A Perfect Knight For Love (33 page)

Tears streamed down his face. He ignored them. Heavy loud thudding filled his ears, and he welcomed it, as he did the continual agony that accompanied it. To feel such pain meant he wasn’t dead. MacKennah bastards hadn’t killed him. And that meant he still had a chance at this life . . . if he managed to get this spate of coughing under control. And finally, he managed it.

Thayne lay spent, sucking tiny increments of breath that came with an accompanying wheeze. He was damp with sweat, weak with exertion. Every bit of him was exhausted, as if he’d just come from the deepest section of the loch. He pulled each tiny intake of air as the sweetest gift, and then she laughed at him again.

“Something amuses you, Crone?” His voice came out lower than normal. Harsh. Like he chewed on gravel. But it did come out.

“Just watching the great MacGowan chieftain. Crying . . . like a little bairn. And over a little whiskey.”

Thayne shoved an arm across his eyes. His left arm. His right wouldn’t obey the instruction to move. He flexed the fingers on that hand and felt them respond. Good. He’d taken an injury, but he still had his arm. And he wasn’t tied. He turned his head toward her and worked at controlling the thud of pain through his head as he attempted to see.

They were in a small room; rock-walled with tapestries across the opposite wall. It was windowless and dark, without benefit of a fireplace. He couldn’t tell her features or her age. She was wrapped in a MacKennah plaid clear to her throat, while another hooded her head. If she hadn’t placed a candle on the stool beside her, he’d not be able to see that much.

“I’m na’ the chieftain,” he told the shadow that contained her face.

“Liar.”

“You mistake me for my brother.”

“Oh. Nae. I ken exactly who you are.”

Thayne pulled moisture into his mouth and licked at his lips. “What’s been done to me?”

“You took an arrow in the shoulder. Doona’ fash that. We pulled it out and then sealed it. You’re in luck ’twas Torquil the Younger coming upon you. His father would na’ have missed.”

“I meant . . . my head.” And curse it for not just flying off and saving him the trouble.

“Oh. That. Torquil has a heavy fist with his ax handle. You’ve been dead to the world for nigh a day and a half. You can thank your luck again, though. His father would’ve seen your skull cleaved through.”

“Without trial?”

“Oh. Doona’ fash yourself over testimony and such. The clan you’d brought with you spoke up for you. They had leagues to say of treatment. We had to release them from their gags in order to hear it. ’Twas enough to get you a spot in a hangman’s noose, na’ just a nice stay in the sickroom.”

“They’re the liars, then. I did naught to them, save return them.”

“You going to deny you up and wed with a Sassenach, too? Betraying a betrothal contract to the MacKennah clan?”

Thayne took a deep breath, stretching his chest wall as he held it; listened to the solid, reassuring pumping of his heart as it hammered into his ears; endured each thump as they drummed through his skull. If this pain didn’t lessen, he’d rather have his head cleaved off and done, he decided. Thayne let the breath out.

“Are you . . . the healer?”

“Me? Nae. I’d as lief see you cold. ’Twould have been an easy matter as you lay there.”

“Then, why dinna’ you?”

“Seeing you suffer is much better. Immensely so. ’Tis why I offered to watch you this eve. I’m to speak the moment you wake so we can see you put into your proper place.”

“And what is that to be?”

“Depends on what you tell me.”

“Well.” Thayne turned to contemplation of the darkness above him and addressed his words there. “You’ve watched me. I’m awake. You should probably go tell someone.”

“I need the answer first.”

“To what?”

“You willing to gain an annulment from your Sassenach bride?”

Never.

Thayne made a shrug, but the instant shot of pain through his shoulder made it a poor gesture, and one he immediately tensed to withstand. And one she probably saw. He released the motion slowly, in infinitesimal increments, until he was flat on the plank again. Then he worked at consciously loosening all the muscles he’d put into play, until all that was left was the head pain, and it had settled into an angry throb that vied with his set jaw for viciousness. Strange . . . even if he concentrated, he couldn’t feel the Dunn-Fyne blade wound on his buttocks that had harried him for nigh a week now. That was odd.

“Well?”

“My marriage is consummated, mistress.”

“So? She may be infertile. And I hear tell she was unwilling. What if she leaves you of her own accord? Would you obey clan honor then?”

