by Diana Cosby
Thank God. Desperate at Marie’s weakening condition, he’d already decided, willing or nae, the innkeeper would allow them to remain. Her cooperation made everything simpler. He laid the money in her palm.
Like a woman seasoned in dealing with less than savory characters, she quickly stowed the coins within the thick folds of her faded dress.
“Follow me.” After a quick glance at Marie, she headed toward a back chamber. At the entry, she opened a door.
The musty scent of an unaired room assaulted Colyne as he carried Marie inside. What he’d give to take her to a chamber befitting her station; a bed with the finest linens, a hearth ablaze with a roaring fire, and a fresh pot of her bed tea. At least the bed appeared clean.
More important, they were safe.
Now to address his next problem. “My wife needs a healer. Someone discreet,” he added with a knowing glance.
Worry flickered in her eyes as she studied Marie.
“I shall pay whatever fees are necessary.”
“I will fetch her.” Her dress rustled as she departed.
As the door closed, he dismissed the notion that woman might have recognized Marie. Her wariness came from dealing with unscrupulous patrons. On this side of town, nay doubt she dealt too often with a seedy lot. Colyne walked over to the bed and turned back the coverlet.
Marie moaned against his neck.
Worry rode him as he lay her upon the thinly covered straw mattress and pulled up the blanket. He pressed a kiss on her brow. “A healer is on the way.” As much as he wished to strip her of her clothes and add his body heat to hers, he couldna until after the healer left.
Marie coughed.
At her continued trembling, Colyne built a fire and then lay by her side and drew her against him. “Easy now, lass.” He combed away the wet hair clinging to her face. And with her every shiver, her every rough cough, his fear at her declining condition grew. Terrified, he closed his eyes.
And prayed.
The healer’s brow sagged into a haggard frown as she examined Marie. “How long has she been this weak?”
Colyne ignored the sharpness of her tone, thankful for her competence and the fact that she genuinely seemed to care. “Since this morning.”
He didna explain Marie’s bout with seasickness. Though he doubted the information would interest the healer, he wasna taking any chances of word reaching Renard’s knights of a man and a woman arriving by ship and staying at this inn.
As if able to read his mind, the healer’s eyes narrowed on him. “Has she been sick?”
Her cool stare fueled his unease. They were too far from the royal palace where someone would recognize the king’s bastard daughter. Their recent flight from the Kincaid prodded his suspicions.
“Her clothes are ill fitting,” the woman pressed at his silence.
“Aye, a few days past, but she had begun to recover. Then, this morning, while delivering goods to the docks, a fight broke out. My wife accidentally fell into the water.” A reasonable explanation for the smell of the sea on her garments, as well as their sodden state.
The healer grimaced. “See that she is kept warm and drinks plenty of water. I will leave herbs that should keep her from developing a fever and help her sleep.”
Marie appeared so fragile. “Will she live?” Colyne asked, unable to keep worry from trickling into his voice.
The woman studied him a long moment. “I am not sure.”
Fear balled in his chest, a keening so deep it tore through his heart. “I canna lose her. Please, if there is anything else you can do to help her . . .” He knew he sounded desperate, but he didna care.
“God and time will decide her fate.”
“Stay,” he all but demanded.
Tired lines marred the healer’s weathered brow. “I have done all I can and have others who need my attention.”
Colyne wanted to argue, order her to remain. In the end, he came to a compromise. “Can you return on the morrow?”
“I will. If a fever begins, I am to be sent for immediately. Ask the innkeeper; she will fetch me.” She eyed him with a shrewd look. “You will be staying with her?”
“Aye.”
“You are a Scot?” she asked with conversational ease as she reached over to the basket of herbs she’d brought and removed several pouches.
Wary, he hesitated. Within her gaze, he read bored interest. “We are here on business.”
