The Heart Queen (3 page)

She’d been grateful for that in the beginning. It meant fewer visits to her bed. But then she’d seen the woman strike Annabella. She’d tried to discharge her but Alasdair would not hear of it.

“I will get some herbs,” Janet said.

“No,” her husband said. He groaned, then looked up at her with wide pain-filled eyes. “What did you do?” he asked. “What did you put in the brandy?”

All the eyes in the room went to her. She felt the blood drain from her.

She started to shake her head in denial.

“Get her out of here,” her husband said.

Reginald glared at her, then took the several steps to her side. “Ye’d best leave,” he said.

Janet realized instantly that she had no choice. “The physician?” she said, knowing that the only one was in Inverness, hours away.

“He has been sent for,” the dowager said, her brown eyes glittering with malice. She’d never liked Janet, had shown only disdain for her Jacobite family. Janet knew her husband would never have married her without the dowry her father had provided, along with hopes that he would some day inherit her family’s property. The fact that it had been taken by the English king had been a bitter disappointment.

Only the birth of her son had kept him from divorcing her. He’d wanted a son more than he wanted to be rid of her.

What a bitter bargain she’d made.

She didn’t know what time it was, only that it was predawn. Colin was asleep in the nursery, the lasses in the room next to his, and she did not want to wake them. Nor did she wish to return to her chamber. She lit a candle from one in the hallway and carried it up the steps to the parapet of the sprawling ancestral home of the Campbells of Lochaene. ‘Twas a smaller dwelling then her childhood home, smaller even than Braemoor. The rock edifice was built for defense, not for comfort, and its rooms were small and bare, the circular stairs steep and uneven. No tapestries warmed the rooms, nor carpets the floors.

When she’d come to Lochaene as a bride, she’d tried to convince her husband to purchase a carpet for the nursery. The floors were so cold and the wind often cut through the windows. She’d discovered then that he cared far less for the comfort of his children than he did for his frequent trips into Edinburgh and the horses he’d buy, then often ruin.

But now she wanted, needed, the cold jolt of night air. She left the candle inside the door so it would not flare out, then went out onto the parapet. The sky was threatening. Large bulbous clouds rushed across the sky and masked the stars, though torches lit the courtyard this night. She couldn’t see beyond them, but she knew the land well. Mostly bare moors and low lying hills, the land had been cleared of its farms and the crofts and turned to shaggy cattle and sheep. It was a lonely place, dark and gloomy with none of the wild scenic beauty of her home.

Forced by the cold to return to the questionable warmth of the interior, she went to the nursery. Colin was still asleep. She next checked on the lasses.

“Mama,” Grace said from her bed, wriggling to a sitting position. Grace, at seven, was the oldest of the sisters, a grave, slender waif of a child who, though timid on her own behalf, could be fierce in defense of her sisters and baby brother.

She loved the lasses as much as if they had come from her own body. Grace with her quiet dignity, Rachel who wanted nothing as much as to love and be loved, and little Annabella who was all mischief.

Janet went over to Grace and placed the candle on the table. She sat carefully as not to wake the other two girls, then gathered Grace in her arms, holding her tight. She felt the lass relax and snuggle deep against her. In minutes, the lass was asleep, but Janet couldn’t relax. She wanted to be downstairs in Alasdair’s room. She knew what he had implied, but she couldn’t believe he really meant it.

It was still dark when she heard a knock on her door. She gently replaced Grace into the bed and padded over to the door, opening it.

Molly stood there, her face drawn and pale. “I was sent to tell ye. The earl is dead.”

The day of the funeral was as dark and dismal as the event.

Alasdair had been dead for four days. Janet had forced herself to perform the necessary tasks expected of a wife. She’d closed his eyes and placed coins on the eyelids to keep them closed. She washed and anointed the body and clad it in the
deid-claes
.

A joiner had straightened out the body and measured it for a coffin. It had arrived earlier today.

Janet attended to it all in a state of numbness. She kept remembering the wish she’d made days earlier. Guilt warred with relief that he was gone, that the children would be safe.

