by Anne Greene
****
Cailin’s feet flew down the long hallway. She took the stairs as quickly as she dared and sped in the direction of Avondale’s suite of rooms. Though scores of candles lighted the passage, it remained shadowed and dark. Halfway to the double doors, she stumbled but caught herself before she fell. “What—?”
A human form lay on the floor.
She knelt beside the figure and held her candle close to his face. “Rafe!”
Rafe’s body splayed full length on the hall floor, the back of his dark head dressed with a puddle of blood. He moaned.
He was alive.
The door to their suite stood open. What she could see of the small drawing room looked a mess. A chair was overturned. The heavy rug was bunched. A candelabra lay broken on the granite floor.
She rose, and then hesitated. She needed to summon one of the servants to tend Rafe, but first she must find Avondale. Goose bumps puckered her arms.
As she turned to go inside, she caught the hem of her skirt on Rafe’s limp foot, and then jerked it free. A hard knot circled her heart. She hurried on, knowing she wouldn’t find Avondale in his rooms, but she must make certain. Perhaps he, too, was hurt.
Did he truly not recall his actions while under the influence of his black spells?
He’d made a wreck of his strapping bodyguard and their rooms showed evidence of a massive struggle. What was Avondale up to?
Her heart fluttered crazily against her ribcage.
His spells were steadily growing worse. Would he harm her or their child? Hand on the doorknob, she hesitated. Perhaps her love was not strong enough. Perhaps she’d have to take other measures to keep her loved ones safe from her husband.
She opened the door. The bed chamber was empty.
A scream filtered through the heavy glass window. Someone outside. Fiona!
Cailin picked up her cumbersome skirts, rushed back to the hall, and passed Hennings leaning over Rafe.
“Oh, see to him, Hennings, while I find Avondale.” She didn’t wait to hear his reply. Clinging to the banister so she wouldn’t fall and harm her unborn child, she hurried down the stairs.
Thank you, God. The candles are lit so that I can see my way.
A wild pulse beat in her temple.
Just what was Avondale’s obsession with Fiona?
Her husband had so few lucid hours lately. Would she have to lock him away and remain a virtual widow the rest of her life? Her mouth went dry.
What had he done? She must pry the haunting out of him. Her stomach quaked anew. But she must now be strong and face the problem with her husband. If she could not, she must take measures to restrain him.
She tightened her lips. Or take more serious measures. She shook her head at the horrifying thought Rafe had proposed. No. No. No. She wouldn’t even think of something so drastic.
Despite his ever more frequent demented spells, she loved Avondale. How could she face locking him away? Or…the other?
Leaning against the ground-floor castle wall, she paused to catch her breath. This continuing suspense couldn’t be good for the baby. She followed the melee of sounds that replaced Fiona’s scream.
The clamor came from outside in the keep. Voices, screams, footsteps, and vibrating above it all, Avondale’s distinctive baritone, sounding wild and incoherent.
For the baby’s sake she must be careful. She must not put her baby in danger.
She neared the back kitchen and called through the open archway, “Help me, please. In the keep!”
Pots and pans thudded against the wooden dry sink, and then heavy footsteps lumbered after her. Good, at least two of the cooks were following.
She pulled open the exterior door, caught a whiff of fresh evening air mingled with the scent of burning torch, and sighted two shadows struggling near the outer door of the curtain wall.
Avondale gripped Fiona by both arms and was dragging her towards the stable.
Cailin motioned to the cooks. “Hurry, help me with His Grace.”
The two robust women nodded. “Ye take it easy, Milady. Ye take care of that wee one in yer womb. We’ll see to His Grace.”
So, all her efforts to keep Avondale’s malady strictly between Hennings, Rafe, and herself had been wasted. Apparently, even the cooks knew her husband suffered a severe mental problem. A small sense of relief washed through her.
“Thank you.” She turned back through the door, and scurried down the long hall in the direction of the servants’ quarters. She knocked on every closed door she passed.
Soon heads peeked out, candles held high, and a bevy of voices queried, “What do ye need, Milady?”
