Tempted by a Warrior

by Amanda Scott

  Realizing that he had overheard at least a portion of what she had said about him before he’d come in, and feeling guilty now, even sorry, she looked him in the eye and said, “I believe you, my lord. However, unless you mean to stay and watch me suckle him, I wish you would go away.”

  “I would fain watch you, lass,” he murmured with the new, warmer look still in his eyes. “But I ken fine that you’d liefer be alone with him this first time. Moreover, you do need to rest.” He glanced at Flory. “Did it occur to any of you to seek a wet nurse for this babe?”

  Flory hesitated, glancing at Fiona, before she said, “Jane’s sister, Eliza, did say that she has plenty o’ milk for her wee bairn and this one, too, m’lord, so—”

  “He is my son, sir,” Fiona interjected, giving him a look that dared him to cavil. “As I told Old Jardine before he died, my child needs no one but me. So, if anyone is to seek a wet nurse, I will. Meantime, I will nurse him myself.”

  “You will need to keep to your bed for a time though, to recover your strength,” he said. “Surely, it would be better to let someone else—”

  “I will be up and about tomorrow or the next day,” she said. “I know many women who give birth and take no time afterward for themselves.”

  Mother Beaton said, “They be but common folk, my lady. Noblewomen do seem to need more rest, not being as accustomed as them others be to—”

  “Just how long do you think I should stay abed?” Fiona asked her, striving to keep her voice level but feeling as if everyone in the room had allied against her.

  Phaeline said hastily, “There is naught amiss in getting all the rest you need, my dearling. Giving birth, as you have just learned, is a painful and exhausting business. Why, I stayed in bed nigh onto a month after you were born.”

  “Well, I have no intention of doing anything so daft,” Fiona said. “A month! Why, I should be bored to lunacy. Moreover, just who do you think will look after this household if I stay in bed? Do you mean to remain at Spedlins to do so?”

  “I will look after everything,” Kirkhill said, “whether you stay in bed or not.”

  “Will you, sir?” she said. “Have you ever run a household before?”

  “No, but I need only tell the housekeeper to act as she is accustomed to act when you are up and about.”

  “Aye, perhaps that would suffice if there were a housekeeper. However, as my husband and good-father decided that I should serve in the place of one, we have none. I have run this household myself these two years past, so I would suggest that you let me continue lest you find that you are not up to the task.”

  “Oh, I rather think that I—”

  “Moreover,” she went on, ignoring his interruption, “I think you will find that looking after the estates is enough to do without troubling yourself over what goes on in the kitchen and bake-house or how often the floors need scrubbing.”

  “Then you may tell me what orders to relay to your people, and I will see them carried out,” he said, apparently undaunted. “But you will remain in bed until Mother Beaton says that you are fit enough to get up.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him what she thought of his giving her orders as if she were just another servant in the house, but Phaeline said hastily, “You must think only of feeding your babe now, my dearling. I am sure that Kirkhill must be longing for his bed, just as I am. I do hope they have arranged to accommodate us, my lord. Mayhap you would be kind enough…” Pausing pointedly, she smiled.

  “Aye, sure, my lady,” he said. “I’ll find out where they have put you. I warrant you’ll want to stay until the lady Fiona is her usual self again.”

  Phaeline’s expression suggested that she was not as sure about that as he seemed to be. But Fiona meant to get up as soon as she could manage it in any event, Mother Beaton or no Mother Beaton, and without any advice from a man who so mistakenly thought he could order her behavior as he chose.

  Kirkhill had seen the same mutinous look on his sister’s face far too often to misread it now on Fiona’s, but he knew better than to comment.

  He had meant to ask her about the key that he’d found on the inner chamber table, but instinct warned him not to do so just then with others in the room. Having declared herself mistress of the household, Fiona would want to keep it, and he rather thought that he ought to keep it himself.

  So, instead, he bade her goodnight, thanked Mother Beaton for her ongoing services, and promised to make sure beds were available for her and for the lady Phaeline. Then, lighting a taper from a nearby candle, he left the room.

