by Jessi Gage
He tried to speak, but she couldn’t make sense of his wheezing. It sounded like he was saying, “Roses” over and over again. It made no sense to her, but a stream of curses erupted from Aodhan, who sliced his dirk across Darcy’s ankle and squeezed out enough thin, bright red blood to fill a cup.
“It’s too late,” she murmured, half to herself. The venom was in him, and it was potent enough to be deadly within minutes. She was going to lose him.
No! Her soul rebelled at the thought. She couldn’t lose him. Her love wouldn’t permit it.
Janine’s frightened cries faded into the mental background, as did Aodhan’s urgent commands for Darcy to stay awake. The entirety of her concentration narrowed to a single memory. It was the morning after Darcy’s return from Inverness. He’d told her about the albino, Timothy, and the gypsy with the fake French accent, Gravois. Darcy had given her a small box wrapped in fabric and tied with twine and told her it was a gift from the gypsy.
When he’d relayed to her Gravois’s words, “He said it is only to be opened when the sheet hits the fan, whatever that nonsense might mean,” she’d stared at him, dumbfounded. “Do ye ken what he might have meant?” he’d asked, frowning at her expression.
Yes, she’d had an idea, but she had only shrugged noncommittally, granting Gravois the same kind of instant trust her husband had described having upon meeting the man. If her instinct was right, Gravois had used his accent to hide the meaning of his colorfully-worded and very modern message from Darcy. And if he’d taken the trouble to do that, she’d take the trouble to treat his gift with respect. And caution.
She’d initially tucked the box away in a drawer to keep it safe, but while packing for their return to Ackergill, she’d felt compelled to keep it on her person at all times. Her neck prickling with certainty, she pulled it from a pocket in the folds of her skirts.
“Aodhan, your dirk.” She held out her hand. He gave it to her without question, and she sliced through the twine.
“What are ye doing?” he asked in a tight voice.
“Saving his life. I hope.” If the “sheet” had ever hit the fan in her life, it was now. She hoped she was doing the right thing and that Gravois was worthy of the trust she was placing in him.
Inside the box was a pear-shaped vial of milky-white liquid. Without daring to think, she wrenched the cork out with her teeth and climbed over Darcy. “Open his mouth,” she commanded Aodhan. She refused to contemplate the fact that the red of Darcy’s face had given way to a grayish pallor, that his eyes were swollen closed and his chest was hardly moving.
Aodhan obeyed, and she dumped the contents of the vial into Darcy’s mouth. “Sit him up to help him swallow. Darcy, baby, you have to swallow this. Please. Oh, please,” she added in a whisper. Her composure hung by a thread.
He didn’t look conscious, but by some miracle his throat worked. When Aodhan laid him back down and she wiped the froth from his mouth, only the barest trickle of the milky liquid leaked out.
“What was that?” Aodhan asked.
Tears flowing, she said, “I don’t know, but I hope it was magical.” An unassuming box had brought her through time to find the man of her dreams. She hoped with every fiber of her being that a mysterious gift from a gypsy could cure a snake bite.
She met Aodhan’s eyes, searching for an ally in her hope. He only shook his head and averted his gaze to Janine, who had quieted and now held out her chubby arms to him. He picked her up and put her on his hip while Melanie sagged on the bench seat and cradled Darcy’s head on her lap. His damp hair clung to her fingers, face slick with cold sweat. His chest shuddered once, then froze in place, refusing to rise and fall with another labored breath.
“No.” Her blood turned to ice. The universe came to a screeching halt. Every moment of her life, past, present, and future blew away on a fickle wind, leaving her all alone in this one pinprick point in time. “Come on, Darcy. Breathe for me.” She bowed over him, squeezed her eyes shut, and prayed.
“He’s gone, lass.” Aodhan’s voice trembled with grief. His hand fell like a lead weight on her shoulder.
Fiery denial shot through her, but before it could sear her soul, Darcy’s chest stuttered under her hand. Though he looked no different, she could swear his sternum rose and fell ever so slightly.
“Aodhan, I think it’s working.”
“Lass,” he warned.
“No, look.” She stared at his chest and sure enough, his breathing, though labored, was even.
