The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5

by Catherine Coulter

  There was a half-moon overhead and the dark rain clouds of the past three days had disappeared, replaced by soft white ones that did little to obscure the moon or stars. He could see quite well enough.

  When he heard hoofbeats behind him, Philip thought his heart would burst through his chest. He quickly guided Bracken into the thick brush beside the road and clamped his fingers over the pony’s nostrils to keep him from whinnying.

  There were three men riding toward him. When they neared he heard them speaking clearly.

  “Aye, ’tis a wee-witted lassie she be, but I’ll hae her non’ the less.”

  “Nay, she be fer me, ye louthead, her father promised me an’ th’ laird is fer th’ banns.”

  A third man laughed aloud, a smug, triumphant laugh. He spat and said, “Well, yer both off the mark, ye are. Dinna ye ken, I already bedded wi’ her, she’s all mine. I’ll tell th’ laird, an’ ’tis done. I’ll tell ye something else, lads, her tits bain’t be wee.”

  There were howls and yells and curses, and the horses were whinnying and plowing into each other. Philip stayed still as a stone, waiting, praying that the strongest of the men would get the wee lassie and the other two would go to the devil.

  The fight lasted another ten minutes. Finally, Philip heard a loud curse and then the loud report of a gun. Oh God, he thought, swallowing so hard he nearly choked himself.

  There was a yell, followed by a profound silence.

  “Ye kilt Dingle, ye fool.”

  “Aye, he bedded wi’ her, he deserved t’ croak it.”

  The other man groaned, then shouted, “An’ wot if she’s got his seed ’n her belly? Yer a stupid sod, Alfie, MacPherson’ll have our guts fer his breakfast.”

  “We’ll nae say a word. ’Tis a bloody Kinross wot kilt him. Away, then! Away!”

  They left the third man there. Philip stood irresolute. Then he left Bracken tied to a yew bush and quietly made his way back to the road. The man was sprawled on his back, his arms and legs spread wide. There was a huge red stain covering his chest. His eyes were wide with surprise, his teeth still bared in a snarl. He was quite dead.

  Philip threw up. Then he ran back to Bracken and sent him back onto the road.

  He’d recognized the man. It was a bully whose name was Dingle, and he was one of the MacPhersons’ meanest fighters.

  His father had pointed him out once to Philip on a visit to Culross Palace, telling him that the fellow was a cretin and an excellent example of the caliber of MacPherson’s men.

  Philip rode until Bracken was winded and blowing hard. He fell asleep astride his mare. It was Bracken who nudged him awake. Philip, not knowing how much time had passed, panicked. But his pony couldn’t sustain a steady gallop and he was forced to slow. He saw more men and several peasant women. What they were doing up and about in the middle of the night would remain a mystery. He avoided them, though he heard one of the men shouting after him.

  He was on the ferry to Edinburgh at four o’clock in the morning, paying the ferryman every shilling he had taken from his father’s strongbox save one. He nestled down between two bags of grain for warmth. He reached his father’s house in Abbotsford Crescent just past six o’clock in the morning. It had taken him a good hour to find the house, and he’d nearly been in tears when, finally, he’d spotted it.

  Angus opened the door, yawning deeply as he did so, and stared down at the boy, mouth still agape.

  “Oh och, ’tis ye, th’ young master! By gawd, bain’t this be a treat fer th’ laird. Who be wi’ ye, laddie?”

  “Quickly, my father, Angus. I must see my father.” While Angus was gaping at him, trying to gather his wits together, Philip ducked around him and raced up the stairs. He didn’t stop running until he reached the laird’s bedchamber and flung open the doors, banging them loudly against the walls.

  Colin came awake in an instant and bolted upright in bed. “Good God, Philip! What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Papa, quickly, you must come home. It’s Sinjun; she’s very sick.”

  “Sinjun,” Colin said blankly.

  “Your wife, Papa, your wife. Quickly, come now.” Philip was pulling back the covers, so frightened and relieved that he’d found his father that he was shaking with it.

  “Joan is ill?”

  “Not Joan, Papa, Sinjun. Please hurry. Aunt Arleth will let her die, I know it.”

