Never Kiss a Scot

by Lauren Smith

  If Brock did not feel anything, she reasoned, he wouldn’t be doing this. That was the hope she clung to as sleep crept in upon her. She would find a way to make him fall in love with her.

  She fell asleep to the sensation of him stroking her hair back from her face as moonlight and shadows rippled across the room. This was sweet married bliss.

  19

  It was still hours before dawn when something jolted Brock from his sleep. He struggled for a moment, the dream of riding through the forests with Joanna at his side still lingering in his mind, before a strangled panting sound caught his attention and drove him fully awake.

  Joanna!

  He turned toward his wife, and panic seized him. She was writhing in pain. Beads of sweat dewed on her forehead, and she clutched her stomach as she curled in around herself.

  “Lass, what’s wrong?” He pulled the bedclothes back, afraid he would see blood or some evidence that he had harmed her during their lovemaking, but he saw nothing save her legs, which were bent up in a state of agony. He tried to catch his breath as his heart beat a visible pulse under his skin as loud as thunder. She couldn’t be ill. No, she couldn’t be.

  “I…feel quite…wretched.” She leaned over the side of the bed and suddenly vomited. Brock held her, letting her heave as he pulled her hair back from her face and rubbed her back as his thoughts raced wildly. What was happening? Why?

  “Breathe, Joanna. You must calm your body or else you will never stop.”

  She sucked in a whimpering, anguished breath and started to cry.

  It shattered his heart and terrified him. He needed to send for the doctor, but he couldn’t leave Joanna until she calmed a little.

  It took nearly ten minutes before she stopped heaving and lay limp and exhausted on the bed, her head dangling off to the side a bit. He gingerly moved her back a little to try to make her more comfortable.

  “Will you be all right alone for a minute, lass? I need to wake Tate and send for the doctor.”

  “Yes. I don’t think…I have anything else left in me to…” She winced and placed a hand over her stomach. Brock stroked her hair, murmuring an apology before he threw his trousers and boots on and ran from the room. He headed to the east wing where the servants’ quarters were and pounded on Tate’s door.

  “Tate!” he bellowed and pounded again. “Tate, wake up! Joanna is ill.”

  A moment later, Tate opened his door and blinked owlishly up at him. “The lady is ill?”

  “Yes. It’s very bad. I need you to fetch Dr. McKenzie straightaway.”

  Tate grabbed his housecoat and pulled on his boots. Brock went to wake the cook, Mrs. Tate. She was not all amused to be dragged from her bed, and she grumbled about delicate English females as she headed to the kitchens to make some tea. Brock rushed back up to his room and found Joanna in the same position, lying on the edge of the bed.

  “Mr. Tate is off to fetch Dr. McKenzie, and Mrs. Tate is bringing you some tea. How is your stomach?”

  “I…I’m better, I think. My stomach is still cramping, but I don’t feel like I’m going to be sick anymore.” She tried to sit up but collapsed back down. Her face was ashen and her lips were pale, almost white. Fear dug into Brock’s chest as he carefully guided her back up to the head of the bed. He propped several pillows behind her.

  “Does that feel all right?” he asked, tucking her hair behind her ears.

  “Yes, thank you.” She reached for his hand, but her arm wavered and dropped. “Lord,” she whispered. “I feel as weak as a newborn kitten.”

  “Perhaps you caught an illness when we visited the tenants. I heard from my footman that the grippe has been going around.”

  Joanna whimpered a little, her body tensing as she almost heaved again. “Perhaps,” she finally whispered.

  “Stay and rest. Do you want to try some water? A bit of tea?” He fetched a cloth and wiped cleaned the floor beside the bed.

  “Perhaps some water,” Joanna finally said. Her voice was so weak, each word a struggle. He took a pitcher of water and poured it into a glass and brought it to Joanna. He held it up to her lips, and she swallowed down a few precious gulps, which filled him with relief. He set the glass down on the side table and joined her on the bed, holding her hand.

