by Jessi Gage
She should be cheerful, darn it, but each stab of her trowel into the soil punctuated one of the many questions that had been sawing through her mind since yesterday morning. Had Darcy made it safely to Inverness? When would he be back? Was he thinking about her? Did he regret what they’d done the night before he left? How would she react if he returned claiming to know how to send her back to Charleston? Would she go so he could return to Ackergill, or would she expose her heart to him in the most irrevocable way and tell him she wanted to stay? He had told her he loved her, but what if he loved his home more?
“Honestly, dear. It’s like talking to a sheep.”
Constance’s voice brought her back from the brink of insanity at the same moment the tip of her trowel struck impacted earth. She’d dug far too deep for the young sprouts they were planting. She looked up to find her hostess’s gaze sympathetic, despite the annoyance in her tone.
She cocked her gloved hands on her hips and grumbled, “Did you hear a single thing I said about Agrimony?”
In the past two days, her hostess had tried everything to distract her from her sour mood. But no amount of being fitted for pretty dresses, going on scenic walks, gardening, or learning about the medicinal properties of various herbs, barks, and ointments could make her forget the raging pain of Darcy’s rejection.
Apparently, her heartache was having an adverse effect on her concentration. She chewed her lip and shook her head. “Is it the Scottish term for a terrible marriage?”
Constance chuckled. “No, but failing to use it for fresh breath might cause even the most devoted of spouses to run for the hills. It’s an astringent, dear, and can also be used in tea to help cure the common cold and diarrhea.” She frowned at the small grave Melanie had dug. “But if you plant it that deep, Skibo will suffer a plague of halitosis come winter.”
“Sorry.” She began filling in the hole, packing the cool loam tight with her trowel.
“It’s all right.” Constance patted her shoulder. “I know what it’s like to have your husband away. It never gets easier. But at least you know he hasn’t run off to a skirmish. He’s just gone thirty miles or so to Inverness to talk to a box maker.”
Melanie rocked back on her heels and used the back of her wrist to drag a lock of hair off her forehead. “But what if he runs into Steafan’s men on the way? What if he attracts the wrong kind of attention with his questions and winds up accused of witchcraft? What if he’s being burned at the stake as we speak and I never see him again?” Her chest tightened painfully at the thought.
“Yes, poor helpless Darcy,” Constance said. “Do you really think he’ll be unscrupulous with his words or that he can’t hold his own against Steafan’s men if it comes to that?”
“You’re right.” Her chest relaxed. Darcy was nothing if not scrupulous and capable. “I’m worrying about things that don’t even make sense.”
“It’s what we do,” her hostess said with a shrug. “We’re wives. But if we’re smart, we keep friends around us who don’t let us moon around when our hormones try to turn us into worthless, dithering lumps.” She winked, and Melanie realized with a rush of warm surprise that Constance was her friend.
She had a husband and a friend in sixteenth-century Scotland. And in just a few short months she’d have a baby, too. She hadn’t even been here a week yet and she was already starting to build a life. The idea of staying was growing less frightening by the hour.
“Speaking of hormones,” her new friend said. “Have you given any thought to whether you’ll plan your future pregnancies or just let things happen?”
Her heart swelled at the thought of carrying Darcy’s child. After a moment’s fantasy, she cocked an eyebrow at Constance. “Don’t women in this time just kind of let it happen? I mean, there’s no pill, and coitus-interruptus isn’t exactly reliable.”
“Well, Mother Nature is certainly a persistent bitch,” Constance said with a wry smile. “But there are a few things that can take her down a peg or two. Bradley was born when I was forty-five, but before him, I managed to use seeds of Queen Anne’s Lace and home-made suppositories as birth control for several years. Of course, they call it Wild Carrot since Queen Anne won’t sit the throne for nearly two hundred years. But it works just the same.”
She had met twelve-year-old Bradley and his seventeen-year-old brother, Marcus, at meal times. Constance and Wilhelm’s three oldest were married and lived in estates spread over Wilhelm’s territory, and the nineteen-year-old was at University in Edinburgh.