Thayne stiffened that time, and had to stop the instant reaction as pain accompanied it. Amalie leave him? Never. And if she tried, he’d hunt her down.

“Well?”

“I’m for the dungeon, mistress. Cease your balking and get me there.”

“Recollect you started it, then. MacGowans always start this.”

“You still here? Can you na’ see me to the dungeons any quicker—”

That was stupid. Thayne couldn’t halt the groan as she smacked at him, hitting somewhere near his new wound, sending some of the pain from his head to his shoulder. But before he could turn the agony into sobs, she started her own, heartbreaking in its volume and intensity. Thayne blinked until moisture no longer blurred his view in order to face her again. The woman had both arms wrapped about herself and was rocking in place, wailing softly, and then she was stumbling through near-unintelligible words.

“My sweet lass. Sweet . . . Damn you, MacGowan. Damn you! You doona’ ken what you’ve done to my bairn! My sweet lass! I’ll send you to hell for it. You hear?”

She’d gotten over her initial bout of sobbing, for her voice toward the end didn’t have the slightest tremble.

“You’re Lady MacKennah, then?”

She nodded.

“There are worse things than na’ having me for a son-by-law, mistress.”

His attempt at levity fell flat. She rose from her stool to stand above him, blocking the light. This way, he couldn’t see anything about her, but didn’t need to see the hatred from her voice.

“You dare laugh?”

He wasn’t laughing. He barely had enough moisture in his mouth to swallow. Even then, it was dry and more a gulp.

“I’m na’ the lone man in the Highlands. Surely your clan has other suitors.”

“After a jilting by the MacGowan laird?”

Thayne worked at sitting up. Everything on him fought his action. It seemed to take forever, but at least the woman backed a step. His body was angry but not as much as his head. If anything, the thudding pain was worsened by his move, to the point his belly retched in disagreement. He fought that, as well as the peppering of dots that hampered his vision, making the room swirl in a kaleidoscope of color that had her candle’s flame as its core. He probably looked as ill as he felt.

“I’m . . . prepared to sweeten the girl’s dowry.”

“My daughter is a pariah among her own. There is na’ a man who would offer for her now, regardless of your coin.”

“You’ve na’ heard . . . my offer.”

“He’s awake? And you dinna’ tell us?”

There was a door in the wall toward the end of his pallet. Thayne made the mistake of turning to face the man who stood there, moving his head in a direction it didn’t wish to go, and couldn’t support. And that’s when he went down.

She’d been wrong. Waiting was nothing compared to the worry she now added in. It would be much worse come nightfall, though. She didn’t have to guess. After watching the men leave with Maves, she’d spent what was left of last night living through worry that had no boundaries. She’d been helpless with it. Stricken by it. The entire night was one of restless energy that had no outlet, hysterical thoughts that had no end, and furious motion that accomplished nothing.

It hovered with her through the day, regardless of how she kept her thoughts and body occupied. She’d started directly after seeing Baby Mary back to the nursery and to her new wet-nurse. She nodded briefly to Nanny MacGorrick and the others. She didn’t upbraid them. She didn’t even look at them.

She had a household to survey and nothing but time, so Amalie drafted Maves as her guide, and an Honor Guardsman for escort. They sent her a man called Stout Pells, not to be confused with Thin Pells. He was probably as tall as Thayne, but he hadn’t a bit of him devoted to anything stout. Amalie looked him over but didn’t ask. If this failed to keep her mind occupied enough, she’d have more than enough time to ask for meanings and memorize names.

They started at the chambers beneath the Great Hall. According to Maves, there was an outside entrance. It wasn’t in use much except for emergencies, such as fleeing a besieging force. There was a narrow staircase leading down from the kitchens, for accessing foodstuffs and drink. They’d use it later. For this descent, Maves took her down the stone steps that looked to have been carved into the sides of the castle when it was first built. Amalie kept a hand on the wall, while the other held her skirts, and her concentration on not tripping on the badly worn stone, and she should have known the first stop at the end was the dungeons.