  “I’m so sorry, Brock,” she murmured, her eyes closing. His heart stopped as he frantically checked her pulse. She was still alive. His muscles relaxed but only just. She had fallen asleep. He hummed an old nameless tune as he waited, hoping she could hear it through her sleep and that it soothed her. It seemed to take hours for Tate to return, but the clock on the mantel of his fireplace said only an hour had passed. When Tate arrived, Dr. McKenzie on his heels, Brock could have hugged them both.

  “My lord,” Dr. McKenzie greeted solemnly. “I am told the new Countess of Kincade isn’t feeling well?”

  “Aye, she’s very unwell.” Brock waved him over to the bed, and the doctor, a man in his late forties, frowned as he placed his spectacles on. He lifted Joanna’s head and examined her face. The doctor took hold of her wrist and removed his pocket watch from his waistcoat. He remained silent, holding on to the watch and her wrist. Then he pursed his lips.

  “Her heartbeat is slow, far too slow for someone so young. Is she sickly by nature, my lord?”

  “No, she was a strong and healthy lass until we went to bed an hour ago.” What had changed? What had happened to her tonight to cause such an illness? Maybe she got the grippe from one of the tenants? But Annis, Dougal, and the children had looked healthy. So what had happened?

  “Ah…” Dr. McKenzie pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Has she changed any habits, done anything new?”

  Brock rubbed the back of his neck as his face flushed. “Well, we’re newly married, and…”

  “You’ve been seeing to your marital duties?” The doctor’s eyes twinkled a little.

  “Aye, exactly.”

  “Well, that sort of activity wouldn’t cause this, unless…you haven’t been seeing to your duties for a few months? She could be with child. In some cases, a woman can grow faint in the early months.”

  “No, she was a virgin until a few days ago.”

  “Well, we’ll rule out a child then. Has she changed her diet drastically or eaten anything unusual?”

  “No, not that I can think of. She ate the same dinner as I did.”

  The footman, Duncan, who had been lingering near the door spoke up. “She had some tea after dinner in her chamber, my lord.”

  “Tea?” Brock couldn’t see what that had to do with anything.

  Dr. McKenzie was quiet a long moment, and he stroked his chin, frowning before he spoke.

  “Lad, could you bring me her cup, if it hasn’t been washed yet?” the doctor asked.

  Duncan looked stricken. “I’m sorry, Doctor, it’s already been sent to the kitchen.”

  The doctor turned back to Joanna and produced a small dark-blue bottle with smelling salts, which he uncorked and waved under her nose. She jerked awake and stared up at them with tired eyes.

  “My lady, I’m Dr. Joseph McKenzie. I need to ask you some questions. Is your mouth numb? Do you experience any burning or tingling?”

  “My mouth feels a bit numb. It’s been tingling for a few hours, since before Lord Kincade and I fell asleep.”

  “What?” Brock gasped. “Why did you not say anything, lass?”

  “I don’t know,” she said evasively. He realized she did not want to admit that she’d been focused on him and their lovemaking while in the presence of several men.

  Dr. McKenzie was quiet for a long moment before he motioned for Brock to follow him to the window where they could speak privately.

  “My lord, when I came to the house, I saw some plants growing by the entryway, plants which should not be there.”

  “Plants?” Brock couldn’t fathom what the doctor was getting at.

  “Wolfsbane.”

  “What?” He didn’t recognize the plant, but he did kno
w it was a dangerous one to have about.

  “Aye, wolfsbane or monkshood. I saw it in clusters by the castle doors. I hesitate to suggest it, but someone in this castle might have tried to poison your wife.”

  Brock’s throat tightened. He could feel the gazes of Mr. Tate and young Duncan upon his back, but he kept his voice low. Who would have tried to poison her?

  “Can you help her?” That was the thing that mattered most. He could find the person who had tried to hurt Joanna after he knew she was safe.

  “She may not have had a strong enough dose to kill her. Some intelligent would-be murderers start with smaller doses to avoid suspicion. If this is her first reaction, she’s come around now well enough.” McKenzie glanced toward the bed, as did Brock. Joanna was watching them quite clearly now, although still tired.

  “Aye?” Brock urged the doctor to continue.

  “I can administer atropine and digitalis. That might counteract the poison.”

