Nay, as long as she had hope of one day regaining control over her destiny, she had silently endured, knowing that one day … one day she would be in a position to seek justice. That time had come the day before, when Patrick had been in her sights and she’d let the arrow fly.
“How is the clan taking the news of Patrick’s death? Is it known who did the killing?”
Genevieve held her breath, feeling guilty over deceiving Taliesan. But if it was known that she had killed Patrick, the clan would only harbor more animosity toward her. She cared not if anyone ever discovered the truth.
“The clan is divided. There are those who are angry about Patrick’s betrayal, and they believe the Montgomerys and Armstrongs acted accordingly. He was buried this morn, but the Montgomery and Armstrong men bore his body beyond our borders, not affording him the honor of being laid to rest on McHugh land. There are others who, while confused and bitter about Patrick’s defection, still believe he should have been given the honor of being buried on his lands.”
That Taliesan hadn’t given voice to the fact that Genevieve had been the one who’d felled Patrick bolstered Genevieve’s spirits. It was one less thing the clan would blame her for—not that they needed other reasons.
Genevieve reached over to squeeze Taliesan’s hand. “I go to see how the laird fares. His injuries required stitching, and ’twas I who set needle to his flesh. ’Tis God’s truth my hand has never shaken as much as it did last night. I must now watch for signs of fever and pray that he recovers quickly.”
“If you have need of anything, summon me at once,” Taliesan said, her voice sincere. “I will be happy to give you aid.”
“Thank you, Taliesan. I never imagined finding a true friend among so many hostile faces, but ’tis glad I am to have you.”
Taliesan smiled, her entire face lighting up so sweetly that it made Genevieve instantly warm all the way through. She stood, pushing herself up awkwardly from the bed, and smoothed her skirts.
“You must be starved. I will send up food for you to the laird’s chamber so that you may eat while you watch over his recovery.”
Genevieve’s stomach cramped, and she realized that it had been a long while since she’d partaken of any food. She smiled gratefully up at Taliesan.
“My thanks. If you would, have water warmed and brought up in a basin so that I may wash the laird’s wounds and see to the dressings.”
“I’ll do it at once.”
Taliesan started toward the door, but then she hesitated and turned, her fingers gripping the edge.
“Things will be better now, Genevieve. You’ll see. No longer will you be forced to suffer such injustice. Bowen Montgomery seems a good and just man. He’ll do what is right.”
Genevieve nodded faintly, her stomach knotting not from hunger but from the knowledge that when the laird awakened he would demand an accounting from her. And what she told him could well mean that the Montgomerys and Armstrongs would be no safe refuge for her.
CHAPTER 19
Genevieve knocked at Bowen’s door, and while she waited for the summons to enter she very nearly turned and fled back to her chamber. Only the thought that if Geoffrey and Deaglan had given the laird another potion he would be insensible awhile longer gave her the courage to stand her ground.
The door opened and Deaglan stood there, large and imposing. He took a step back and motioned for Genevieve to enter.
“He drank nearly all of the dram we gave him,” Deaglan reported. “He is resting more comfortably now. I see no sign of fever. ’Tis to your credit and speed in stitching him up that he seems to be faring so well.”
Warmth suffused Genevieve’s cheeks at the unexpected praise. Kind words were foreign to her of late.
“ ’Tis good he is resting,” she said as she made her way to the chair still positioned next to Bowen’s bed.
She glanced at the sleeping laird and, indeed, he looked at peace. His brow wasn’t creased in pain, and he seemed utterly relaxed.
Another knock sounded, and Deaglan frowned as he hurried to answer. A moment later, he came back in carrying food. Taliesan appeared behind him, her eyes large in her face. She seemed intimidated by the presence of the two guards.
Genevieve rose, offering a smile of welcome to Taliesan. Then she turned to Geoffrey and Deaglan. “Taliesan has brought food. Have either of you eaten since the laird was attacked?”
Geoffrey frowned, his brow knitted in concentration. “Nay, mistress. ’Tis the truth we have not.”
“Then partake of what is offered,” Genevieve said, waving her hand toward the food.
“Nay,” Deaglan objected. “ ’Tis your meal we take, mistress. You were at the laird’s side since yesterday and have more need of sustenance than we do.”
Genevieve rolled her eyes and stared at the mound of food carried by both Deaglan and Taliesan. “There is more than enough for all to share. You’ll concentrate harder on your task of protecting the laird if your belly is full. Now eat. It would be a shame for it to go to waste. I’ll not eat all of it, to be sure.”
“Our thanks, mistress,” Deaglan said gravely. “ ’Tis most appreciated. We would not leave the laird’s chamber door even to go below and break our fast.”
“I’ll see that food is brought to you at all meals,” Taliesan said in a soft, shy voice.
Both men smiled at Taliesan, but then who wouldn’t? The lass was sweet and good-hearted to her bones. She had a positive effect on everyone who came into contact with her.
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��Thank you,” Deaglan offered solemnly. “I appreciate your generosity.”
Taliesan blushed pink, dipped a curtsy, and then limped from the room, closing the door behind her.
Genevieve plated a small portion of the food that Taliesan had brought to the chamber. Even though she was hungry, she knew she wouldn’t eat much. Her stomach was too unsettled. She was too worried—and terrified—of what was to come.
The two men set upon the remainder of the food, and it was evident they were indeed quite hungry as they dug into their offerings.
She returned to the chair at Bowen’s bedside and picked nervously at the food. It was tasteless—probably a blessing—but she forced herself to swallow each bite, washing it down with water.
She was nearly done with her portion when the door opened. She swung around to see who had entered without so much as a by-your-leave, only to see Brodie looming in the doorway.
He nodded at Geoffrey and Deaglan, exchanging a few low words that she couldn’t hear—although Brodie kept gifting her with the strangest looks.
When he was done with his brief conversation, he walked toward the bed. There was a peculiar light in his eyes, one she wanted to question him about, but she stifled the urge. There were some things she’d rather not know.
“How does he fare?” Brodie asked in a low voice.
Genevieve set her plate aside on the small table by Bowen’s bed.
“He has settled. Geoffrey and Deaglan gave him another potion after he became agitated. ’Twas obvious he was in pain.”
“And fever?”
She shook her head. “Nay, he is still cool to the touch. My hope is that the next time he awakens the pain will have subsided enough that he doesn’t require further sedation. If God is willing, he’ll pull through and be back on his feet in a short time.”
Brodie nodded, his features easing. He looked tired. As though he’d not slept the night before, and ’twas likely he hadn’t, given all she’d heard from Taliesan. She bit her lip to prevent the inevitable questions from bursting out. She wanted to ask him about the McHugh traitors. What the mood of the McHugh clan was, and if he feared another attack. And, most important, would he and the remaining warriors from the Montgomery and Armstrong clans be capable of fending off yet another attempt to reclaim the keep?