“I stopped bothering when I started ‘The Change.’” She dramatically deepened her voice. “But soon realized that just because you’re getting older and you miss two periods doesn’t mean your ovaries have given up the ghost.” She smiled wistfully as she stood and stretched her back. “Bradley’s was a hard delivery. An even harder recovery. But I don’t regret it. I don’t regret him. He’s wonderful. They’re all wonderful. But you do have to consider that there are no hospitals. No blood transfusions. No monitors to show when the baby is in distress. No perfectly-controlled little incubators for preemies.”
She sighed, and the sound was heavy with sadness. “I lost three over the years, two of them during delivery. One two weeks after. Two of them were girls, including the one that lived for those precious two weeks. Maryanne. She was a month early. Easiest delivery I’d ever had. Hardest loss.” Constance’s haunted eyes looked out over Skibo’s grounds.
“I’m so sorry,” she said inadequately.
Constance’s lips lifted in a small smile. “Still no regrets, though. If someone had given me the ability to go back and change my mind about staying, I wouldn’t have done it.
Come on.” She extended a hand to help Melanie up. “We’ll finish planting tomorrow. Let’s go to the storeroom. I’ll show you how to prepare seeds of Queen Anne’s Lace and make the suppositories so you can use them when you feel the need. You can also simply add quinine to scented oil. It works as a spermicide. But Wilhelm and I never liked using oils. Didn’t need them,” she added with a wink, and just like that, the mischievous joy of a sexually satisfied woman shoved away the shadows in her eyes.
Would thinking of Darcy bring her back from dark moods in thirty years? Yes. She was sure of it. And that certainty cemented her decision to stay.
She was his. He was hers. She wanted him for all time. If that meant he could never return to his home, then she’d make sure he felt at home wherever they went. Darcy was her home. She’d be his, too.
Regardless of what he would discover in Inverness, there was no way she’d let him send her back. Her decision was cast in the iron of her love. If only her stubborn Highlander were here so she could tell him.
* * * *
Darcy rocked in the saddle as he cantered Rand north toward Dornoch. He hadn’t found what he’d been looking for in Inverness, but then, it was a quarter century before the date on Malina’s box. He vaguely wondered whether a visit to Timothy at MacLeods in twenty-five years would find the lad matured not just in physical form but in his ability to control his bloodmagic as well. But in the next thought, he kent that even if Timothy could create the box in 1547, he’d sooner die than let her go after loving her for so long. He’d have to find another way. And soon.
Feeling like a failure for the time being, he considered taking the ten leagues between Inverness and Dornoch slower to put off disappointing his wife, but with Gil, Hamish and the others about looking for him, he thought it unwise to dally. Besides, Rand liked to run. If the gelding had his way, he’d be galloping full out, but Darcy didn’t want to spend him too soon. If he ran into Steafan’s men, he’d be needing Rand fresh.
Once they crossed onto Murray land, he thrilled at kenning Malina was so near. He forgot his hesitancy. Even if she was disappointed with him, ’twould still be heaven to hold and kiss her.
Sensing his master’s eagerness to reach Skibo, Rand pulled at the reins. They were close enough now, with only a league or two to go, that he
gave the gelding his head and let him run as fast as he lusted. With his ears pricked forward and his stride long and joyful, Rand raced through the forest skirting the southern border of Wilhelm’s land.
As they ran, horse and master cutting a defiant streak through the air, he thought about his last night with Malina and a grin settled on his face. Would she be too disappointed to grant him another such night? Was he a cad for wanting another? And then another after that and another yet again until he lost count?
She was his wife, after all. If ever it was acceptable for a man to act on his desires, ’twas with his wife. But it felt wrong when he kent he was nay meant to keep her.
One moment thoughts of losing Malina had his gut in knots. The next, he was flying through the air as Rand tumbled beneath him.
He sailed over Rand’s head to land hard in the road. Rocks bit his shoulders and knees as he rolled. The ear-splitting scream of a horse in pain had him springing to his feet the moment he came to a stop.
Rand was trying to get his feet under him, but somat was wrong. Darcy’s chest contracted with dread.