  Brock dragged his fingers through his hair. “Let’s try it.”

  The doctor nodded, and they returned to Joanna. Dr. McKenzie opened his black leather bag and pulled out two vials and needles. He filled each with a large dose, one of atropine and one of digitalis. Then he looked at Joanna.

  “My lady, I must inject this into your stomach. I will need to lift your chemise.”

  Brock lifted the bedclothes, shielding her modesty even though Tate and Duncan had stepped into the hall. The doctor looked at her waist. He pinched her stomach gently and injected the needle. Joanna closed her eyes, wincing, but made no sound. Then the doctor injected the second needle. She was so brave, his little lass.

  The doctor lowered her chemise and tucked her beneath the bedclothes again. “She must have water. Boil it first, and prepare it yourself.” The doctor whispered the last bit under his breath. “She should eat chicken broth and toast.” The doctor looked at Brock. “No strenuous activities for at least a week, unless she’s feeling completely well. I would like to check on her in a few days. And you must send for me immediately if she worsens.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Brock shook McKenzie’s hand and nodded to Tate, who’d stepped into the room again. “Please see the doctor out.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Tate’s gaze shot to Joanna in the bed, his face twisted in worry. The doctor left, and Brock shot a glance at Duncan and waved him over.

  “My lord?” The young man’s brows rose.

  He could trust Duncan. The lad was an innocent babe, and he was one of the sons of a tenant that Brock trusted. “Only you and I will see to my wife’s needs from now on. The doctor suspects she was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” Joanna and Duncan both gasped.

  “Wolfsbane,” Brock explained. “Duncan, I want you to keep an eye on the others in this house. I want to know when that tea was prepared and who took it to her room.”

  “I did, my lord. But…” A shadow passed over Duncan’s face.

  “But what?” Brock pressed.

  “But I passed Mr. Tate in the hall on the way back after I left the tea in her bedchamber.”

  “He was going into my wife’s room?” His suspicions deepened, as did his fury. If Mr. Tate was set on harming Joanna, he’d have to face the wrath of the laird of the Kincades.

  Duncan nodded.

  “Why would Tate want to hurt her? Has he said anything to you, lad?” Brock stroked his jaw and glanced at his wife. She was drifting back to sleep, and he didn’t have the heart to wake her.

  “No, my lord. I heard him grumble about her snooping around in your study, but other than that, no.”

  His study? Why would Tate be upset about that? Many wives of great houses were heavily involved in the running of the accounts. That was nothing out of the ordinary. Unless…

  Unless Tate had something to hide.

  Brock stopped himself from growling and curling his hands into fists. “Duncan, you are to forget your other duties until my wife is better. You and I will take shifts to watch over her for the next few days. She must never be alone.”

  “I understand, my lord.” Duncan straightened his shoulders, and Brock nodded in approval.

  “Now, off you go. Bring me some chicken broth and boiled water. Keep a watch on Mrs. Tate. If she challenges you, say it was my orders.”

  Duncan rushed off to do his bidding. Brock joined Joanna on his bed and carefully moved to lay her flat in his arms, making sure she was warm and comfortable. She murmured something before she curled into him, and he wrapped his arms around her.

  My poor English flower. I will find out who did this, and they will pay dearly.

  20

  Brock spent three days feeding Joanna chicken broth and letting her drink water that had been boiled under Duncan’s supervision. The cook was none too pleased, but she would adjust to his orders until he could figure out who was trying to harm his wife. There was a chance that Mrs. Tate was involved too, or the maid. What was her name? Maura? Yes, that was it. He’d rarely seen the girl; she was quiet and kept to herself. Once he discovered who was responsible, as the local magistrate, he would deal with the matter himself.

  On the fourth day, he lay sleeping fitfully next to her and woke to the feel of her kissing his forehead. He blinked, wondering if he could believe what he was seeing. Joanna was sitting up, her face no longer deathly pale and her eyes neither cloudy nor overbright.

  “Lass?” The word came out hoarse on his tongue since he’d barely spoken in days except for brief words with Duncan.

