by Mary Wine
“First we shall move Jemma, but it must be done in secret and I must inspect the chamber before she is taken there.”
Justina stood up and wet one fingertip before reaching out to run it along the sheet that Jemma lay on. She tasted her finger gingerly.
“Ye think there is poison in the sheet?”
Justina licked another finger and ran it along the chemise his wife wore. “It would not be the first time, and do not doubt that assassins are very clever. I have seen gloves and saddles poisoned, food and fabric, too. There is no decency in these assassins; they will poison bedding and not care that a husband or wife dies along with their intended victim. Poison the wet nurse to get at the child she suckles.”
“I didna take ill and I slept in that bed.”
“Except that your staff most likely changed the sheet this morning before she was found, and if someone truly wishes her dead, they would be wise to use more than one dose.” Justina pressed her fingers against Jemma’s face, peering intently at her skin. “It looks like common toxins such as hemlock or toad stools.”
Curan gave a soft grunt. “You see why I brought her.”
“It is becoming clearer, if not more disturbing, to see such knowledge in one so delicate.”
Justina frowned, the harshest expression that had crossed her lips. “Delicate does not survive long at court. My husband died of poison.”
“My condolences.”
The lady lifted her fair face to stare straight at him. “My only regret is that it took him too gently to hell and that I was not the one who fed it to him. He was a very cruel man and killed too many innocents before his ways came back to haunt him.” The lady suddenly looked older than her years. “And my father knew it well when he wed me to him. That is court; nothing matters but ambition. Not even murder.”
Justina look into Jemma face. “But perhaps some good might come of it now.”
Lady Justina searched his towers. Gordon paced the floor in front of his wife’s bed while he waited. The lady had not enlightened him on the rest of her plan, saying only that she needed to keep the information from as many ears as possible.
“Gordon?”
He turned in a swirl of kilts to discover Jemma watching him.
“Good evening to ye, lass.”
Jemma tried to smile but her lips were dry and the skin cracked. Pain went through them, but it was mild compared to the burning that was in her belly. It was even more than her belly because the fire licked over her back and down into her legs.
But the sight of Gordon soothed her. He moved toward her, and the bed shifted when he sat on its edge. Just that small motion sent pain spiking through her. It must have been plain on her face for Gordon frowned.
“Do not.”
He picked up one of her hands and held it gently between his two hands. “Do nae what, lass?”
“Do not treat me so.” Two tears eased from the corners of her eyes, bringing relief from the dryness she hadn’t realized tormented her, but the salt stung. “You have never been anything but bold with me. I like that.”
“Well then, lass, ye’ll have to be getting well so that we can get back to that.”
He wanted her to, she could see the need shimmering in his eyes. The pain increased, burning hot now that she was fully awake. Poisons were horrible things; some of them took a long time to kill, eating away at their victims before finally snuffing out their lives. She had always known that she would die someday, but it had never been something that she feared. Living had been the challenge when her father died. Now she had a reason to want to cling to life. Her hands tightened around Gordon’s, and the feel of his warm flesh against her own was soothing.
“I love you.”
He flinched, a muscle twitching along the side of his jaw. He leaned closer, laying her hand on her stomach before stroking his fingertips along her cheeks.
“Do nae do that, lass.”
The hard edge to his voice drew a soft smile from her in spite of the pain it sent along her lips.
“But I do and—”
“And ye will nae say good-bye to me now, Jemma. Ye will survive this and ye will be my wife.”
If the force of his will could force fate to heed him, then Jemma would live. She stared at the determination in his eyes, trying to absorb some of it, but her body hurt too badly.
Gordon turned and lifted something off a table that had been placed beside the bed. It was a small pewter cup, such as a child might use.
“Some water will make ye feel better.” He lifted her head and supported her neck with a firm hand while sliding behind her to brace her with his body. “I may take to feeding ye, lass, because it gives me the chance to hold ye.”
“Hmmm . . . I find it strangely attractive myself, except for the part where I recall that I am helpless.”
“Drink, lass, and yer strength will return.”
“Do not drink that.”
Gordon jerked the water spilling onto the bed. With one fluid motion he pulled his sword from where it was leaning against the bedside. There was an answering slide of steel against steel as the knight trailing the boy unsheathed his sword. Jemma felt surprise flash through her, for the knight was Synclair and it seemed as if it had been a long time since she had seen him.
“You must not give her anything that has come through your kitchens.”
Gordon slid out from behind her and lowered her onto the pillow with one arm, but he kept his attention on the boy who was telling him what to do. Jemma stared at the youth, trying to decide what it was about him that she found odd.
“What ye must nae do is surprise me, Lady Justina, else there will be dire results. I am nae in the mood to ask too many questions.”
Gordon replaced his sword, but he kept an eye on Synclair until the man followed suit.
“Lady?” Jemma turned her head and recognized Lady Justina. Synclair nodded at her in response. Gordon turned to sweep her with a keen look, ensuring that she was settled well before turning back to look at Lady Justina.