“Your reasons are your own,” she said with a shrug. She measured a small amount of herbs and set them on a small platter. After loosening the pouch of another sack, she took a pinch of a white powder and sprinkled it atop the crushed leaves. With care, she mixed them. “Hold her head up while I give her these.”
He complied as she fed her patient the concoction, and then encouraged her to drink some water.
In her groggy state, Marie struggled to swallow, but finally, she finished the last of the herbs.
The healer stepped back. “Now she needs to rest.”
“She will.” He started to reach inside his clothing for coin to pay the healer.
She shook her head. “We will settle anything owed on my return. For now, take care of her. ’Tis what is important.” In silence she packed her supplies away with neat precision and then started out. At the door she turned, her wizened gaze leveled on him. “She is not to be moved.”
At her emphasis on the last, another shard of unease trickled up his neck. “Aye.”
After the healer departed, Colyne secured the door, his disquiet about the healer lingering. Why? Her aged eyes had scoured Marie with experience, she’d asked prudent questions, and she was knowledgeable in her craft, proven by how she had selected the necessary herbs without hesitation. In fact, during her brief visit the healer had acted more like a doting mother than a stranger.
He stilled.
Had she recognized Marie? Would she send word to King Philip? Shaken, he looked down.
Marie’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, her breaths even; she slept.
Colyne dismissed his worries. With fatigue weighing heavily on his mind, having eluded Renard’s men for days on end in addition to his fear for her life, he searched for deception at every turn. Now, when he found a woman who cared about those she tended, he branded her a threat. The tension in his body eased and the room wavered before him.
More than ready to catch a bit of rest, Colyne stripped off his wet clothes and crossed to the bed. He climbed in beside Marie, removed her sodden garb as well, and then drew her against him.
Her every shiver speared him like a lance. “I am here,” he whispered. The fire he’d started earlier heated the room with a meager efficiency, but it didna offer the warmth she needed.
He cursed the fact that circumstance had forced him to choose such a dismal hovel and he couldna trust anyone here to send word to King Philip of Marie’s safety. She needed the best care possible. Instead, she lay freezing beside him.
Nestled against his chest, she murmured incoherently and continued to shiver.
The hours passed, each one stoking his fear. Please, God, make her well. She meant everything to him.
And more.
Shaken by the depth of his feelings for her, Colyne stared at Marie as if seeing her for the first time. His heart trembled.
He wanted her.
Needed her.
Forever.
On a hard swallow, he awaited the surge of fear, the rush of panic at thoughts of permanence.
Instead, he found renewed strength and a need so deep any thought of walking away from Marie left him devastated. . . . He loved her!
An anguished moan fell from her lips.
“There, lass.” Colyne willed her to overcome the misery she suffered as he embraced his newfound feelings, overwhelmed, overjoyed, and anxious to share his realization. “I love you, Marie.”
At his soul-drenched whisper, she frowned.
As if in her state he’d expected her to reply? But he’d told her
, would continue to tell her how much he loved her until she could understand.
Memories rolled through him of when she’d admitted how she cared for him deeply. With the way she’d given of herself when they’d made love, how she’d touched him, caressed him with infinite care, he refused to believe she didna feel more.
She shivered in his arms.
“I love you, Marie.” He stroked his fingers through her hair. From the flames in the hearth illuminating the chamber, he noted a light sheen of sweat had begun to cover her forehead. He pressed his fingers against her brow. A sword’s wrath! She’d begun to run a fever.
He must send for the healer. And if she couldna be found, he’d find a horse and ride with Marie this night to her father. Bedamned the risk; he’d do whatever he must to ensure Marie lived.
Colyne gently slid a gown over her head and then tucked her beneath the covers. “I shall be but a trice.” He kissed her cheek. As he pulled on the last of his garb, a soft knock sounded on the door.
With a grimace, he unsheathed his sword and crept to the door. “Who is there?”
“The healer. I have returned to see your wife.”
Relief poured through him. Thank God. He secured his blade and started to open the door. “I was about to—”
The hewn wood was ripped from his grasp.
