My Fair Highlander (23 page)

Read My Fair Highlander Online

Authors: Mary Wine

BOOK: My Fair Highlander
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Gordon threw someone out of the way and didn't know who it was. He didn't care, either. His room was full of people once more, only today they lacked the sense of joy that had been present on his wedding night. No one was doing much but watching and waiting. His attention shifted to the priest, and Gordon felt his mouth go dry.
The priest was already there. His vestments on and his lips muttering the final words of last rites. He finished, and the assembled people all raised their hands to cross themselves. Two of the church nuns knelt near the bedside, their fingers moving on their wooden rosary beads while they concentrated on saying prayers for the woman lying there.
“I'm very sorry, my son.” The priest passed him by with two younger priests in training following him.
Several of the maids began wailing, the sound driving a stake through Gordon's heart. He staggered, lacking the strength to cover the remaining distance to the bed.
How could she be gone?
“What are ye crying for?” The cook burst through the door, her hands full with a steaming pot. “Get out of my way, ye useless lack wits!”
“But the priest gave the mistress her last rites.”
The cook scoffed and kept moving toward the bed. “Well, that's well and good, but no one's dead yet so stop yer whining. I don't abandon hope so quickly, else I might have sent half of ye back to yer mothers on the second day ye served in this house.”
The cook suddenly noticed him. “Good, a pair of hands that are strong enough to help me.”
“Help?”
“Aye.” The cook reached into the bed and whisked the covers away from Jemma. Her lips pressed into a hard line. “She's too hot beneath all of this. Poor lass has enough to deal with without being smothered.”
The lack of bed coverings allowed him to set eyes on Jemma. He stared at her and watched her chest rise and fall. It was a shallow motion, barely noticeable, but it filled him with strength.
“Get out! Anyone who isn't helping, get ye gone from this chamber!”
There was a flurry of motion toward the door. Several shrieks came from those trampled in the frantic crush of bodies trying to obey the laird's commands. Gordon dismissed them from his mind. He ripped the bed clothing even farther away from his wife, throwing it toward the nuns.
“Gordon?”
He gasped, sitting heavily on the side of the bed. Jemma's eyes were open just the tiniest amount. He reached out to grasp her hand.
“Aye, lass, I'm here.”
She nodded and opened her mouth, but nothing came out except a dry rattle of breath. Her face was the same color as her chemise and her lips bloodless.
“Sit her up now, Laird, as gentle as ye would a babe.”
Gordon realized that he was afraid to touch her. His hands shook, and he discovered he was grinding his teeth while he reached for Jemma. Her eyes remained on him, giving him the strength to slip his arms beneath her shoulders and raise her up.
“Now support her head. I forgot that ye have most likely never held a babe.”
“I hope to.” He shifted one hand so that it clasped Jemma's neck. She felt too delicate, too small now. The woman who had wrestled with him had somehow vanished, and left in her place was this mere whisper of life. But it was the most precious thing he had ever felt. Gordon gathered her up, placing one of his bent legs behind her and sitting behind her to make sure she was steady.
“What do ye plan?”
The cook was stirring something into her pot. Steam rose from it and a bitter scent. He suddenly frowned. “And why don't I know yer Christian name? Everyone calls ye Cook.”
“Because I detest me given name, but to say so would be to disrespect me father, so call me Cook. 'Tis a better name than the one I was baptized with, for sure.”
The cook pulled a small ladle from the waist tie of her apron and used it to measure out some of her brew into a pitcher. It was the smallest pitcher in the house, a pewter one used for serving cream.
“We need to help her drink, or she'll be a ghost by tomorrow for sure.”
The cook gently placed the dimpled part of that pitcher against Jemma's mouth and tipped just one spoonful of the fluid against her tongue. Gordon's wife jerked and lifted her chin.
“Forgive me, Mistress, for I know 'tis a bitter concoction.”
The cook placed another measure of it in Jemma's mouth, and this time she swallowed it. Gordon felt sweat trickle down the side of his face. Every muscle felt as though it was tight enough to snap. The cook kept placing spoonfuls of her brew inside his wife's mouth until Jemma sighed.