  “Blessed hell, I don’t believe this! Who came with you? What the devil happened?” But even as he spoke, Colin flung off the covers and jumped off the bed, naked and cold in the gray light of dawn.

  “Speak to me, Philip!”

  Philip watched his father pull on clothes, watched him splash water on his face, watched him wave Angus away when the old man appeared in the doorway.

  He told him about the Cowal Swamp and the rain on the ride back to the castle and how Sinjun had taken off her riding coat and made him wear it. He told him about the cold room and the open windows and the lies Aunt Arleth had told them. He stopped then, stared with frightened eyes at his father, and started to cry, low deep sobs that brought Colin to his son instantly. He enfolded him in his arms and hugged him close. “It will be all right, Philip, you’ll see. You’ve done very well indeed. We’ll be home soon and Joan will be all right.”

  “Her name is Sinjun.”

  Colin forced his exhausted son to eat some hastily prepared porridge. Within a half hour, they were on horseback and off. He’d suggested that his son remain here because he was so weary, but Philip wouldn’t hear of it. “I must see that she’s all right,” he said, and in that moment Colin saw the future man in the boy, and he was pleased.

  Sinjun felt strangely peaceful. She was also incredibly tired, so very weary that she just wanted to sleep and sleep, perhaps forever. There was no more pain, just this sweet desire to release her mind from herself, to give in to the gentle lassitude that tugged persistently at her. She moaned softly, the sound of her voice odd in her ears, far away really, as if that sound came from someone else. Tired, she was so very tired. How could she be so tired and not sleep? Then she heard a man’s voice, echoing in her head as if it came from a great distance, and wondered if it was her own voice she was hearing and if it was, why she was speaking. Surely there was no need to speak, not now, not forever. No, his voice was strong, deep, impatient, and commanding, surely a man’s voice, a man who wasn’t pleased about something. She’d heard that tone of voice enough times in her life from her brothers. But it wasn’t Douglas or Ryder. It couldn’t be. Now the man was speaking more closely to her, next to her ear, but she couldn’t understand his words. They weren’t important, surely not. She heard another man speaking as well, but his voice was old, softer, blurring at the edges of her mind, not intruding, bumping gently against her consciousness, then rolling away, harmless and indistinct.

  The hard man’s voice was retreating, at last. Soon she would be free of it. It was gone now and her head lolled to the side, her mind eased. She felt her breath slow and slow yet more.

  “Damn you, wake up! I won’t tell you again, Sinjun, wake up! You shan’t give up like this. Wake up, you damned twit!”

  The shouting brought her back with a lurch of pain. Douglas shouted like that but she knew it wasn’t Douglas. No, he was far away. She felt as if she were teetering on the edge of something that was very close to her but still unseen; she was drawn to it, yet still wary of it. It was strangely seductive.

  The man’s voice came again, a loud, horribly grating voice that made her brain pound. She hated it; she wanted to scream at him to be quiet. She stepped back from the edge, so angry at the interference that she even opened her eyes, wanting to protest, to yell at the man. She opened her mouth but didn’t make a sound. She was looking up at the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her life. Her mind absorbed his image, his black hair and incredible dark blue eyes, and that cleft in his chin, and she managed to say in a raw whisper, “You are so beautiful,” then she closed her eyes again,
for she knew he must be an angel and she was here in heaven, and she wasn’t alone, and for that she was grateful.

  “Damn you, open your eyes! I’m not beautiful, you little twit. Good God, I haven’t even shaved!”

  “An angel doesn’t curse,” she said clearly, and once again forced her eyes open.

  “I’m not an angel, I’m your bloody husband! Wake up, Sinjun, and do it now! I won’t have any more of your lazing about! No more dramatics, do you hear me? Wake up, damn your Sherbrooke eyes. Come back to me and do it now, else I’ll beat you.”

  “Bloody husband,” she repeated slowly. “No, you’re right, I must come back. I can’t let Colin die. I don’t want him to die, not ever. He has to be saved, and I’m the only one to do it. He’s too honorable to save himself. He isn’t ruthless and only I can save him.”

  “Then don’t leave me! You can’t save me if you die, you understand me?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I understand.”