“Och, you’re right.” Their gazes locked. “Can ye drive the cart?”
She nodded and took up the reins, seeing on Aodhan’s face the same tenuous hope holding the pieces of her heart together.
“If this is magic, I dinna trust it on its own. Let’s get him to a physician back in Brora. I’ll carry your bairn.” He hopped down from the cart and, cooing to Janine, mounted his horse.
She agreed with his assessment. Darcy wasn’t improving nearly as quickly as he’d succumbed to the poison. He could breathe, and under her fingers, his wrist gave a thready pulse, but there was no guarantee he’d survive this. Whatever was in that vial might have only bought them a little time.
Aodhan wheeled his horse around, then grabbed the bridle of her cart horse and made him turn back the way they’d come.
She slapped the reins. As tears dried on her cheeks, they raced back to Brora.
* * * *
Anya wasn’t satisfied.
As she guided her nag over the rocky hills and away from Brora, she tried to find peace in the fact that her vengeance was at long last complete. But peace eluded her. She told herself ’twas because she hadn’t witnessed the results of her plot, that she didn’t even ken whether it had been Darcy or his accursed wife who had been bitten or if the snake had yet awoken and struck at all. But she couldn’t quite believe her satisfaction waited for confirmation of her success. Rather, she had an unwelcome feeling her conscience was to blame.
She had bent the truth to her advantage and used her beauty to manipulate men all her life, but she hadn’t ever done true harm to another. Until now. A corner of her innermost self trembled to ken she’d most likely caused someone’s death today. Mayhap ’twould be the death of the strangewoman, but mayhap ’twould be her clansman or even a wee ane whose only crime was being born to a witch.
She wished that doubting part of her had shown itself before she’d stepped into the road to pose as an auld villager selling fruit. Then she remembered all she had lost. Her home. Her chance at living up at the keep and being the object of Steafan’s desire, of bearing his children and having the honor of the entire clan. ’Twas only dishonor she had now, that and a pitiful income and the occasional pleasure of a talented lover at the bawdyhouse. And Seona, if she ever returned.
If she’d done wrong today, ’twas really her sister’s fault; Seona should have been there for her and helped her come up with a better plan. Aye. She was not to blame for aught ill that had occurred today.
Her conscience appeased, she squared her shoulders and focused all her attention on navigating the treacherous rocks. There was no trail here, nor any way to be followed since there was no soft ground to leave tracks upon. But one wrong step by her mount and they could both tumble into a ravine.
Glen was a hog’s fart for leaving her to find her way to the inner road by herself. But she’d kent better than to agree to marry him and then try to back out of it. Glen wasn’t one to let another deny him what was his, and if she’d agreed to be his, he’d hold her to it. ’Twas for the best she’d refused him. Even if she broke her bloody neck out here on the rocks. She’d rather be dead than chained to a conniving, controlling, bald-faced disgrace of a husband.
She urged her mount down a steep incline and the clumsy nag stumbled. Loose rocks clattered under hoof as the horse struggled to remain upright.
She clung to the saddle, but couldn’t hold on as the nag went down. Braced for the bite of the hard terrain, she put out her hands to protect her face. S
he hit with a mighty force and rolled downhill, arms around her head.
Then the ground went out from beneath her.
Time stood still as she threw out her arms to catch herself, but there was no stopping her sudden descent. Rocks like knives sliced her skin as she slid down, down, and down some more into a cleft of unforgiving limestone. Her fingers raked at the walls, nails tearing. When she hit the bottom, the crack of shattering bone filled her world with horror.
Pain scraped through her entire body. She screamed. And screamed. And screamed. She didn’t give up her screaming even when her throat felt like fire. Panic was a noose around her neck, tightening by the hour, suffocating her.
Night fell. Her screams had become coarse whispers.
Ten lifetimes as Glen’s wife would have been better than this agony. She’d been a fool to spurn his offer.
“I’m so sorry,” she found herself muttering like a prayer. “I’ve done wrong, I’ve done wrong. Help me. I’ll do anything.”
Deity must have taken pity on her, because a familiar voice cut through her pain.
“Will you really, Anya? Will ye do anything?”
“Aodhan! Help me!” His deep voice far above her soothed the worst of her fear. He’d cared for her once. He would help her.