She nearly quailed, but that would give the worry and fear she hid form and reality. She’d also have to get past Stout Pells. Amalie pulled her shoulders back and looked into each room shown, with a pent breath before easing it out. The dungeons were old stone rooms. There were six of them, three on each side of the hall, all smelling of damp and age. And they were bare of occupants. The thick oaken door at the end was sealed with a lock larger than her fist. Stout Pells had to put a shoulder and effort to shove it open, giving possible meaning to his moniker. Maves was voluble with her delight that he’d been the man assigned to them, since they hadn’t kept a prisoner down here for some time, and the door witnessed it.

The rooms on this side of the ground floor were mostly storerooms: well-organized and well-stocked. Stout Pells held the torch high, shedding light on all the riches accumulated there. Enormous sewn sacks containing barley, oats, and millet were stacked higher than her head. Wooden slats made an aisle through the center so the oldest could be used first. It appeared Thayne had an eye for organization and preparation. She wasn’t needed here.

The next series of rooms were devoted to barrels containing ales, brews, and meads. According to Maves, Thayne had his own aleswoman who oversaw his brewery. He also had his cooper making the barrels, and his own method of dating and logging each barrel, so none need drink a vinegar brew unless they wanted that sort of thing. The rooms were a maze, crafted with walls of wood. Stout Pells gave her the explanation without asking: Spirits were kept separated. The walls made access and tallies easier.

Amalie’s housekeeping skills obviously weren’t needed here, either.

The corner room was given over to the healer when needed, it held several long benches, a small fireplace on the far wall, and a rock rimmed well in one corner. Constructed when the foundations were first laid out, but rarely used now, there was still a bucket drawn each week to make certain of the water.

The other staircase was timber-constructed, and creaked with age. She could see about getting that replaced. And if it helped part the cloud of worry dogging her, she’d even try wielding the ax to chop the wood.

The steps led straight to the kitchens. Amalie would have known without being told. The smell of bread baking, meat roasting, stews and broths cooking, and chattering gave every indication of a hive of industry. Clanswomen were involved in every form of food preparation when they entered, and all of it immediately stopped. Amalie kept her head high and met each look as it was given her, although most kept their heads down and dipped into curtsies as she greeted them. Her presence put a decided damper on the buzz of words she’d heard, as well as the warmth she’d felt, until by the time she left, the place had the same chilling aspects as the rooms below. She was aware of dislike and animosity, but hadn’t been slammed with it before.

So, MacGowan clan didn’t accept or like her yet. That was something she could work on, as well as the stairs. She’d wonder over how later. It was enough she had another assignment to stir through the mantle of worry.

She was led into a tower stairwell, and from there along a hall carved into the rock, and then, surprisingly, into a small chapel, with a little nave and altar built of stone. Maves explained that this one had been built back in Norman times, for the laird and his immediate family. It was out of use now, and felt it. There were three cloister windows of stained glass lighting the altar, and an air of peace and sanctity that begged one to enjoin.

Amalie did a quick walk-through before moving into another hall, and that ended at a large wooden, iron-studded door that led outside. She started gathering quite a few more participants to her tours of the outbuildings, most of them silent and sullen-looking. She told herself they were just curious about the new mistress, and then she worked at believing it. It was still difficult to ignore the dozen or so women trailing along as she toured the larder where the milk was curdled and cheeses hardened; the paneterie where the baked goods were stored, some of them hardening into stone-consistency for preservation. Stout Pells gave her the reason as he broke one and handed a portion to her. Amalie didn’t even wipe her hand before taking it, gaining his grin in reply. The cakes were dry, gritty, and fairly tasteless. She sucked absently on it as they continued their tour. Some of the oatcakes got berries added when they were in season. That made them a bit more tasty. Or a man could swig a good gulp of whiskey to assist with the swallowing. Either way, these cakes were a Highlander’s friend when on a long journey.

. . . such as reaching the MacKennah Castle and Thayne . . .

Amalie stumbled as they reached the smoke shed, disguising it as clumsiness so nobody would notice the instant stab of fear she’d displayed. It was much better to stay occupied. She put her attention to the two huntsmen as they explained how game meats and fish were prepared, usually getting sliced into long thin slabs for smoking. Amalie smiled and nodded, and stifled any queasiness, and got more than a smile or two in reply. And then Stout Pells gave her his arm to lead her to the next set of buildings.