  As the hour was well past midnight, few candles were still alight outside her ladyship’s bedchamber, but his emitted a sufficient glow to light his way down the stairs. Or so he believed until he nearly stumbled over a small figure sitting, arms around knees, in a deep shadow on the next landing.

  The figure gave a grunt of surprise, and as it scrambled to its feet, Kirkhill recognized the lad who had told him of the baby’s birth. He was also the lad who had stared so intently at him the day that he had interrupted the lady Fiona’s storytelling.

  “What the devil are you doing there so late?” Kirkhill demanded.

  “I thought ye might need summat for her ladyship or the wee bairn,” the boy said warily. “I didna mean nae harm by it, sir. Also, me mam—”

  “You’re Jane’s Davy, are you not?”

  “I be Jeb’s Davy. Jeb’s Jane be me mam, though.”

  “Which of the men is Jeb, then?”

  “Me da’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Has he been dead long?”

  The candle’s glow revealed a glint of sudden tears in the boy’s eyes. “Nay, none so long,” he muttered.

  “When?” Kirkhill asked quietly.

  “Nobbut a short while afore ye came here that first time.”

  “I see. I lost my father just a year and a half ago,” Kirkhill said. “I warrant you must miss yours as much as I miss mine.”

  “D’ye still miss him then, even after so long a while?”

  Gently touching the boy’s shoulder, he said, “Lad, I’m told that one never stops missing the people one loves when they are gone. But I’ll tell you something I’ve learned for myself about my father, if you like.”

  “What, then?”

  “Sithee, when I wish that I could ask him a question or just hear his voice, I nearly always have a memory that serves almost as well. It makes him seem closer to think that way—for me. I don’t know if it works as well for others, but you might give it a try.” Then, matter-of-factly, he said, “Meantime, I hope your mam has not gone to bed yet. I do not know where the lady Phaeline and Mother Beaton are to sleep, or where I should, come to that.”

  “Och, I near forgot,” Davy said. “Hod did say he’s had the old master’s room swept out and the shutters open to let in the wind these hours since he saw ye, and he built a roaring fire, too, so it smells gey fine, he said, if ye’d be wanting to sleep there. He ha’ cleared out his own room for your man, too. And me mam said the lady Phaeline should sleep in the room over Lady Fiona’s. She’s made up the bed there, she said, and if the lady needs help, she can send me to fetch Mam.”

  “Then, I think you should fetch your mam now and tell her that the lady Phaeline will welcome her help,” Kirkhill said. “Also, prithee ask your mam to render what aid she can to Mother Beaton as well.”

  Davy nodded and hurried off ahead of him down the stairs.

  Reaching the hall, Kirkhill wended his way among the men sleeping there, crossed the dais, and opened the door to the inner chamber.

  Joshua, kneeling by the hearth and encouraging the small fire there with a poker, looked over his shoulder. Then, taking a last look at the now leaping flames, he stood and leaned the poker against the wall nearby.

  “So, you’ve decided that this is where I am to sleep, have you?” Kirkhill said. “What have you done with Hod?”

  “’Twas Hod came to fetch me, sir,” Joshua said with
a wry smile. “Said he thought this room would do for ye now and that I should take the small one that shares the service stair landing for myself, if that would suit ye.”

  “If that room is also well aired, it will.”

  “Aye, it is. Hod said he even had all these curtains down and aired outside, and the feather bed as well. Them’s all fresh bedclothes, too, he said.”

  The change was startling, because Joshua or perhaps Hod himself had lit every candle in the chamber, so that the place looked almost welcoming. The room was spacious and seemed more so now that it was tidy and smelled pine-fresh. With Joshua to look after it, it would be a pleasant place, Kirkhill decided.

  “I should be comfortable enough here,” he said. “But what of Hod? Did he say aught about leaving—or about staying, come to that?”

  “Nary a word,” Joshua said. “He did seem a mite more hospitable than before. I dinna ken whether that means summat or nowt, though.”

  “I’d like him to stay if only because he knew Old Jardine well, and likely knew Will just as well. We’ve a mystery on our hands here, Joshua, and I want to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Ye’ll be wanting to do that as soon as ye can, I’m thinking,” Joshua said.