Swords raised, several armed guards bearing the king’s colors stormed inside. The nearest knight seized his wrist. Another caught his wounded shoulder. They slammed him against the wall.
Stars erupted in Colyne’s head.
“Lady Marie is over there,” the healer spat. “This Scot claimed to be her husband, but he is lying. She has helped me treat the sick for many years.”
The healer had worked with her? Colyne remembered Marie telling him that she lived near the coast and helped a healer who aided those who could nae afford proper care. With regret, he recalled how earlier he’d dismissed his unease at the woman’s mothering presence.
The elder glared at Colyne as if he were the devil’s spawn. “No doubt he is one of the rebels behind her abduction.”
“Wait,” Colyne gasped, “I can explain!”
“Explain what?” the man clenching his left shoulder growled. “How you kidnapped Lady Marie and are hiding her until your demands to King Philip are met, or how you have mistreated her until she is near death?”
A sword’s wrath, they had it all wrong! “I am Colyne MacKerran, Earl of Strathcliff, a messenger sent by Robert Bruce, Earl of Carrick, Guardian of the Realm of Scotland to deliver a writ to King Philip,” he explained, keeping his voice calm, refusing to give in to the fear clawing through him. “I found her in the Highlands and was escorting her home.”
The healer scowled. “Another lie.”
“Nay, I am telling the truth! She became seasick as we sailed to France. When we docked, she hadna fully recovered. By accident, she fell into the bay,” he explained, damning the fact that his voice trembled. “Terrified for her life, I carried her here and called for the healer.” Colyne scanned the guards’ faces. Each one glared at him as if they wished to slice open his gullet and feed him to the dogs. “The last thing that I, or my country, would wish is harm to befall her.”
With a curse, the guard he’d surmised as being in charge strode forward. “A well-crafted lie.” Cold satisfaction curved his mouth as he grabbed Colyne’s throat. “In the name of King Philip, you are under arrest for the abduction of Lady Marie.”
“Wait,” Colyne choked out as the room started to blur, “I have proof!”
The guard’s nostrils flared in disbelief.
Colyne struggled for his next breath. “’Ti—’tis hidden in my tunic.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Try to escape and I assure you ’twould give me the excuse to drive my blade into your heart.” He nodded to the men holding him. “Release him.”
The guards let go and stepped back.
Colyne gasped for air as he reached within the concealed pouch of his undershirt. He’d nae thought of the writ since they’d escaped from the ship. His fingers scraped across leather. Thank God ’twas still there!
His hand trembled as he removed the parchment from the sodden leather cover, displaying the unbroken seal. “As I have explained, I have nae abducted Lady Marie but am returning her to France. This document holds proof that the words I speak are true.”
The knights eyed him with disbelief.
Their leader raised a skeptical brow. “Open it.”
Colyne shook his head and lowered the rolled parchment. “ ’Tis for your king’s eyes alone.”
“Seize it,” the lead knight boomed.
Before Colyne could prevent them, two guards pinned his hands against the wall. He struggled to break free, but the lead knight stepped forward and snatched the writ from his hands.
“Now,” he drawled, his words like ice, “we shall see what truths you deliver.” He grunted, as he studied Robert Bruce’s seal. “’Tis fine craftsmanship”—his eyes flicked up—“whoever made it.”
A muscle worked in Colyne’s jaw. “I am telling the truth.”
The knight gave an indignant snort.
A movement from the bed caught Colyne’s attention. With soft words, the healer wiped Marie’s brow.
A sword’s wrath, she needed rest, nae to be subjected to angry words bantered about. “Open it,” Colyne charged. “But King Philip will call for your head when he learns of your deed.”
Without hesitation, the guard broke the seal. He unrolled the wet parchment and skimmed the writ. Face taut, the knight lifted his gaze, his eyes black as the gates of Hades. “Take him to the dungeon!”