“Come, help me with His Grace. He’s having one of his spells.”
She didn’t wait to see who followed, but rushed back to the castle keep where she found the two cooks wrestling with Avondale.
Avondale swatted the two cooks with butting head and slashing elbows as he dragged Fiona towards the stable.
The twisting group maneuvered halfway through the curtain door.
“Hurry, please,” Cailin screamed over her shoulder to the massing servants, their feet pounding towards her. “Please don’t hurt His Grace.”
One of the servants, a short, brawny Scot, carried a club. “I’ll just give him a wee tap on the noggin, Milady,” he rushed past her. “Then we can carry him to his quarters.”
“Oh, do be gentle,” she urged.
In a few strides across the cobblestones, the man caught up with her husband.
The wee tap the brawny Scot administered didn’t appear so benign.
She groaned for her dear husband as his knees bent, and he crumpled to the cobblestones.
“Are you all right, Fiona?” The lass looked shaken and her gown was torn at one shoulder, but she nodded.
“Aye. He didna hurt naught save my arm.” She rubbed her skin, and tried to stretch the tatters of her sleeve over the scratched, reddened nakedness of her arm. “I think I’ll trudge upstairs to my room and enjoy a sip of tea.”
Cailin nodded. “And take a hot bath.”
Fiona walk slowly back towards the castle.
Cailin sighed, and her shoulders drooped. She felt as if even the babe within her womb carried the weight of the castle on his shoulders.
Avondale’s lay arms outstretched, his face against the cold cobblestones.
Then, as if the man she loved weighed not an ounce, the short, strapping Scot heaved Avondale, his head lolling, onto his own broad shoulders and carried her husband back into the castle.
She followed and touched Avondale’s limp hanging hand as they lumbered up the wide granite steps.
The Scot soon had Avondale ensconced in his own huge bed.
“Thank you. I would beg you to keep His Grace’s illness to yourselves.” Cailin waved a hand at the bevy of curious servants gathered outside Avondale’s bedchamber and filling his sitting room. “T’would be unseemly to spread gossip of his ill health throughout the countryside. I would hate to have to dismiss any one who repeats ill news to the neighborhood.”
“Oh, nay, Milady. We will keep this wee problem to ourselves.” The short Scot who had knocked her husband unconscious faced the other servants. His polite voice took on more than a hint of authority, “Will we nay?”
“Aye. Aye, that we will,” the other servants chorused.
“And I’ll see to Rafe as well, Milady,” the robust Scot promised. He walked back into the hallway where Hennings still knelt beside Rafe, holding a bloodied cloth to his head.
She must discover the Scot’s name and raise his station among the house servants. Whoever the man turned out to be, poor Rafe was injured, and she needed a new bodyguard. Judging by the sound of his heavy burr, the unknown Scot had to be a Highlander. Perhaps he was one of the fugitives who had been nursed inside the broch. If so, what was he doing in her servants’ quarters? Perhaps Brody had added more than one fugitive to her contingent of servants.
“Come, let’s nay tarry. �
�Tis nay a sideshow.” Again the Scot took command.
The remaining servants emptied Avondale’s drawing room and filed down the hall to the back stairs and their own rooms.
The two cooks left Avondale’s drawing room last. “We are that sorry, Milady, if we hurt His Grace. He fought us something fierce.”
“I see you have some scratches and bruises as well. Thank you for helping, ladies. I am certain you kept Mistress Fiona from harm. I’ll see you are rewarded for your loyalty. Do have someone to clean your scratches.”
“Thank ye, Milady.” The two hefty servants bowed awkwardly. “Aye, the head housekeeper will take care of us. Donna worry yer head for our sakes.” They backed out Avondale’s door.
Cailin shut the door, and then leaned against the heavy wood, as all her strength seeped from her legs.
A small tap sounded on the door.
Cailin opened the door a crack.
“Cailin, what is wrong with Lord Avondale?” Fiona’s pretty face looked pale, and her eyes were like huge, blue pools of clear water. She rubbed her wrists.