  “Why is that?”

  “’Cause them rumors be growing louder hereabouts, they say. Many folks here seem to think her ladyship—aye, or ye yourself—must ha’ put an end to young Will Jardine. Nae one else would ha’ cause, they say. It be clear, too, that others here think her ladyship had good cause to be rid o’ the man.”

  “I doubt he was a good husband to her. Sakes, I ken fine he was not. The man chased every skirt that flitted past him. But why do the local folk talk so about her? The women here seem to like her—those I’ve met, at all events.”

  “Aye, they do like her, but that doesna stop their wee tongues from clacking. Since folks think she had reason, many also think she most likely did the man in.”

  Kirkhill said, “That’s plain daft. The lass was big with child and half Will’s size. She could not have done it.”

  “Mayhap not alone,” Joshua said. “But with help, she could.”

  Kirkhill felt a chill and wondered why he had not drawn that conclusion for himself. For all he knew of her or Will, someone else could have helped her. The lass was a beauty, pregnant or not. She also had a mind of her own—and a temper.

  What if she had decided she’d had enough of her wayward husband and had persuaded some doltish but besotted male, servant or otherwise, to kill him for her?

  Chapter 7

  Fiona did not sleep well, because the baby cried twice during what little remained of the night and required nursing. He also required frequent nursing all day Monday and through Monday night as well. And he cried whenever he awoke, so that she began to think that she would never sleep soundly again.

  Mother Beaton, having requested a cot for herself in Fiona’s room Monday afternoon, had sent Flory to her own small room across the service-stair landing to sleep and had looked after Fiona and the baby herself in her quiet, competent way.

  The sun was just beginning to shine through the east-facing windows Tuesday morning when the midwife took the baby after his latest feeding, changed him, and laid him in his cradle near Fiona’s bed.

  “Be ye hungry, me lady?” Mother Beaton asked as she rocked the cradle with a foot. “Ye’ve had two gey busy nights, and ye scarce ate a morsel yesterday. I’m thinking some creamy porridge or the like might suit ye well.”

  “Not porridge,” Fiona said. But she was hungry. “Flory kens fine what I like, and she should be along soon.” She felt sleepy and fretful, so she was grateful when the midwife merely nodded and fixed her attention on the gently rocking baby.

  He was sleepy, too, his eyes already closing.

  Fiona could hear her son softly breathing and muttering baby noises, making her wonder if he was uncomfortable in his cradle.

  “I’m awake now, Mother Beaton,” she said quietly. “Surely, you must be tired and wanting to sleep or to eat breakfast, yourself.”

  “I’d no mind a few minutes to rest me eyes in that wee solar downstairs, where your Jane did put another cot for me,” the woman said. “But I’d best no leave ye till your Flory comes in.”

  “Nay, then, for you must be nigh to sleeping where you stand. Prithee, do go. He’ll sleep now for at least an hour or two, will he not?”

  “Aye, sure,” the midwife said. “But—”

  “Not another word,” Fiona said. “You won’t be of much use to anyone if you drop from exhaustion. Flory always comes just after sunrise, so I’ll wager she is dressing now. I thank you most kindly for all your help, but do go now and sleep.”

  “I’ll go along then,” Mother Beaton said with a warm smile. “Ye’ll make a good mother, me lady.”

  “I hope so,” Fiona said, wishing the woman would just go.

  First, she smoothed the blanket in the cradle and made sure the washstand ewer and the jug on the table by Fiona’s bed had water, but at last she did go.

  Immediately on hearing the latch click into place, Fiona slid out of bed. To be sure, she was tired and still plagued with some of the aftereffects of giving birth, but she was glad to be alone and hoped that Flory would not come too quickly.

  Aside from aching breasts, some slight bleeding, and lingering pain, she felt normal. Putting a hand to her belly, she marveled at how flat it was after months of growing larger by the day. It was softer than before, but she had a waist again! She could hardly wait to try on clothes that, for months, she had been unable to wear.