Ignoring his scrapes and bruises, he ran to his horse. Blood flowed from both the gelding’s front legs. The white of shattered bone glistened through the red.
“No. No!” He fell to his knees and clutched Rand’s thrashing head. The horse ceased struggling and collapsed on his side. His nostrils flared and his eyes flashed their whites. “Rand, lad, what happened?” Grief tightened his throat around the words.
Rand was as good as dead with two broken legs. He would have to use his sword on his faithful friend.
“What happened?” he repeated helplessly.
The road had been flat, a little rocky in places, but not enough to prove dangerous to a galloping horse. Tearing his eyes from Rand, he glanced back along the road, looking for what might have caused his horse to fall.
Nearly invisible, a rope was strung tight across the road, tied to trees on either side.
“Christ,” he breathed, his muscles tensing. “A trap.”
No sooner had the words left his lips than he heard the scuff of a boot in the dirt behind him. He lunged for his sword, still strapped to Rand’s saddle. He drew it and spun around in time to meet Hamish’s thrust. The bastard had been aiming for his throat.
“Dinna kill him, Hamish.” Gil’s voice.
Keeping an eye on Hamish, he found the red-haired man standing with his hand on his hilt at the side of the road where one end of the rope was tied. Though Gil made no move to attack, Darcy angled himself to keep both men in view.
“Why spare him?” Hamish sneered, setting himself up for another strike. “Steafan said to bring him back alive or nay. ’Tis only the witch he demands alive, and that only so he can watch her burn.”
When Hamish struck again, his arm shook with the block. ’Twas not Hamish’s strength, which was no match for his when it came to swordplay, but bitter betrayal that seized his muscles. Not only did it seem his uncle was intent on pursuing Malina for a witch’s spirit purging, but he’d given the order to treat him as the worst kind of traitor.
If any hope of returning to Ackergill had remained, Hamish’s words snuffed it out. A part of his heart sheared off like a cliff crumbling into the abyss.
Gil said to Hamish, “The laird gave that order in haste.” To Darcy, he said, “Dinna fight, lad. Come along with us, now. Steafan’s temper will have cooled by the time we get back.”
“Will his temper have cooled toward my wife, too?” He kent the answer already.
“Ye ken she must burn,” Gil said, and Darcy despised his calm. “’Tis the best thing for her everlastin’ soul.”
“Malina is no witch,” he said, refusing to give ground to Hamish, who tried to crowd him toward the edge of the road. “And I willna be returning to Ackergill.” He cut a sharp look at Gil. “Alive or nay. Ye leave me and my wife be and tell Steafan I have aligned myself with the Murray, or ye shall fall under my sword here on this road. The choice is yours.”
He prayed he didn’t have to make good on the threat, but he was no fool. Gil was capable of great cunning, and Hamish of great cruelty. And he saw no sign of the other three riders he’d glimpsed in that valley. The missing Keith might have been searching for Malina that very moment. His gut coiled with fear. He was assailed by an unbearable urge to lay his eyes on her and assure himself she was safe.
“No,” Hamish said. “The choice is yours. Come along with us or I shall make use of your wife while ye watch. I’ll show her what a man can do when he isna scairt of his cock. I’ll have the bitch praising me for sating her when her husband couldna as she goes to the fire.”
Fury tightened his movements. He blocked Hamish’s sword, then threw him back with a roar. “Ye willna touch my wife! Not ever!”
It took every honorable fiber in his body for him nay to thrust his sword through his clansmen, especially when he remembered the sound of his wife’s cries when Hamish had struck her in Steafan’s office.
“Then ye better come along, lad,” Gil said, quick as a rabbit. “Because we have her already. The others collected her from the Murray for a wee sum of silver. Dinna give Hamish cause to touch her. Lay down your sword.”
He stopped listening after Gil said the Keith had Malina. His mind snapped with rage. He imagined her wrestled onto the back of a horse, bound and gagged and on her way to Ackergill. What evil would Steafan’s guards do to her before he could find her? What evil would Steafan do to her if he failed to reach her in time?