  “Good. Now, I’m going to pick you up and I want you to drink. All right?”

  She managed a nod. She felt a strong arm beneath her back and felt the cold glass touch her lips. She drank and drank and the water was ambrosia. It ran down her chin, soaking into her nightgown, but she was so very thirsty nothing mattered but the sweet water trickling down her throat.

  “There, enough for now. Listen to me. I’m going to bathe you and get that fever down. Do you understand me? Your fever’s too high and I’ve got to get it down. But you won’t sleep again, do you understand me? Tell me you understand!”

  She did, but then it escaped her. Her brain tripped off in another direction when she heard a woman’s shrill voice say, “She worsened suddenly. I was just on the point of fetching that old fool Childress when you came, Colin. It isn’t my fault she got sicker. She was nearly well before.”

  Sinjun moaned because she was afraid. She tried to pull away from that woman, tried to curl up in a ball and hide from her. The beautiful man who wasn’t an angel said in a very calm voice, “Leave, Arleth. I don’t want you inside this room again. Go now.”

  “She’ll lie to you, the little bitch! I’ve known you all your life. You can’t take her side against me!”

  She heard his voice come again, but he was pulling away from her.

  Then there was blessed silence. She suddenly felt a cool wet cloth on her face and she tried to lean upward to bury her face in it, but there was his voice again, this time soothing and so gentle, telling her to lie still, that he would see to it that she felt better. “Trust me,” he said, “trust me.” And she did. He would keep the woman away from her.

  She heard the other man, the one with the old voice, the soft voice, saying, “Keep that up, my lord. Wipe her down until the fever lessens. Every several hours, make her drink as much as she’ll take.”

  She felt the cool air touch her skin. She vaguely realized that someone was taking off the sweaty nightgown, and she was thankful for it, for quite suddenly she felt the itchiness of her skin. She felt the wet cloth wipe over her breasts and ribs. But it didn’t go deep enough. She was still so very hot, deeper inside, and the wonderful cold of the cloth didn’t reach it. She tried to arch her back to bring the cloth closer.

  She felt a man’s hands on her arms, pushing her back down, and he was saying quietly now, that beautiful man, “Hush, I know it burns. I had a very bad fever once, as you well know, and I felt as if I were in flames on the inside, where nothing could reach, and I was burning from the inside out.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I’ll keep doing this until that burning is gone, I promise you.”

  “Colin,” she said, and she opened her eyes and smiled at him. “You’re not an angel. You’re my bloody husband. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Yes,” he said, and felt something powerful move inside him. “I won’t leave you again, no matter what.”

  It seemed then she must make him understand. She tried to lift her hand to touch his face, to gain his attention, and her voice was hurtling from her throat, the words raw and ugly. “You must leave, it’s safer for you. I didn’t want you to come back until I’d taken care of him. He’s a weasel and he would hurt you. I must protect you.”

  That made Colin frown. What the devil was she talking about? Who, for God’s sake? She closed her eyes again and he continued to wipe her down, from her face to her toes. When he turned her onto her stomach, she moaned softly, then sprawled boneless on the sheets.

  He continued rubbing her with the damp cloth until she was cool to the touch. He closed his eyes for a moment, praying for her and praying for himself, that God would find him ample enough in grace to listen to him. Finally the fever was down. “Please, God, please let her be all right,” he said aloud in the silent bedchamber, a litany now.

  He covered her when he heard the bedchamber door open.

  “My lord?”

  It was the physician. Colin turned, saying, “The fever is down.”

  “Excellent. It will rise again, doubtless, but you will handle it. Your son is sleeping on the floor outside the door. Your daughter is sitting beside him, sucking on her thumb and looking very worried.”

  “As soon as I’ve put my wife in a nightgown, I will see to my children. Thank you, Childress. Will you remain here at the castle?”

  “Yes, my lord. If she will survive, we’ll know by tomorrow.”

  “She will survive. She’s tough. You will see. Besides, she has a powerful incentive—she’s got to protect me.”

  And he laughed.

  Sinjun heard the woman’s voice and she knew deep sudden fear. She was afraid to move, afraid to open her eyes. The voice was vicious and mean.