  She would start with her favorite silk robe, which was one of the few things she had brought with her when she’d eloped with Will. But it had stopped going all the way around her nearly three months before.

  Taking it from the kist where it lived, and finding a fresh shift there as well, she made use of the chilly water in the washstand ewer for her ablutions, and then slipped the shift over her head.

  “Mistress, what be ye a-doing up so soon?”

  Fiona started so violently that she tangled herself in the shift, emerging from it at last to find Flory a few steps away with a fierce frown on her face.

  “Mercy, you startled me nearly out of my skin!” Fiona exclaimed.

  “And so I should think,” Flory hissed, clearly aware of the sleeping baby even as she put fisted hands on her hips. “I came in here as quiet as a mouse so as no to wake ye or the bairn, and here ye be wi’ your shift over your head.” She glanced again at the cradle. “Aye, he is a precious wee thing, though.”

  Fiona smiled. “He is, isn’t he?”

  “What d’ye mean to call him?”

  “Faith, I don’t know. I might have called him Thomas after my father had Mairi not already given that name to her son. And, in troth, I ken fine that Father would not thank me for giving his name to a Jardine. His father’s name was Robert, but so is Mairi’s husband’s, and the King of Scots and one of his dreadful sons.”

  “I dinna expect ye’ll be calling him after his own da, any road,” Flory said.

  “I will not. Nor will I call him after his horrid grandsire, even if I knew what Old Jardine’s name was.”

  “I think someone once told me it were John, or mayhap they said Gilbert,” Flory said with a shrug.

  “I wish you knew which one,” Fiona said. “I rather like Gilbert.”

  “Aye, but everyone would call him Gil, would they no? Gil Jardine.”

  “God-a-mercy, you’re right! I don’t want him to have any name that even sounds like Will Jardine. What about Archie, after the Lord of Galloway?”

  “His name be Archibald,” Flory said. “Makes me think of a bald man.”

  “I’ll have to think,” Fiona said, wondering if Kirkhill thought he would be deciding her baby’s name. She almost hoped he would so that she could set him straight. He might be her baby’s guardian, but the baby was her son, not his.

  “Ye’ll be getting back into bed now, m’la
dy,” Flory said.

  “Will I?” Fiona said, giving her a challenging look.

  “Ye should, aye,” Flory said less forcefully. “I only just crept in to see if ye’d be awake yet, but I ken fine that the lady Phaeline has gone down to break her fast, and if I should tell her—”

  “You’ll tell her naught if you do not want to vex me sorely. I want beef, bread, and ale, as usual, but I’d liefer my mother not visit me yet a while. I sent Mother Beaton to rest, and I shall rest myself after I break my fast, for I’ve had no sleep these two nights past. But then, I will get up. I’m not sick. I just had a baby.”

  Flory gave her a speculative look, as if she might say more. Then, evidently judging it wiser to keep silent, she nodded and left the room.

  Fiona knelt beside the cradle then, and sat back on her heels.

  “Good morning, my wee laddie,” she murmured to the sleeping baby. “’Tis your second dawning, and we’re alone at last. I wonder what you’ll think of me.”

  He was so tiny. And what did she know about being a mother? It was not as if she had her own mother to emulate. Phaeline had spent more time being pregnant and yearning to present a son to her husband than she had spent mothering her daughters.

  Fiona was determined to raise her son, if only to protect him from growing to be like his father and grandfather, or worse, but she knew that servants and wet nurses customarily did more to raise noble children than their parents did. Phaeline’s notion of mothering had fixed solely on her duty to bear her husband a son.

  Even now, other than expressing pleasure that her grandson looked more like a Dunwythie than a Jardine, Phaeline had shown only mild interest in him. She did not coo over him or beg to hold him, as others did.

  Fiona sighed, recalling her mother’s uncertain expression when Kirkhill had assumed she would want to stay at Spedlins until Fiona was herself again. Phaeline had often declared a preference for the comforts of Annan House over the more rustic amenities at Dunwythie Hall. Spedlins was more rustic than the Hall and smaller.