The fluttering in Cailin’s stomach came from her babe. “I wish I knew.” She pressed her hand over her heart hoping to slow its pace. She took another deep breath, and her customary composure settled over her.
The candelabra lit Avondale’s luxurious room with a serene glow that infused strength back into her legs.
“Thank God, Fiona you’re safe.” She moved to Avondale’s huge bed and bent to loosen his twisted cravat, which had somehow remained tied. “Stay with me while I bathe this blood from my husband’s head, and I will tell you what I know.”
Fiona’s dress rustled as she perched behind her on one of Avondale’s chairs.
Cailin dipped her cloth into the fresh pitcher of water Molly had brought, and then gently sponged her unconscious husband’s high forehead. He looked very white and his lashes lay long and thick on his high cheekbones. Had he lost weight? She caressed his lean cheek. Even now, a deep line between his handsome thick brows refused to smooth. Late night stubble pushed through the ruddy skin of his face, and his sculpted lips were slightly open. His big chest rose and fell as if he was sleeping. Even asleep, his great strength looked undiminished.
She glanced at Fiona.
“He could have snapped me in two. Yet, he didna. Though he was taking me against my will, he didna hurt me.” She touched his limp hand. “My scratches came from bushes. He took care not to bend my arms. Had I not fought him, I would still be intact.”
“But where was he taking you?”
Fiona shrugged. “I don’t know. Seems his black spells hurt him more than anyone else. What demon torments him?”
“This time no one was injured. But his…his times of lunacy are becoming more frequent. I’m beginning to live in fear of him.” She shook her head, dipped the cloth into the cool water, wrung it, and placed it on Avondale’s forehead. “Not fear for myself, but for you, for my baby, for bodyguards, or anyone who dares stand in his way.”
“Perhaps we can puzzle out his behavior together. Tell me what you know.” Fiona leaned forward in her chair.
Cailin sighed. “You were visiting the dressmaker the day the dowager duchess arrived. We sat down together and had a long chat. I discovered that Avondale’s mother attached herself to him during our wedding to keep him out of trouble. The royal mums didn’t trust his moods.” She turned a wry face to Fiona. “Rather that, than out of over-zealous affection for Avondale and snobbery for me, as I had mistakenly thought.”
Finding it easier not to face her sister-in-law, Cailin turned back to moistening her husband’s face. “The dowager knew of Avondale’s spells. She told me he’d been having them since about the age of nineteen.” Cailin sighed. “Prior to that time, Avondale had been a model son, a gentleman, and a highly sought suitor for high born English ladies.”
Fiona jumped up. “The old lady knew, and yet she allowed you to marry her son!”
Cailin had thought worse things when her mother-in-law explained Avondale’s situation. “I do feel betrayed. I’m afraid they both knew.”
Fiona sat tensely on the edge of her chair, her hands tightly clasped.
When Avondale showed no sign of stirring, Cailin hovered over him a few more seconds, and then pulled up her favorite chair and faced Fiona. “I had entirely the wrong impression of the royal mother. She’s not at all snobbish. Nor cold. Rather, she felt nervous and on edge, fearing Avondale would create a scene. She’s really quite nice.”
“Nice! To marry off her—”
“Don’t!” Cailin shrugged. “Please don’t call Avondale names.”
“To marry off her son when he was obviously so ill.”
Cailin laid her hand on Fiona’s clenched fist. “We both knew the duchess would lose her land and what little money she has left if Avondale failed to marry wealth. The dear lady wanted to give her grandbairns all the inheritance she could.”
Cailin caressed the small roundness of her stomach. “The duchess gave my baby an honorable title and extensive lands.”
“But not a husband any woman could love!”
Despite herself, Cailin heaved a sigh. “Oh Fiona, I do love him. How could I not? He is kind and loving when we are alone. He’s intelligent and even funny at times.” She nodded at Fiona’s disbelief. “He’s a perfect husband except for two major flaws. I still don’t know why he snubs me in public, though I think I may have figured out that answer. And he has these times when he’s no longer in control of himself. But I do love him.”