He looked different. Even peaceful. He’d been a handsome man when she’d wed him. In four years, he’d grown large and his face red and puffy with drink. Now he looked as she had first seen him. It made her wonder whether she’d had anything to do with his descent into drink and cruelty or if he had always had it in him. Certainly, his family was short on love and compassion.

Word had gone out about the funeral. She realized that there would be numerous people attending, if not out of love for or respect for the Earl of Lochaene, then out of curiosity about his widow.

She knew about the rumors. She knew they were being spread by her sister-in-law and the dowager countess. Murder was whispered. Gossiped. Passed on from family to family in the Highlands.

Poison was mentioned. Arsenic. Caffeine. Belladonna. Opium. But the physician who arrived after the death could not swear to its cause.

When the local sheriff arrived, murder was mentioned but nothing could be proven. A servant had overheard her threatening the earl; the earl was a healthy man who suddenly succumbed to an unknown ailment. Both facts cast suspicion, but nothing was conclusive.

It was suggested that Janet’s room be searched, and the sheriff had done so. They found nothing in her room but did find arsenic in her sister-in-law’s room since she used it for her complexion. It was a substance Janet had disdained and now was relieved she had.

Still, the rumors persisted. Janet knew that many believed her guilty because she would have the most to gain from the earl’s death. She wondered whether it was only a matter of time before her husband’s family convinced the authorities to do more than question.

Because of the inheritance laws, her son inherited. Alasdair had made no provisions for a guardian and thus she gained control of Lochaene. It was a control she hadn’t sought.

Yet on the day Alasdair was buried, she’d never felt such a sense of freedom. Guilt warred with relief. She was free. The lasses were safe. Her son would grow up with love.

Neighboring lords—either out of curiosity or loyalty— had been arriving for the past two days. She had ordered food and drink prepared after a battle with Marjorie.

“You should be hiding in your room in shame,” Marjorie had said.

“I have nothing to be ashamed of,” Janet retorted.

“My son was in good health.”

“Your son ate and drank too much.”

“You were a poor wife.”

“I gave him an heir.”

“Then poisoned him?”

Janet forced herself to stare into Marjorie’s glittering eyes. “
I
am Countess of Lochaene now. I will not tolerate those kinds of accusations.”

“I am not finished with you,” Marjorie said. “I told my son not to marry a Jacobite.”

“But he did, did he not? That there was no inheritance is no‘ my fault. Complain to his grace, the Duke of Cumberland.”

“Whore.”

“Say that once more and I will force you to leave Lochaene. And now I go to see about the arrangements.”

Keeping her head high, she marched to the kitchen. Once out of Marjorie’s sight, she slumped against the wall. She did not like confrontations. But she’d known in that moment that Marjorie was her enemy and would do everything she could to destroy her. She would not let it happen. She had four bairns to protect. That would make her strong.

She’d been weak for so long.

No more.

Neil called himself every kind of a fool. He probably wouldn’t even reach Lochaene before the rites. But he had heard the rumors and he hadn’t been able to help himself.

If there was one thing he knew, the girl who had touched him so tenderly years ago wouldn’t, couldn’t, be capable of murder.

He also knew that, coming from a Jacobite family, she would have precious few friends these days. If he couldn’t do more, at least he could offer friendship. He didn’t let himself believe he meant anything else, considered anything else. Nothing had changed. He could never marry. The taint was still in his blood. But he knew what it was like to be alone in a hostile household.

And Rory had taught him something about honor. So he had ridden over to his tacksman, Jock, and asked him to assume authority at Braemoor while he was gone. Jock had looked at him with amazement but had agreed.

Then Neil had saddled Jack.

He knew Janet would not welcome him. But the rumors worried him and instinct told him Janet may need help. She may well refuse his, but he had to extend an offer. He wondered whether Cumberland would be there. Neil detested the man, but he had been the recipient of his goodwill, mainly because of Rory. That small advantage might also help Janet.

