“Ah, there you are!” Bannessy entered the dining room. He kicked a chicken aside as he strode across the room and pulled up a seat next to her as the bird squawked in outrage, ruffling its feathers as it sped around the dining room with its neck extended. “I hope yer breakfast was tae yer liking.”
“Yes, thank you.” She’d only sampled the toast, finding her stomach a little unsettled this morning, but he didn’t need to know those particulars.
“Since we arrived so late last night, I was wondering if ye might like a tour about the grounds?”
She opened her mouth at first to reject his invitation. She was no guest here, after all. But then she realized it would be the perfect way to assess her surroundings so that she might later escape.
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
He beamed, looking a little surprised at her acceptance. “Lovely indeed. Shall we go now?” He glanced at her plate. “Are ye finished?”
“Quite so, thank you.” She lowered her napkin to the table and sent an encouraging glance to Marian from under her lashes. Her friend frowned after her, clearly not liking this development, but she held her tongue—and her seat.
Bannessy offered his arm and escorted her from the dining room.
It did not take long for him to begin interrogating her, proving his motivation wasn’t purely an innocent stroll.
“I’ve given some thought. A fine Sassenach lady such as ye . . . and the first time I laid eyes on ye was in that taproom, not far from Kilmarkie House, near the Duke of Autenberry’s property. It must have been yer destination. He’s English like ye are. Could it be ye were visiting him?”
She hesitated, uncertain if it was wise to confess she was sister to the Duke of Autenberry. Bannessy could attempt to ransom her.
“Yer silence is verra telling,” he added.
Quickly. Answer him.
“I was visiting his wife, Lady Autenberry. We are girlhood friends.”
“Hmm.” He mulled that over. “Then why did I find ye where I did? A bit far from Kilmarkie House. You appeared tae be leaving MacLarin Castle?”
They’d circuited the house and had now arrived in the front courtyard again, stopping beside a large neglected fountain. The water was green and a film of scum floated over the surface. The condition of the water did not stop a hound the size of a small horse from trotting up and drinking sloppily from it. Water flew and she scooted over to avoid the spray.
A sudden wave of nausea beset her and she closed her eyes against it, swaying on her feet.
Bannessy brushed a hand against her arm, gently holding her. “Are you unwell?”
She shook her head but could not yet speak. A swell of bile rose up in her throat and she feared any attempt at speech would have dire results.
“Lass, ye dinna look well.” His concerned gaze flitted over her face and his light hold on her arm tightened into an actual grip.
She attempted to move a step, but her legs wobbled, threatening to give out under her. He caught her against him.
She blinked her suddenly fuzzy gaze up at him. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Her knees buckled and he caught her, sweeping her up into his arms.
“Oh!” She pushed weakly at his chest. “I’m fine. Set me down.”
“Lass,” he chided, “yer face is white as snow.”
A violent pounding suddenly filled the air. Horse hooves on the packed earth.
Bannessy turned in the direction of the sound, still holding her in his arms.
Two horsemen galloped into the yard.
“Bannessy!”
Clara blinked, struggling to clear her blurring vision to make certain her eyes were not deceiving her. “Hunt,” she murmured with a touch of awe as her husband launched himself off his horse before the beast even came to a full stop.
Marcus was with him, too, following a few paces after her husband.
Hunt charged toward them, stabbing a finger in their direction. “Let go of her, you bastard. Put her down!”
“MacLarin! How good tae see ye! And sooner than I expected.” He adjusted Clara in his arms, bouncing her higher against his chest.
Clara closed her eyes briefly, not appreciating being jostled about in her present dizziness. She opened her eyes again to see Hunt studying her face with a near panicked expression.
“What have you done tae her? She looks ill!” He reached her side, tapping her cheek lightly, scanning first her face and then looking her all over. “Clara, love. Are you well? What is it? What’s wrong with you?”
“I’ve done nothing tae the lass. I saved her from hitting the ground just as she was about tae swoon.”
“I’m fine now. Really. I can stand,” Clara insisted, her voice betraying her with a quiver.
“You heard her,” Hunt growled.
“Put her down,” Marcus added from behind him. “Now.”
“Och.” Bannessy looked down at Clara with new consideration. “Two men fighting after this wee lass. She must be quite the prize.”
“She’s my bloody sister,” Marcus spit out.
“And my wife!” Hunter added in a growl.
“Your wife!” Bannessy’s eyes boggled. “Ye’ve married!”
“Aye. And she’s pregnant. Now give her back tae me before I tear you apart, man.”
“Ye’ve married, MacLarin? And yer tae be a father?” Bannessy hurriedly transferred her to Hunt’s arms as though he could not be rid of her fast enough. “Are ye daft, man? What of the curse?”
She groaned. Even Bannessy knew of it . . . and believed in it.
“The curse,” Marcus exclaimed, looking incredulously back and forth between the two men. “Don’t tell me you all think . . . you believe that rot to be true!”
“Marcus,” she chided from her new position in Hunt’s arms.