  “I feel better, so much better.” She brushed his hair back from his eyes, and his throat tightened painfully as he realized how easily he could have lost her, could have been digging a grave beside his mother’s in the cemetery beyond the loch. The thought made his eyes burn, and a flood of dangerous emotions rose up and threatened to choke him.

  “I’m relieved,” he whispered. He sat up beside her, carefully pulling her into his arms. There were a thousand things he wanted to say. Instead he said, “More broth?”

  “Please, no more,” she begged. “I couldn’t stand another bowl.”

  “The doctor said you should eat. It’s important for your strength.”

  “Then bring me anything but broth.” She ran her fingers up and down his chest, toying with the white shirt and the bottle-green waistcoat he presently wore.

  “If you feel you can stomach it, I will bring you something heartier.” He searched for any hint of uncertainty or signs that she was still ill. But he saw nothing except a bright smile and a rosy blush on her cheeks.

  “Let me summon Duncan.”

  She moved away from him, climbing off the bed before he could stop her. She took her dressing gown off the nearest chair and shrugged it on. Her long blonde hair rippled down her back in a cascade. She looked at him over her shoulder.

  “I can walk, husband. Now let’s go. The walking will do me good.”

  He slid off his bed and joined her when she reached the door, ready to catch her if she were to suddenly faint.

  “And after we eat, we could take the coach to the village.”

  “No, lass, not yet. I wish to have Dr. McKenzie return to check on you first.”

  “But”

  “No arguing with me on this, lass. I will put my foot down, and I dinna want to be that sort of husband. I’m not above tying my pretty wife down to the bed if it means she will be safe.”

  Rather than be upset with him, she laughed. “Tie me down? Why do I think you would like to do that?”

  He grinned. “I might indeed.”

  Raised voices greeted them as they reached the kitchen. Duncan and Mrs. Tate were squaring off with one of the wooden tables between them. The cook’s face was red as she sputtered that the lad needed to mind his own business and keep to his own chores. Duncan held his ground, a blush staining his cheeks as he faced Mrs. Tate. The cook planted her hands on her hips and shouted at the lad to leave.

  Joanna watched as Brock took charge of the situation.
He towered over Mrs. Tate, not in an imposing way, but in a manner that distracted her away from Duncan.

  “My lord, tell this boy to leave me be!”

  “It’s all right, Duncan. Go see to your duties. The lady is feeling better today, and we will handle the luncheon ourselves.”

  Brock took a wicker basket and began to fill it with roast beef, some apples, fresh strawberries, a few wedges of cheese, and a loaf of warm bread. Then he grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  “Really, my lord, I should pack that for you. It is my job, after all.”

  “No, it’s all right, Mrs. Tate.” He curled an arm around Joanna’s waist, and they went to the library, where they settled into two chairs by the fire. The afternoon sunlight poured through the windows, but he wasn’t sure she would be warm enough.

  “Shall I light a fire?”

  “No, thank you. I feel fine.” She had belted her dressing gown over her body, which he hoped provided enough warmth.

  He prepared them each a plate, and after he finished eating, he chose a book from one of the few left in the library, a book of poetry, and read to Joanna.

  Her face lit up as he read to her, and he vowed that they would do this often. Come to the library and read to each other. It made her happy, and that made him happy as well. It was especially a good thing to do to keep her resting for a time. She was still too pale for his liking.

  “I should like to go to the village today and place some orders for more books. These empty shelves sadden me. Would that be all right with you?”

  “Aye, it would be a fine thing to see the shelves brimming with books again.”

  “I’m surprised you had so many shelves, given how easily your father was willing to part with them. I would have assumed the castle wouldn’t have had a large library.”

  “My father changed much after my mother died. Mr. Tate and his sister knew him a long time. They were still loyal to him, probably because he kept them around rather than let them go. It was a hard transition when I took over.”

  “Brock, that reminds me—I was trying to set the accounts straight, and…” She bit her bottom lip. “I believe Mr. Tate may be changing numbers. The expenses aren’t as high as I think you’ve been told. Do you think he could be pocketing some of the money? I don’t wish to accuse a man who has served your family for so many years, but perhaps we should consider talking to Mr. Tate about the accounts?”