“Better . . .” Jemma turned her head to rub against him before her eyes slid closed and her breathing became shallow. So shallow it sent fear through him once again.
“That will have to do for the moment.”
The cook stood up and blew out a long breath. Her eyes swept Jemma from head to toe, and her face became clouded with serious thought.
“That was an antidote?”
“It's something I learned when I was a young woman, but I don't know if it will be doing the job needed.”
Gordon gently laid his wife down and pulled up just enough sheet to cover her.
The cook continued. “Ye see, we don't know what was used to poison her, so I don't know if what I mixed up was what she needed or if it came too late. The mistress was working on the books, and no one knows how long she was ill before Ula discovered her. It's possible that the evil person behind this has already done the wicked deed by stealing her away from us.”
Gordon felt a shiver go down his spine. Anger flashed through him like a spark through black powder. Rage exploded inside him, and the helplessness in his wife's pale face only made that anger burn hotter.
“Anyon.”
He snarled the word.
The cook's eyes went wide, and horror clouded her face.
“Tell me, woman, why do you look like that?”
The cook wrung her apron with nervous hands. “I sent the girl to serve the mistress cider this morning. I thought it would impress upon her the place she needed to learn was hers. I never thought Anyon had evil in her heart.”
“That bitch tried to drown my wife earlier this week.”
“Lads fight and then they drink together when their tempers have cooled, Laird. I thought Anyon just needed a firm hand to teach her to be content with what God had given her. I never thought she'd turn to murder. It still baffles me; I've knelt in church beside her. How could that be—how could so much evil be right there and none of us see it?”
Gordon ground his teeth together. “I don't know.” He forced himself to think, to make his mind work despite the rage burning in his gut.
“I don't know, but I do know this. Someone did this foul deed and I am going to see them hanged for it.”
Chapter Ten
“
T
he Baron Ryppon is on the road with his men.”
Gordon turned and followed Kerry up to the top of the wall. He looked through the spy glass and inspected the flags being carried by the men preceding the baron. Those flags danced wildly because Curan was riding hard. The horses were lathered, and his men were stripped down to only breastplate armor and helmet to lighten them.
“Allow them through!”
There was a hustle along the walls, his men filling the positions in spite of his order to allow the English force to enter. He couldn't blame them for that, inviting an English party of knights inside the curtain wall would have most of his Scottish neighbors questioning his sanity.
He felt on the verge of losing his mind. He could feel the rage melting his principles until he was nothing but a savage willing to strike out at anything that might have been responsible.
That was not the way to trap the guilty. He knew it and was trying desperately to maintain his wits. Descending the stairs, he went to meet his friend. Desperate times called for equally desperate measures. There was no one in the castle he might trust. Whoever had poisoned Jemma was one of his own. It infuriated him, it sickened him, but it was the truth.
Curan was out of the saddle and moving quickly to meet him.
“She still lives.”
“I want to see her, now.”
Gordon grunted and turned with an English baron following him. His father was sure to rise from his grave tonight for the fact that he was making an English army welcome in his home, but that was a torment Gordon would gladly suffer if he gained what he desired.
Jemma.
That was it. He needed his wife and didn't want to think about the very real fact that she might not live to see the next day.
Gordon held up a hand and pushed the chamber doors open slowly to keep them from making noise. Whispers came from inside where the nuns were still on their knees praying. They took shifts with their other sisters, an hourglass set on the bed to mark their allotted time.
“Send them out, Barras. We need to talk.”
“Aye.” Gordon crossed the room and stood near the bed. One of the sisters lifted her face. He pointed at her, and she looked at the hourglass.
“Go, Sister. My wife's brother would be in private with his sister.”
The nun hastily crossed herself and grabbed the hourglass. “The English are heretics. You should keep them from her and save her soul.”
“That sounds as though you are judging me, Sister.” Curan stepped up closer to the bed and eyed the nun. She grabbed her fellow sister's arm and pulled her off her knees.
“God will judge us all.”