It brought a rare smile to Neil’s lips every time he thought of the irony of it. Rory had flummoxed Cumberland so well and thoroughly that the king’s brother never realized how he had been taken, that the man he’d rewarded was the man who’d been a thorn in his side for more than a year.

And now Rory was probably somewhere in the colonies, flummoxing someone else. His cousin had done something fine. Neil, on the other hand, had become a mole on his own property.

It was time to emerge.

The great hall filled on the day of the funeral. Janet bore the ceremony and
draidgie
with the stoicism she’d learned in the past few years. As was the custom, she did not attend the burial. Wives did not. Instead, they stayed at the manor house and prepared the food and drink for the
draidgie
that followed burial.

But she grieved. She grieved for what could have been and was not. She grieved for her hopes and dreams.

She even grieved that Alasdair’s life had been so wasted.

And she grieved for the lasses, for the expected mourning that would eclipse their lives even further. She had a black mourning dress she’d made when her father died, and plain black dresses had been hurriedly stitched together for the three little girls. She hated to see them in the dark clothes, for they looked sad and lost and uncertain.

Thank God all the visitors would be gone soon.

She went out to get some fresh air. The great hall smelled of stale ale and sweat and unwashed bodies. The lasses were back in their nurseries. One of her first acts would be to replace Molly.

Mourners—or curiosity seekers—were still approaching. She watched one small group come in, and she bade them welcome then invited them in for food and drink. A lone rider followed them.

She smiled automatically, then started. Memory prodded her. Her heart started to pound.

It could not be.

He was bareheaded, his hair dark as a raven’s wing even in the late afternoon sun. His seat was easy, his posture comfortable, his large but hard body familiar. It had been in her dreams often enough.

She wanted to run inside. She didn’t want him to hear the rumors. She didn’t want him to see the paleness of her face, nor her too-thin body.

He rode straight up to her and dismounted. A boy who had just taken the other horses into the stable for food and water appeared to take the reins.

“I’ll do it,” he said in the deep rich voice Janet remembered so well.

She curtsied. “Welcome to Lochaene, my lord.”

“Countess,” he acknowledged, then softer, “Janet. Are you all right?”

He was so big, so tall. Overwhelming. But it was the softness in his voice that disarmed her. For the first time in days, she felt tears gather behind her eyes.

His hands remained at his side, and yet she felt a warmth she’d not felt since she left her father’s house.

She looked up at him. “We did not expect you,” she said with what she hoped was a cold, detached voice.

He hesitated, then said awkwardly, “I thought to pay my respects.”

She wanted to turn away but she felt transfixed, as if rooted to the ground. She remembered the last time she’d seen him. He’d leaned over to kiss her, then promised to meet with her the next afternoon. He hadn’t.

He looked travel-worn now. His hair fell over his forehead and his face had turned dark with bristles. His dark eyes were tired and his mouth looked as solemn as it ever did. It was difficult to think of him as cruel, but the end result of their meeting had been cruel. Cruel beyond bearing.

She looked beyond him. To the left. To the right. Anywhere but into his eyes.

“You are welcome,” she said. “Some guests are staying in the great hall. There is food and drink.” Hospitality demanded the words, but her heartbeat became irregular.

“My thanks,” he said softly.

Her fingers bunched into fists. She couldn’t find words, nor could she move. Why did he affect her this way after so many years?

“I am sorry about your husband,” he said.

Her gaze was drawn back up to his face. It was granite. But then it had always been hard to read. It had relaxed only when her fingers had touched it. Her body quaked at the memory. She’d been so bold then. So reckless. She didn’t think she would ever be reckless again.

“I am a mother now,” she said. She had to say something to interrupt the intensity of his gaze.

“I ha‘ heard.”

“Then you must also have heard the rumors.”

“Aye, I’ve heard some. But I do not put credence in them.”

“Then you are among the few.”

“Mayhap there are more than you believe.”

She hesitated, finding words difficult. The chill had left her. She felt only heat. Heat from regret. Heat from embarrassment. Heat, God help her, from a desire that apparently had not dimmed over the years.

And on the day of her husband’s funeral. She was damned for sure.