Her brother’s eyes shot to her, seeing something in her face and at once understanding. “Don’t tell me you believe it, too, Clara?”
She didn’t know what to believe. She only knew that Hunt had three very close calls lately . . . and she had no intention of risking his life a fourth time.
“Och, coz.” Bannessy shook his head. “What ’ave ye done?”
“Coz?” she parroted. “Coz? As in cousin? He’s your cousin, you mean?” She punched Hunt in the chest.
“Aye.” He shrugged. “We are practically all kin in this area. We share the same great-grandfather.”
“B-but you steal from each other,” she sputtered, her voice gaining shrillness. “You’re family and you steal from each other?”
“Aye,” Hunt and Bannessy said in unison, as if the practice was the most common thing in the world.
“What is wrong with you people?”
They ignored her question. Bannessy looked at Hunt with something akin to an apology in his eyes. “I had no idea she was yer wife. I would no’ ’ave taken her, Hunt.” Apparently certain things were off limits then. Bannessy shook his head in a proper show of contrition. “Why’d ye do it, coz? ’Tis suicide.”
“Put me down,” she commanded, having had quite enough of such a grim exchange. Even if it was true. Especially if it was true. She didn’t want to hear of it.
Hunt obliged and her feet slid to the ground.
She stepped back, too quickly it seemed, for the world moved swiftly around her. She staggered with a small cry.
“Clara!” She was swept up in Hunt’s solid arms again. “What ails you?”
She didn’t even answer. She was too busy combatting the dizziness assailing her. Blast it. The world would not stop its moving.
She peeked her eyes open to see that it wasn’t only her dizziness. They were indeed moving now.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you inside. Tae bed.”
“What for? It’s the middle of the day, I don’t need a—”
“You’re clearly unwell so bed is where you belong.”
“I’m not ill!”
He strode past gawking se
rvants, marching up the stairs, not the least winded from his exertions. At the top, he stopped and rotated in a small circle, obviously unsure where to go.
“To the right,” she snapped, pointing in the direction of the room she shared with Marian. “That one. Right there.”
He carried her inside the chamber and set her down on the bed.
She looked up at him crossly. “Nothing ails me.”
“You couldn’t even stand.”
“I’m dizzy. It’s not so uncommon. I likely need to loosen my corset.”
“A corset?” He scowled. “Remove the damn thing. Toss it out.”
Before she could argue, Marian suddenly breezed into the room. “What has happened? I just saw your brother and he—”
“She’s unwell,” Hunt quickly supplied.
“Only a little dizzy,” Clara corrected.
Marian sank down on the bed beside her. “Not to fret. My mother suffered similar symptoms when she carried my younger siblings. Only in the beginning. She improved as she increased.”
Hunt looked slightly appeased. “Rest now. Recover yourself.”
“When will we go? I’m eager—”
“You will rest,” he admonished.
Clara huffed in affront. “I do not need to rest.”
He shook his head obstinately. “You’ll no’ leave this bed until a midwife has seen tae you.”
“Oh!” she cried in outrage. “The nerve of—”
“It isn’t a bad idea, Clara,” Marian volunteered.
Hunter clapped loudly once. “A voice of reason!”
Clara turned on Marian. “Et tu, Brute?”
“Oh, cease with the dramatics,” Marian admonished, removing a tartan from a nearby chair and tucking it all around Clara. “We shall all be much relieved to have you pronounced fit. You’ll be relieved, too, when it’s all said and done. You will see.”
“She’s right,” Hunt seconded.
Clara crossed her arms. She couldn’t argue with that logic. “So we stay here? For how long?”
“Until the midwife declares you well for travel,” he answered, his gaze fastened on her as though she were some fragile thing that might shatter into pieces. Ironic, considering he was the one that seemed so fragile of late and destined for a dire fate.
She forced a smile—for him, for herself. “I’m fine,” she insisted. “Healthy as can be.”
He nodded, still looking uncertain, and a warmth suffused her to have him here . . . to see him so obviously concerned and solicitous over her. A marked difference from their last encounter.
Of course the matter of the curse still remained, hanging like a dark pall. That had not gone away, so it meant she had to.
She still had to find a way to leave. That had not changed.
Chapter 18
They stayed a week. One endless and interminable week.
The local midwife had examined Clara and while she pronounced her hale, she suggested one week’s rest was necessary. There was no arguing her recommendation. Hunt and Marian were in accord with the midwife and they made certain Clara followed her instructions and stayed put in bed.
Her brother had left the day he arrived with Hunt. He was understandably anxious to return to Alyse. Her time was approaching. Even though Clara had not changed her mind and fully intended to continue on and join him at Kilmarkie House, she let him go without protest. He needed to get back to his wife, and Clara did not need to worry him any more than she already had. She’d break free of Hunt and find her own way to her brother’s home.
A week’s rest in bed had very nearly finished her. It was tedious. She felt pushed to the brink of madness. Hunt and Marian had not allowed her up from bed, so she was quite eager to be free of her prison when her sentence came to an end.