“Yes, He shall.” Curan leaned forward with his response, and the nuns slipped on the floor because they tried to run so quickly. The chamber door burst open as they hit it hard. Curan shrugged.
“I seem to have forgotten how to deal with nuns.”
“I hear being raised in England has that effect.”
Curan knelt down, and his armor shifted and filled the chamber with the soft sounds of metal moving against metal. He sat his helmet aside and reached for his sister's hand.
“Open the bed drapes, I need light.”
Gordon slid the drapes back to allow the afternoon light to illuminate the bed. Jemma's breath was the only sound in the room, and it was far too faint. Her brother lifted her hand, tilting it so that the light fell on it.
“What are you looking for?”
“A blue tinge on the fingernails. It's a sign of eastern poisons.” Curan continued to inspect his sister's hand but finally gave a grunt of satisfaction. “There is none, and for that we should be grateful. The Moors brew poison that is deadly.”
The chamber door opened, and several people slipped inside. They walked carefully, mindful of their steps. Curan turned to speak to one.
“Her nails are white but not blue.”
The man was thin and lanky, obviously young. Gordon glared at Curan. “How can someone that young know anything of value when it comes to poisons?”
The knight behind the youth reached forward and lifted the helmet off the youth's head. It proved an easy task because the youth only measured up to the knight's shoulder. The helmet had hidden a face that was clearly female. She was quite a beauty, even lacking feminine clothing.
“This is the Lady Justina.” And the woman was dressed every inch like a boy. A pair of baggy britches hid the curves of her hips, and a solid armor breastplate covered up her other feminine curves.
Gordon crossed his arms in front of his chest. “The same lady who betrayed ye by betraying the location of the side gate that yer bride used to escape through?”
“Aye.” Curan nodded. “She has been my guest since that time for I cannot in good conscience send her back to a guardian who charges her with such tasks.”
“You take too much upon yourself.” Lady Justina sent a hard look toward Curan.
“I disagree, Lady. If the one who sent you wants you back, he can ask me and admit that he sent you.”
Lady Justina shook her head but Gordon had no patience for their quarrel. He only had time for Jemma.
“Why is she here? I have enough people I distrust around me. I don't need one of yers to watch me back for.”
“She is here because she has spent her entire life at court and knows far more about poison than any of us, because that is the place where such evil is used often.”
Gordon narrowed his eyes, but the lady didn't crumple beneath his displeasure. She offered him a serene look, but if one took a moment to peer deeper into her eyes, they could see the strength hidden there. She looked delicate, but she was solid like stone. It was something he was more accustomed to seeing in knights. That look which a man gained from witnessing death.
“Reject me if you wish, Lord Barras, but I will tell you plainly that I am your best hope of catching this assassin, and that you need to reconsider sending me away.”
Gordon felt one of his eyebrows rise. “Ye've caught so many of them, I suppose?”
“A few.”
“Which is more than I have.” Curan cast a look back at his sister. “If Jemma survives, she will only face waiting for the next attack or returning home with me.”
Gordon stiffened. He clamped down on the denial he wanted to issue to Curan because he had to. Never once had he been defeated when fighting against men he could see coming at him, but this manner of attack was one that he knew no way to challenge.
“What is yer plan, Lady?”
Justina held up a hand and turned in a full circle, inspecting every bit of the room. She began to walk, looking at the floor and pushing at any boards that appeared uneven. It was the sort of inspection that placed confidence in him when he had been so sure mistrust was the only thing he might have for the Lady. Justina finished and came back to drop to her knees and crawl beneath the bed that Jemma slept in. They heard her tapping on the boards with her hands before she emerged from the other side.
“First we shall move Jemma, but it must be done in secret and I must inspect the chamber before she is taken there.”
Justina stood up and wet one fingertip before reaching out to run it along the sheet that Jemma lay on. She tasted her finger gingerly.
“Ye think there is poison in the sheet?”
Justina licked another finger and ran it along the chemise his wife wore. “It would not be the first time, and do not doubt that assassins are very clever. I have seen gloves and saddles poisoned, food and fabric, too. There is no decency in these assassins; they will poison bedding and not care that a husband or wife dies along with their intended victim. Poison the wet nurse to get at the child she suckles.”