“Why are you dressed like a boy, Justina?” It was a dangerous thing to do because the Church spoke against women dressing in men’s clothing. Punishment was harsh, but even worse were the superstitions that attached themselves to those females who donned britches.
They would be sterile or too small to take a man’s member or become diseased, and the list continued. There were even those who claimed witches were girls who had worn britches, and the clothing had turned them against the natural order of the world.
“Fine, nothing from the kitchens.” Gordon walked over to the window the water was drawn through. He pulled on the cable and turned over more than a dozen buckets before he filled the small cup with water and carried it back to the bed.
Justina walked to the open shutter and looked down. Synclair was right behind her, and he even reached out to pull on the rope and watch the buckets rise from the river below.
“That should keep them busy for a moment.” Gordon lifted the mug to her mouth, and Jemma sighed as the cool liquid soothed her dry lips.
“I have decided on which chamber she shall go to.”
Gordon released the back of her head and settled her against the pillows before turning to look at Justina.
“And how do ye plan to feed her if nothing may come from the kitchens?”
“My maidservant Claire will do all that is needed and use only those things that were brought from Amber Hill. I will reside here and sample what is sent up from the kitchens.”
Jemma didn’t think she might feel worse, but hearing Justina make her suggestion filled her with dread.
“Justina, no, you must not risk yourself.”
The lady moved across the floor with a smile on her lips. “Do not worry, Jemma, I will not eat much, only enough to catch the guilty one if they attempt to finish what they have begun. We must make them think you are here, so a woman must take your place. Believe me, I am glad of the chance to do something for your brother.”
That brought another feeling of discomfort to her for she hadn’t really thought of the woman her brother had at Amber Hill. Lady Justina had betrayed his trust by aiding his bride in escaping the castle. Curan wasn’t being vindictive in keeping the lady within his walls; someone powerful at court had sent her there to betray her brother’s trust. Curan was keeping Justina away from that man, but the fact remained that Justina had been living there, without a place, and that was something Jemma had tasted recently. It was bitter indeed.
“Synclair will show you the chamber I selected. There is only one window, and that will hopefully keep you from being seen. It is imperative that everyone down to the smallest kitchen girl believes you are still in this chamber and recovering well. If it is believed that you are regaining your health, another attempt might be made.”
“Justina—”
Justina looked at Gordon. “Take her now, she has not the strength for arguing against what is needed to end this threat for good. Rest is what she must have to recover. Do not be foolish enough to think because she is awake, all is well.”
“Gordon, don’t listen to her—”
“I have no better idea, lass, and keeping ye from harm is something I will do anything to achieve.”
Her husband scooped her up, and she couldn’t help but curl toward his heat. Her body was too cold, and the heat from his body helped soothe the ache that was threatening to send tears into her eyes. In truth, she felt her small amount of strength beginning to fail. She did feel those tears run down her cheeks because she was grateful to Justina for telling Gordon to take her away.
Her husband carried her through the hallways with Synclair walking ahead of them to make sure no one watched their journey. They left the tower that held the laird’s chamber and headed to the oldest one. This tower was round, and the stairs were steep and narrow. Gordon carried her up to the second floor and through a single door.
Her husband stopped and surveyed the room. It was humble but clean. The bed was made with fresh sheets, and thick pillows were piled up so that they would support her. He settled her on them and brushed a hand over the tears that had wet her cheeks.
“I didna mean to hurt ye, lass.”
“You didn’t. I detest being helpless, and I am too weak to not cry over such an unchangeable thing.”
He leaned toward her and kissed one cheek. It was a soft pressing of his lips, but she shivered with the contact. His hand was still cradling her nape, the fingers moving in soft, soothing motions.
“Yer tears wound me, lass. I swear I feel each one more deeply than any cut I have ever received.”
“Stay with me.”
She was weak and couldn’t hold back the words.
“I can nae and make the staff believe that ye are in our chamber, but I will come often, and be very sure that I will feel the separation keenly, lass.”
The door opened, and he jerked his head up.
“I am Claire.”
She had her arms full, and Gordon rose to help her. There were small bags and more sheets and towels; even a cooking pot was dangling from the woman’s arm. The room had a small fireplace set into the wall and a single window. The window did not have glass but wooden shutters that could be used to close it when the weather was too cold.
“You should go now. I will look after her needs.”
Claire was soft spoken, but there was no missing the sound of experience in her tone. It sent a shiver down Jemma’s spine, and it drew a cringe from her husband.
“Aye.”
He leaned down and kissed her once more. Jemma reached for him and had to force herself not to cling. She was afraid, but so was he. She caught a glimpse of it in his eyes, and her heart clutched that bit of knowledge close.
If he was frightened for her, he might learn to love her. It was an odd hope when she considered the fact that she should be more worried about opening her eyes again. Instead all she had swirling around in her mind was longing for affection from the man who had touched her heart. She took him into her dreams, and that brought her more comfort than any of the prayers that had been muttered at her bedside.