“Anything?”
“Aye! Aye, anything. I’ll become your servant! I’ll face Steafan! Anything!” She contorted as much as her twisted body would allow, trying to glimpse his face, but she saw nothing but darkness.
“Here’s what I want,” he said calmly, as though he were placing an order with the butcher. “I want ye to confess to all ye’ve done.”
“Aodhan, I’m dying! I’ve broken my legs. Please! Get me up and I’ll confess to anything.”
“Now, Anya. I want to hear you confess. Then I shall decide whether or not ye are deserving of help.”
A sob ripped from her chest. She could barely think for the pain that had become her world. “I did it,” she uttered through clenched teeth. “I put the viper in the sack. I wanted to make that woman pay for ruining me.”
“What else do ye have to say?”
“Are ye a bloody vicar?” Rage mixed with agony to make her vision wash crimson. “Shall I confess all my sins? Get me up, you self-righteous fool!”
“Do ye even care what happened with the viper?” His voice went cold as ice.
That stopped her anger. “Of course,” she said after a pause. “What happened?”
“Darcy will live. But it was a near thing. And ’tis too soon to tell if he may keep his leg.”
Faint emotion pricked her heart. Mayhap ’twas relief, but it paled in comparison to her will to survive. Aodhan clearly expected her to be sorry. If that was what he wanted, that was what she’d give him. “I am glad he lives,” she said. “I regret what I’ve done. Please, help me. I’m begging you.”
He ignored her plea. “Did ye ken there was a bairn in that cart? Darcy’s a da, now.”
She scoffed. Aye, she’d kent he’d married a disgraced woman who’d let herself get with child out of wedlock. But even she had to admit, the child was the fairest bastard she’d ever glimpsed. Almost angelic enough with that crown of shining hair to have made her regret her plot. Almost.
“Why do ye tell me such things? Can ye no’ tell the state I’m in? Please! I’ll do anything ye ask. Anything!”
“Ah, but ye canna do what I lust so desperately for ye to do.” His voice dipped with sadness. “I wished only for ye to care for another above yourself. But ye truly are wicked.” He was quiet for so long, she thought he’d gone away.
“Aodhan! Dinna leave me! Please!”
“I’m here, lass. I’m here.” Though she couldn’t see him, she had the distinct impression he was shaking his head in disappointment.
“I do care! I didna wish harm to the child. I prayed the child would be spared,” she lied.
“Too late, my dear. Too late. I have seen to the depths of your selfish heart.” He sighed heavily, the sound slicing through the crevasse like a barren wind. When he spoke again, his voice was firm with decision. “I’ll be leaving ye, now. You’ll die a slow, painful death, but ’twill be better than if I bring ye back to Steafan. Consider it a mercy.” The last word rung with dreadful finality.
“No! No, ye canna leave me! Aodhan!” Rocks shifting under his shoes spoke more baldly than any words. He was leaving.
She screamed and cried and begged, praying he’d only gone off for a time to frighten her. When dawn came, and Aodhan never reappeared, she lost hope. She slumped against the wall of the crevasse, stared up at the sliver of mocking blue sky, and wished for death.
But it wasn’t death that came for her.
“Good morning, ma cherie. It seems you are in need of rescuing.”
She squinted at a dark figure haloed by sunlight.
“Bastien Gravois at your service.”
Chapter 25
“Put that down, you ornery old fool.” Melanie swatted at Darcy with a dishtowel, uncaring that her southern roots were showing.
“Och, I’m neither auld nor foolish, and I dinna ken what ornery means,” he answered with a grin as he danced away with the pie that had been cooling on the windowsill. Curse the man’s long reach!
“That’s a lie. If I’ve told you what ornery means once, I’ve told you a dozen times. The fact that you claim not to remember just proves how apt a description it is.” She reclaimed the pie, made with the cherries from Fraineach’s orchard, and ordered her husband back to bed.