Clara was up on the morning of the eighth day, not to be deterred. She was packed and ready to go when Hunt entered the room. He closed the door softly behind him and stopped before her.
Dressed and ready to depart, she wrapped a hand around the bedpost as though needing support in this confrontation with him—this man who was quite possibly cursed because of her.
She’d seen him throughout the week, of course, although Marian had continued to share the bed with her. Hunt had taken the room next door to them without seeming to mind that he was not sharing a bed with his wife. Perhaps because he didn’t mind. He didn’t care. As far as he was concerned she had killed him. He’d said as much. He blamed her. A pang punched her in the center of her chest at that reminder. That guilt was never far. She rested her cheek against the wood post, feeling wretched.
He frowned and stepped closer. “Are you well?”
“I’m fine.” She exhaled. “What are we doing, Hunt?”
His gaze brushed over her face, searching. “We’re going home, Clara.”
“It’s not my home. Your home is not my home.” She spoke calmly, steadily. It was not her intent to start an argument or appear wrathful. She merely didn’t intend to leave here with him and he needed to understand that.
His eyes sparked in challenge. “We took vows that essentially bind us. My home is yours. All that I have . . . is yours.”
“I don’t want it.” Not if it could cost you your life.
His face did not react to that, but a sudden tension lined his shoulders that made her think she had wounded him somehow.
“A little late for that now.” He waved toward her stomach.
“It’s not too late. Mistakes happen. It’s how we make the best of them that matters, that makes a difference.”
His lips twisted. “Marriages happen all the time between people who like each other far less than what we feel for one another.”
“Well, the marriage doesn’t lead to the groom’s death, does it?”
“Och, so you believe me now?” He chuckled.
She bristled. “It’s not amusing.”
“Aye.” He laughed harder. “I ken.”
She shrugged. “I don’t want to rule out the possibility that it could be true. Given that, I think it best if I remove myself far from your sphere.” She nodded resolutely.
“Ah. This is why you crept away like a thief in the night.”
“You’ve suffered from three potential fatal accidents.”
“Aye. The curse is at work.” He nodded and looked woefully unperturbed by the announcement.
“Don’t you care? If it’s true . . . aren’t you . . . afraid?” A lump rose in her throat.
“I’ve spent a lifetime trying to avoid and evade and trick it. It’s actually a bit of a relief.”
“A relief?”
“Aye. I dinna have tae worry about it anymore.”
She released the post and lurched forward, grasping a hold of his jacket with both her fists. “Of course you should be afraid! You should be worried. You used to be. Where did that man go?” She shook him a little. It was as though he didn’t want to live anymore and she couldn’t have that.
He had to live.
He covered her hands with his own. “Come home, Clara. It won’t make a bit of difference where you reside as far as the curse is concerned. You’re my wife. And you carry my child. Our child.” His hand drifted down to cover her stomach.
She choked back a sob. It was the first time he had acknowledged their child directly.
“Dinna fash yourself, lass.” He swiped his thumb over her cheek, and gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t run. I will only have tae chase you.” He dropped his head until their foreheads were touching, lips so close, nearly brushing hers as he spoke. “Come home, Clara. It’s your home now.”
She released a shuddering breath, compelled and yet still so very uncertain, so very much afraid. “Very well.”
They arrived home just in time for dinner.
The midwife had recommended Clara abstain from riding, so Hunt secured his wife in a carriage with Marian.
Hunt rode alongside them, thinking on the future—whatever was left of it for him—and how he wish
ed to spend it. It was a sobering internal dialogue, but perhaps one every person should have at some point. People died all the time, after all, young and old. Should not everyone live as though each day were their last? Was that not a proper philosophy?
Nana was there to greet them in the foyer. “Retrieved yer lass, did ye?” Her pale eyes gleamed in disapproval.
“That I did,” he said.
He would not waste another day dwelling in miserable thoughts. His grandmother needed to be apprised of that fact because he was done talking about the curse. Done thinking about it.
Now he simply intended to live.
“We’re famished,” he announced, hoping to direct the conversation and detract his grandmother from contributing anything negative.
“Aye,” she grumbled and turned to lead the way to the dining room.
They ate in relative peace. Hunt spoke of the coming planting and the festival they had every spring. Clara’s eyes lit up as he described it, and he realized he enjoyed seeing the light shining in her eyes.
His grandmother sat in fuming silence, but he didn’t care.
After they ate, he escorted Clara to her chamber. “Good night.”
She smiled tremulously and he fought the urge to lean down and kiss those soft lips. He held back. She’d agreed to return home with him, to stay, but she had not agreed for more than that. She had not agreed to alter their understanding of a name-only marriage.
“Good night,” she returned.
They stood before her door hesitantly, each unmoving, and he felt like a boy before his first kiss. But there would be no kissing this night.
With a final smile for him, she slipped away inside her room, closing the door on him.
Clara was readying for bed when her chamber door opened and slammed shut. She spun around at the sound, the dressing robe she had just removed clutched to her chest.
“Oh.” The breath rushed out of her. “You.”
This Scot of Mine EPB Page 17