Time became indefinable. Jemma awoke at odd hours; sometimes the church bell woke her, other times it was the wind whistling in through the window. Claire always seemed to be awake when Jemma opened her eyes. The woman moved in a slow motion that was soothing to the eyes. She offered Jemma warm broth that didn’t tempt her. Her stomach cramped at the idea of any food, so she closed her eyes and escaped back into sleep.
“Ye need the nourishment, lass.”
Gordon’s voice drew her back to the harsh world with its discomforts. She opened her eyes to discover that the sunlight was gone and only moonlight shone through the open window.
Her husband lifted her up and placed another pillow behind her to keep her head more elevated.
“There’s my lass, open yer eyes and share a bit of supper with me.”
“The night feels further gone than supper.”
He offered her a smile and a nod. “Aye, it is. The sun will rise in another hour.” Claire brought him a small bowl that gently steamed. Jemma wrinkled her nose, the scent of food sickening her, but her husband offered her a spoonful in spite of her disgruntled expression.
“Ye can nae expect to recover without food, lass, and I’ve gone to quite a bit of trouble to share a bit of a meal with ye.”
She opened her mouth and swallowed the soup. A cramp seized her belly. It was so painful she gasped. Gordon set the bowl aside and placed a large hand on her stomach to gently massage the tension from her muscles. His fingers forced the knots to loosen, allowing her to draw breath. Sweat dotted her forehead, and she shook her head.
“No more. I cannot stomach it.”
Claire stood nearby, unrelenting in her quiet fashion. The companion took only a single step forward and waited until Gordon turned his attention to her.
“She must eat to cleanse the poison from her flesh, else it will fester.”
Gordon’s fingers tensed where they still worked the tight muscles of her belly, and his expression hardened. She’d only seen such determination in him when he faced down the English knights who had tried to kill her. Now it was aimed at her. He picked up the bowl and the spoon, but from the look in his eyes, it might as well have been sword and shield.
“Ye will eat, Jemma, because I know that ye are every bit as stubborn as I am and ye will nae allow this foul deed to take yer life away.”
The spoon was pressing against her lips, but it was his tone that made her open her mouth and take his offering.
“The sun is going to rise, and I want ye to see how beautiful the day is, lass.”
There was no relenting in him. One spoon after the other, he pressed the contents of the bowl into her. But her insides only gave a few more twinges before accepting the soup. It might even be called soothing except that there was dull pain still lingering everywhere within her. She heard the spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl and sighed with relief. Her eyelids closed in weary fatigue.
“Aye, lass, ’tis enough for the moment.” He set the bowl aside, sparing her the last bit. She blew out a sigh of relief while her belly balanced on the edge of nausea. She closed her eyes, trying to think of other things besides the discomfort attempting to make her reject the soup.
“I brought ye something, sweet wife. Open yer eyes and look at what ye reduce me to gathering for ye. Me men believe I’ve gone soft, and that is a fact.”
Jemma opened her eyes to see him lifting a small bundle of heather up off the table. This time he’d tied it with a ribbon.
“A bit of an enticement to make ye want to rise from this bed. The world is out there waiting on ye to fill it with mayhem once again. I believe even the laundresses miss ye.”
“They do not.” She reached for the heather, her eyes drinking in the sight of the tiny flowers so rich with color. Why had she never noticed the brilliant shade before? Each tiny petal was unique but blended t
ogether to form a magnificent display of beauty. It was breathtaking. “So kind of you . . .” Her words trailed off, and the hand she raised to reach for his gift never made it. Now that she was full, her strength seemed to be gone. Her eyelids fluttered shut, but she smiled because she took the vision of that bouquet with her and the feeling of tenderness for the man who had picked it for her.
He’d never been so frightened.
Gordon watched his sleeping wife and ground his teeth in frustration. His sword arm was no use here. The urge to have Anyon whipped until she confessed threatened to boil over, past his logical ability to reason. Although the girl was the likely culprit, they had no proof. He’d never been a laird to condemn without evidence. Barras Castle had never once held the reputation as being a place where mercy was absent. There was no rack in the dungeon or any other foul means of torture. At the moment he felt as if that fact was the only thing holding his hand back from ordering something he might regret.
He wanted to hang her.
Or himself for tumbling her. It had been the rash mistake that many a man made when they’d had one or two ales and the night was cool enough to make the idea of pressing up against something warm enticing.
Aye, a mistake, and one that may have risen up to cut far deeper than he believed he might survive. Jemma was too pale, and dark circles ringed her eyes. Lady Justina would not confirm to him that his wife would recover; instead, the lady offered him only the hope that their action ensured—that no further poison would make its way into her body. He reached out and stroked his hand along his wife’s face. Her skin felt more delicate than before, more fragile. But her breath teased his knuckle, giving him solid proof that she was still the wildcat he’d labeled her. There was fight in her yet.
But would it be enough?
That question tore at the very fabric of Gordon’s soul.
He stood up and left the chamber, moving toward the sanctuary of the church. There had never been a woman who drove him to his knees, but now he knelt willingly in the hope that God might hear him.