  It was Aunt Arleth.

  “So you’re not dead yet, you little slut. Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we? No, no use you struggling, you’re weak as a gnat. Your precious husband, the young fool, left you. Aye, left you to my tender mercies, and you’ll get them, my girl, oh aye, you’ll get them.”

  “Aunt Arleth,” Sinjun said as she opened her eyes. “Why do you want me dead?”

  Aunt Arleth continued speaking, her voice softer now, running on and on, the words melting together. “I must move quickly, quickly. He’ll be back, doubt it not, the young fool. He doesn’t want you, how could he? You’re a Sassenach, not one of us. Aye, perhaps I must needs place this lovely soft pillow over your face. Yes, that will do it. That will send you away from here. No, you don’t belong here, you’re an outsider, a no-account. Yes, the pillow. No, that’s too obvious. I must be more cunning. But I must act, else you might live to spite me. Aye, you’d make my life even more a misery, wouldn’t you? I know your sort—vicious and mean and not to be trusted. Aye, and pushy, treating us all like worthless savages and taking over. I must do something or we’re all lost. Even now you’re planning to send me away.”

  “Aunt Arleth, why are you in here?”

  She whirled about to see Philip standing in the open doorway, his hands fisted on his hips. “Papa told you to stay away from here. Get away from her, Aunt.”

  “Ah, you wretched little giblet. You ruined everything. You’re a disgrace to me, Philip. I’m taking care of her. Why else would I be here? Go away, boy, just go away. You can go fetch your papa. Yes, go get the bloody laird.”

  “No, I will stay here. ’Tis you who will leave, Aunt. My papa isn’t a bloody laird, he’s the laird and he’s the very best.”

  “Ha! Little you know what he is! Little you know how his mother—aye, my own sister and your grandmother—played her husband false and fell in with a kelpie, aye, a kelpie she called up from the devil himself to dwell in Loch Leven. He became a man in the form of her husband, but he wasn’t her husband because it was me he loved, and he didn’t look at her anymore. No, the man she fornicated with wasn’t her husband, for the real laird was mine in all ways. Hers was this kelpie and he was one of Satan’s minions, a false image, evil through and through, and the son she bore this false h
usband was Colin and he is as evil and bone-deep blighted as was his kelpie father.”

  Philip didn’t begin to understand her. He prayed his father would come, and quickly, or Mrs. Seton or Crocker, anyone, anyone. Please God, bring someone. Aunt Arleth was agay wi’ her wits, as Old Alger the barrel maker was wont to say.

  Philip was afraid; he didn’t see any of his fervent prayers being answered. Aunt Arleth was moving toward Sinjun. He dashed forward, hurling himself up onto the bed next to his stepmother, covering her body with his, trying to shield her from Aunt Arleth.

  “Sinjun!” he shouted, grabbing her arms and shaking her. He shouted her name again, and this time she opened her eyes and stared up at him.

  “Philip? Is that you? Is she gone yet?”

  “No, she isn’t, Sinjun. You must stay awake now. You must.”

  “Get out of here, boy!”

  “Oh God,” Sinjun whispered.

  “And did you know, you silly boy, that her real husband—your grandfather—put a rowan cross over the door to keep her from entering? He knew she was fornicating with a kelpie. Ah, but Satan had sent a charm that protected her even from the rowan cross.”

  “Please go away, Aunt.”

  Aunt Arleth drew herself up and slowly stared from the boy to the woman who lay on the bed, those damned covers to her chin. Her eyes were open and filled with fear. It pleased Arleth to see that fear.

  “You fetched your pa. You filled his ears with lies, aye, you brought him back with lies, you made him feel guilt. He didn’t want to come back, you know. He wants her to leave. He has her money, so why bother with the likes of her?”

  “Please go away, Aunt.”

  “I heard you speaking of a rowan cross and kelpies. Hello, Aunt, Philip. How is Joan?”

  Philip jumped at the sound of Serena’s voice. She’d glided up silent as a ghost to stand beside him at the edge of the bed. “Her name is Sinjun. Take Aunt Arleth away from here, Serena.”