“I didna take ill and I slept in that bed.”
“Except that your staff most likely changed the sheet this morning before she was found, and if someone truly wishes her dead, they would be wise to use more than one dose.” Justina pressed her fingers against Jemma's face, peering intently at her skin. “It looks like common toxins such as hemlock or toad stools.”
Curan gave a soft grunt. “You see why I brought her.”
“It is becoming clearer, if not more disturbing, to see such knowledge in one so delicate.”
Justina frowned, the harshest expression that had crossed her lips. “Delicate does not survive long at court. My husband died of poison.”
“My condolences.”
The lady lifted her fair face to stare straight at him. “My only regret is that it took him too gently to hell and that I was not the one who fed it to him. He was a very cruel man and killed too many innocents before his ways came back to haunt him.” The lady suddenly looked older than her years. “And my father knew it well when he wed me to him. That is court; nothing matters but ambition. Not even murder.”
Justina look into Jemma face. “But perhaps some good might come of it now.”
 
Lady Justina searched his towers. Gordon paced the floor in front of his wife's bed while he waited. The lady had not enlightened him on the rest of her plan, saying only that she needed to keep the information from as many ears as possible.
“Gordon?”
He turned in a swirl of kilts to discover Jemma watching him.
“Good evening to ye, lass.”
 
Jemma tried to smile but her lips were dry and the skin cracked. Pain went through them, but it was mild compared to the burning that was in her belly. It was even more than her belly because the fire licked over her back and down into her legs.
But the sight of Gordon soothed her. He moved toward her, and the bed shifted when he sat on its edge. Just that small motion sent pain spiking through her. It must have been plain on her face for Gordon frowned.
“Do not.”
He picked up one of her hands and held it gently between his two hands. “Do nae what, lass?”
“Do not treat me so.” Two tears eased from the corners of her eyes, bringing relief from the dryness she hadn't realized tormented her, but the salt stung. “You have never been anything but bold with me. I like that.”
“Well then, lass, ye'll have to be getting well so that we can get back to that.”
He wanted her to, she could see the need shimmering in his eyes. The pain increased, burning hot now that she was fully awake. Poisons were horrible things; some of them took a long time to kill, eating away at their victims before finally snuffing out their lives. She had always known that she would die someday, but it had never been something that she feared. Living had been the challenge when her father died. Now she had a reason to want to cling to life. Her hands tightened around Gordon's, and the feel of his warm flesh against her own was soothing.
“I love you.”
He flinched, a muscle twitching along the side of his jaw. He leaned closer, laying her hand on her stomach before stroking his fingertips along her cheeks.
“Do nae do that, lass.”
The hard edge to his voice drew a soft smile from her in spite of the pain it sent along her lips.
“But I do and—”
“And ye will nae say good-bye to me now, Jemma. Ye will survive this and ye will be my wife.”
If the force of his will could force fate to heed him, then Jemma would live. She stared at the determination in his eyes, trying to absorb some of it, but her body hurt too badly.
Gordon turned and lifted something off a table that had been placed beside the bed. It was a small pewter cup, such as a child might use.
“Some water will make ye feel better.” He lifted her head and supported her neck with a firm hand while sliding behind her to brace her with his body. “I may take to feeding ye, lass, because it gives me the chance to hold ye.”
“Hmmm . . . I find it strangely attractive myself, except for the part where I recall that I am helpless.”
“Drink, lass, and yer strength will return.”
“Do not drink that.”
Gordon jerked the water spilling onto the bed. With one fluid motion he pulled his sword from where it was leaning against the bedside. There was an answering slide of steel against steel as the knight trailing the boy unsheathed his sword. Jemma felt surprise flash through her, for the knight was Synclair and it seemed as if it had been a long time since she had seen him.
“You must not give her anything that has come through your kitchens.”
Gordon slid out from behind her and lowered her onto the pillow with one arm, but he kept his attention on the boy who was telling him what to do. Jemma stared at the youth, trying to decide what it was about him that she found odd.

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