“But Cailin, you deserve a sane husband!” Fiona wagged a finger so close, her sister-in-law’s faint sweet scent overcame the slight smell of blood. “Avondale’s a dangerous man!”
“Calm yourself.” Cailin pulled in a deep breath.
Fiona plunked back into her chair.
“The royal mother swears this is the very worst she’s ever seen her son behave.” She frowned at Fiona’s unbelieving look. “Something ignites his severe reactions. If I can discover the source, perhaps I can help him.” Cailin gazed out the open window into a dark sky. “The duchess advised me to ask Avondale what bothers him.” She folded her hands over her stomach. “I shall, just as soon as he becomes…more balanced.”
Fiona fell to her knees in front of Cailin’s chair and engulfed her sister-in-law in a warm hug. “I’ll pray for you and Lord Avondale. Shall I stay here and help you with him?” Fiona whispered.
Warmth crept into Cailin’s chilled heart. She clasped the younger lass’s hand. “No, dear. I fear there is something about you in particular that stirs up my husband.” She turned to peer through tears that suddenly blurred her vision. “Avondale seems to have a particular problem with you.” She dabbed at her eyes with her lace handkerchief. “And I haven’t the faintest idea why.”
“Didn’t the dowager duchess have any suggestions?”
“Dear Fiona, always so quick to help. Yes, she did say Avondale started to act rather more strange just before the Culloden Battle last April.”
“Then the duchess doesn’t think your wedding set Lord Avondale off?”
“No. On the contrary. She said he seemed much better after the wedding. She said he enjoyed the best spirits she’d ever seen.”
Fiona’s pretty brow furrowed, then she put her finger to her cheek in that adorable way she had when deep in thought. “Really?”
“Actually, I think something about you causes him to fall into his spells. He first began showing stress after you arrived with Megan and Brody.”
Fiona opened her mouth and looked about to say something, and then snapped it closed. She leaned forward. Her warm, soft hands curled around Cailin’s cold ones.
“I’ve heard Lord Avondale mention Bloody Billy. Do you know to whom he’s referring?”
“Bloody Billy?” Fiona frowned and pursed her lips. “I have no idea.”
A moan floated from the bed. Cailin glanced at the athletic form of her husband stirring, his muscles rippling, his
fingers moving, and his feet twitching. “You best go.”
“I hate to leave you here alone with him. Aren’t you afraid?”
“Oh, no. Avondale’s never comes close to touching me in any but a gentle and loving way. He’s a very sweet man when we are alone. Do go. He’s waking.”
Cailin heard the rustle of skirts, and then the door closing softly. But she had eyes only for her husband. With the blood cleansed, a huge bump grew purple near his hairline. She perched on the side of his bed and touched his cheek.
Then she lowered her head. No matter how much she loved her husband, her duty now lay with their baby. She cradled her stomach. “I shall do whatever I must to keep you safe,” she whispered.
24
Avondale’s chocolate eyes slowly opened. “Cailin, what happened?” His words sounded slurred. “I had a bad dream.” He put a hand to his head. “Now I have a horrific headache.” He stirred and tried to sit.
“Darling, just lie back.” She laid her cheek next to his and gently brushed her face along the planes of his masculine one. “You’ll be fine. Just tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Mmmm. I love you, dearest.” His smooth baritone almost sounded normal. “You are so good for me. Something about you brings me a sense of peace. Your faith, perhaps?”
Careful not to touch the purple bruise near his scalp, she stroked his hair back from his forehead, luxuriating in the thick texture and the way the slight wave made each strand spring back with a life of its own. She rose from her chair, hitched her day gown slightly, and snuggled next to him on their huge bed. He crooked his muscular arm around her and caressed her shoulder with his long, slender fingers.
She unbuttoned his shirt and ran her fingers over the elegant pattern of hair that dusted his chest. “Who is Bloody Billy?”
He stiffened.
She stroked his chest like she would have a hurt bairn.
“Who told you of Bloody Billy?”
“You did. Won’t you enlighten me?”
He writhed on the bed. His free hand bunched the velvet cover until it became a mound between them, but his forehead furrowed as if he was trying to decide.