Two months had passed since they’d returned to Ackergill after their two-week stay in Brora. Darcy was still recuperating from the snakebite. He’d been in a coma for five days–the worst five days of her life–and had awoken ill and with no appetite. In the weeks that followed, he’d lost about 30 pounds by her estimate–two stone by his–which he was just now starting to put back on. He’d also lost all the toenails on his right foot, which had turned more shades of purple than she had known existed, but had never darkened to the black that meant tissue death. He’d gotten his energy back just a few days ago, along with his appetite–for food and other things that she couldn’t afford to think about unless she wanted to be blushing when her guests arrived–and it had been impossible to get him to rest ever since.
“I’ve been in bed for weeks,” he argued. “Much as I love to do as ye ask where our bed is concerned, I willna go back to it while the sun is up unless ye come with me.” He waggled his brows.
She harrumphed Scottish-style, a habit she’d picked up from Darcy. “Well then, make yourself useful and go check on Janine.”
Babysitting duty would be easier on his mending body than working on the broken sail at the mill with Edmund, where she had no doubt he would go if she didn’t keep him distracted. She could have wrung her brother-in-law’s neck when he marched in first thing this morning and suggested Darcy help him with it. She’d only managed to keep her husband from the manual labor by improvising a strip-tease that led to another sort of strenuous activity, but at least one that didn’t have him dangling fifty feet off the ground while he was weak as a kitten…well, judging by his performance this morning he was much more like a tiger than a kitten. And now she was blushing despite her best efforts.
Just in time for the knock at the front door.
“That’ll be Fran, aye?” Darcy asked as he finger-walked Janine into the kitchen.
She turned to hide her blush, but not before catching his longing look at the freshly sliced pie on the butcher’s block. Honestly, he was more work at the moment than her almost-one-year old.
“Aye,” she said, “or Ginnie. Though it’s early yet.” It was her turn to host the Sunday afternoon tea the three of them had begun as soon as she’d arrived home. Ginneleah had hosted the first up at the keep, where Steafan had made an appearance and come as close to apologizing as he’d likely ever come. “Welcome home, lass,” he’d said. “’Tis fair sweet to have ye back.” He’d kissed her cheek and then
left the ladies to their tea.
She ran a loving hand over Janine’s soft hair, kissed Darcy on the check, and went to answer the door, calling sweetly over her shoulder, “If I come back and find one piece of that pie missing, there’ll be hell to pay, mister.”
Behind her, she heard him conspiring with their daughter. “One piece, your mama says. Then two must be okay.”
She grinned at his modern slang and the high-pitched giggle that meant he and Janine were availing themselves of her morning’s labor.
She opened the door not to an early Fran or Ginneleah, but to a broad-shouldered man with a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his face. When he looked up, she smiled with surprise. Blue-tinted glasses hid the true color of eyes she knew must be pink based on the egg-shell white skin stretched across the fresh cheeks and chiseled jaw of a young man around eighteen.
“Good afternoon. I am Timothy MacLeod, come from Inverness to call on Darcy Keith.”
* * * *
Darcy strode to the parlor, his spirits high despite the pain in his right foot. The muscles around the site of the snakebite still cramped with every step, but he never complained, so glad was he to still have a foot to pain him.
“Ye look like death warmed over,” the lad, or rather the young man, said. Timothy had added half a hand to his height and lost the roundness of youth from his face. “Is that blood, man?” He motioned toward his own mouth while gaping at Darcy.
“Cherry pie.” He tongued the tart filling from the corner of his mouth. “I’d offer ye a slice, but I’m worrit about the penance I’ll have to pay as it is.” He clasped Timothy’s forearm. “Good to see you. What brings ye to Ackergill?”
“Monsieur Gravois was worrit about ye,” Timothy said. “Somat about a fortune Madame Hilda read. By the looks of ye, I’d say he was right to fash. What happened?”
“Bit by a fair poisonous snake,” he said by way of justifying his pallor and thin frame, both of which would soon change now that he had the strength to return to work at his mill–though he didn’t relish telling his wife of his plans for the morrow. “What of you? I thought ye didna approve of the Rom, and now here ye are running errands for him.” He didn’t bother hiding his pleasure at the fact. He liked Gravois even more since Malina had told him of the man’s gift. There was no doubt in his mind that if he had never visited the gypsy camp, he would have died on the road near Brora. He also suspected Gravois could help Timothy and had hoped the lad might give the man the chance.