“Wait!” Colyne struggled against the guards. “Did you nae read it?”
“Read what?” he hissed between clenched teeth, “smeared words as if written by a child?” Parchment crinkled as he shoved the writ before Colyne’s face.
Colyne’s knees almost gave way. The message penned by Robert Bruce nay longer graced the page. Instead, ugly black stains streaked the parchment, the words illegible. During the crossing of the swollen river, or when he and Marie had fallen into the bay, the writ had become soaked, the ink smeared.
“You will regret you ever dared abduct Lady Marie,” the lead knight growled.
Colyn’s heart slammed against his chest. “You are wrong. I need to speak with King Philip!”
“The only person you will be visiting is the king’s executioner.” With contempt, the knight cast the writ into the hearth. The flames greedily licked the sodden paper, blackening and then destroying the fragile parchment until it crumbled into the embers beneath it, the chips of wax bubbling within the fire like molten blood. “Take him away!”
The guards hauled him toward the door.
“You are mistaken!” Colyne shouted as he fought them, but they tightened their grip and continued. Frantic, he glanced at Marie.
Caught in the throes of a fever, she twisted on the bed.
He couldna leave her!
“Move.” One the guards behind him jammed his foot into Colyne’s back, shoved.
Panic tearing through him, Colyne stumbled into the hall. Due to their false charges, he’d never see her again, hold her, or see her eyes light up when he told her that he loved her.
And without the writ as proof of his innocence, upon learning his daughter’s abductor had been captured, King Philip would believe he was one of the Scottish rebels involved with her abduction and sever his support to Scotland.
Disgrace tainted his every breath, self-condemnation more so. He’d failed his country, failed Marie.
And with the damning facts in hand, the king would order what he believed a just sentence.
Colyne’s death.
Chapter 18
Marie opened her eyes, wincing against the pain. Dismal gray light embraced her. The soft tap of raindrops striking a windowpane echoed through her misery. She pushed back another wave of discomfort, frowned as she realized she lay beneath a coverlet. Wh
ere was she? And why did her body ache?
Frowning when no answers came, she scanned the room. A silk tapestry woven in reds, blues, and greens, creating an image of a distant castle, adorned the far wall. Within a stone hearth, framed on each side by intricate marble carvings of lions standing guard, a fire roared, offering warmth. Angled on a ledge sat a volume of tales of King Arthur, the leather binding worn from use. To her left, atop an aged wooden chest, sat a doll given to her when she was a child.
A smile curved her mouth. Her father’s home. This was the chamber she used whenever she visited him.
Marie inhaled the scent of fresh rushes entwined with the aroma of wood and rain cleansed air as peace wove through her. The feathered mattress against her skin cradled her as if in a dream.
“You are awake?” Relief filled a familiar deep voice.
Tenderness enveloped Marie as she faced the noble figure standing in the doorway of her room, his surcoat and vermeil mantle lined with ermine. “Father.”
King Philip strode over and brushed a kiss upon her cheek. “I have been worried about you.”
“Worried; why?” She fumbled for a reason. Vague images of a man with whisky-colored hair and deep blue eyes flickered to mind. Memories of being chased. Of hiding. As quickly, they faded.
Lines furrowed her father’s brow. “You do not remember?”
“I . . .” More fragments slid into place. The howling of wind. Pounding seas.
Her father watched her, expectant.
“There was a storm.”
“You were abducted by the Scots.” Anger lingered within his words.
“Abducted by Scots?” She grimaced, somehow finding his statement incorrect.
“The incident is not a topic for you to dwell upon. You are safe; that is what matters.
Mayhap, but she saw the exhaustion hidden in his eyes caused by worry. Touched and needing to offer reassurance, she lay her hand on her father’s arm. “I am well—”
“You are not. You have been ill since your arrival two days past. During the night your fever finally broke.” He covered her hand with his own. “You must continue to rest. In time your memory will return.”