He didn’t even have Rand to chase them down.
He roared with frustrated fury. He couldn’t afford to dally in the road any longer. Malina needed him.
Her bonny face fixed itself on his heart. He struck out with his sword and took Hamish with a ruthless jab to the belly. The man’s eyes flew wide with shock.
He spun around to find Gil gaping with equal surprise. But despite his shock, the man didn’t back down. He positioned himself for defense and Darcy didn’t disappoint him.
They battled. He took Gil’s blade to his shoulder and thigh, but his strength and size didn’t fail him, nor did the training he’d gotten from Aodhan, who was the only man he’d ever met whom he didn’t think he could best with a sword.
When Gil finally fell, blood gushing from his side, the tracker wheezed, “Ye would betray your clansmen for a witch? Ye’ll burn in hell for this.” He coughed and died.
Horror tried to pull him to his knees as he panted over the bodies of his clansmen, but he couldn’t let himself regret what he’d done. Not when Malina could be suffering.
But there was one task he must see to before rushing to her rescue.
Poor Rand lay in the road, broken and bloody, trembling with pain. He didn’t permit himself to hesitate. His dear friend had suffered too long already. He knelt as he drew his dirk and dragged the blade firm and true under Rand’s bridle.
“You’re a good lad,” he told the gelding, rubbing his ears as his life spilled onto his lap and the dusty road. “Ye are the best horse a man could boast. God grant ye endless pastures to roam in heaven.”
When Rand’s eyes stilled, he rose a harder man than he’d been a quarter hour before. Icy determination in his veins, he sliced the blasted rope across the road, threw himself on Gil’s dappled gelding, and raced for Dornoch.
Chapter 19
The rich scents of lavender, thyme, mint, and countless other plants and flowers bombarded Melanie as she followed Constance into the storeroom. It reminded her of stepping into the Yankee Candle shop in the Charleston mall. Oddly, the modern-day memory lacked the bite of fervent longing she’d braced herself for.
Following Constance’s example, she harvested seeds from a basketful of delicate, lacy, dried flowers. That done, she learned how to mix honey and the expensive but highly-effective spermicide, quinine, which Constance ordered from an apothecary in Edinburgh.
The thought of using these things to keep from getting pregnant seemed as strange as
making her own sausage and sewing clothes for her children, both things that Constance insisted she would teach her. A week ago those tasks would have seemed terrifying, maybe even impossible. But with her competent friend showing her the way, she believed she could not only survive in the sixteenth century, but thrive in it.
An unexpected fondness for Ackergill made her chest tight as she thought about thriving at Darcy’s side. Steafan was a paranoid bastard, and she’d just as soon see Hamish ride his black horse and his even blacker heart off a cliff, but she found herself missing Fran. Edmund, too, and their baby. And Fraineach. She’d spent no more than a few waking minutes in the manor home, but longed to see its sunny rooms again and to breathe deep of its crisp ocean-side scent. In fact, she missed Faineach more than her apartment back in Charleston.
In her dreams the night before, she’d seen herself rocking her baby in the dusty room that had become Darcy’s storage place for the things a single man had no need for. In her dream, the bassinette had been freshly painted and lined with fluffy blankets. The skeletal wire rack had had a dress on it that she would mend while her baby napped. The spinning wheel with a sheet over it would be oiled, and, thanks to Fran, she would know just what to do with it when the wool was ready to be made into skeins.
Fraineach wasn’t just Darcy’s home. It was hers.
“I wish there was some way to get Steafan to take us back,” she mused out loud as Constance tied a ribbon around the jar they’d just filled with the honey mixture.
“Here,” Constance said, handing her the jar. “It’ll keep forever, but you’ll need to stir it very well each time you use it. Just use what drips off the stick to coat the wool before inserting it. Consider it a welcome home to Ackergill gift.” At her dubious look, her hostess lifted her chin. “We are two intelligent, determined women, and the Keith laird is just one paranoid man, a man who’s reputed to be afraid to leave his keep at that. Surely we’ll think of some way to reinstate Darcy. He is the man’s heir, after all.”