My Fair Highlander (24 page)

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Authors: Mary Wine

BOOK: My Fair Highlander
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“What ye must nae do is surprise me, Lady Justina, else there will be dire results. I am nae in the mood to ask too many questions.”
Gordon replaced his sword, but he kept an eye on Synclair until the man followed suit.
“Lady?” Jemma turned her head and recognized Lady Justina. Synclair nodded at her in response. Gordon turned to sweep her with a keen look, ensuring that she was settled well before turning back to look at Lady Justina.
“Why are you dressed like a boy, Justina?” It was a dangerous thing to do because the Church spoke against women dressing in men's clothing. Punishment was harsh, but even worse were the superstitions that attached themselves to those females who donned britches.
They would be sterile or too small to take a man's member or become diseased, and the list continued. There were even those who claimed witches were girls who had worn britches, and the clothing had turned them against the natural order of the world.
“Fine, nothing from the kitchens.” Gordon walked over to the window the water was drawn through. He pulled on the cable and turned over more than a dozen buckets before he filled the small cup with water and carried it back to the bed.
Justina walked to the open shutter and looked down. Synclair was right behind her, and he even reached out to pull on the rope and watch the buckets rise from the river below.
“That should keep them busy for a moment.” Gordon lifted the mug to her mouth, and Jemma sighed as the cool liquid soothed her dry lips.
“I have decided on which chamber she shall go to.”
Gordon released the back of her head and settled her against the pillows before turning to look at Justina.
“And how do ye plan to feed her if nothing may come from the kitchens?”
“My maidservant Claire will do all that is needed and use only those things that were brought from Amber Hill. I will reside here and sample what is sent up from the kitchens.”
Jemma didn't think she might feel worse, but hearing Justina make her suggestion filled her with dread.
“Justina, no, you must not risk yourself.”
The lady moved across the floor with a smile on her lips. “Do not worry, Jemma, I will not eat much, only enough to catch the guilty one if they attempt to finish what they have begun. We must make them think you are here, so a woman must take your place. Believe me, I am glad of the chance to do something for your brother.”
That brought another feeling of discomfort to her for she hadn't really thought of the woman her brother had at Amber Hill. Lady Justina had betrayed his trust by aiding his bride in escaping the castle. Curan wasn't being vindictive in keeping the lady within his walls; someone powerful at court had sent her there to betray her brother's trust. Curan was keeping Justina away from that man, but the fact remained that Justina had been living there, without a place, and that was something Jemma had tasted recently. It was bitter indeed.
“Synclair will show you the chamber I selected. There is only one window, and that will hopefully keep you from being seen. It is imperative that everyone down to the smallest kitchen girl believes you are still in this chamber and recovering well. If it is believed that you are regaining your health, another attempt might be made.”
“Justina—”
Justina looked at Gordon. “Take her now, she has not the strength for arguing against what is needed to end this threat for good. Rest is what she must have to recover. Do not be foolish enough to think because she is awake, all is well.”
“Gordon, don't listen to her—”
“I have no better idea, lass, and keeping ye from harm is something I will do anything to achieve.”
Her husband scooped her up, and she couldn't help but curl toward his heat. Her body was too cold, and the heat from his body helped soothe the ache that was threatening to send tears into her eyes. In truth, she felt her small amount of strength beginning to fail. She did feel those tears run down her cheeks because she was grateful to Justina for telling Gordon to take her away.
Her husband carried her through the hallways with Synclair walking ahead of them to make sure no one watched their journey. They left the tower that held the laird's chamber and headed to the oldest one. This tower was round, and the stairs were steep and narrow. Gordon carried her up to the second floor and through a single door.
Her husband stopped and surveyed the room. It was humble but clean. The bed was made with fresh sheets, and thick pillows were piled up so that they would support her. He settled her on them and brushed a hand over the tears that had wet her cheeks.
“I didna mean to hurt ye, lass.”
“You didn't. I detest being helpless, and I am too weak to not cry over such an unchangeable thing.”
He leaned toward her and kissed one cheek. It was a soft pressing of his lips, but she shivered with the contact. His hand was still cradling her nape, the fingers moving in soft, soothing motions.
“Yer tears wound me, lass. I swear I feel each one more deeply than any cut I have ever received.”
“Stay with me.”
She was weak and couldn't hold back the words.
“I can nae and make the staff believe that ye are in our chamber, but I will come often, and be very sure that I will feel the separation keenly, lass.”
The door opened, and he jerked his head up.
“I am Claire.”
She had her arms full, and Gordon rose to help her. There were small bags and more sheets and towels; even a cooking pot was dangling from the woman's arm. The room had a small fireplace set into the wall and a single window. The window did not have glass but wooden shutters that could be used to close it when the weather was too cold.
“You should go now. I will look after her needs.”
Claire was soft spoken, but there was no missing the sound of experience in her tone. It sent a shiver down Jemma's spine, and it drew a cringe from her husband.
“Aye.”
He leaned down and kissed her once more. Jemma reached for him and had to force herself not to cling. She was afraid, but so was he. She caught a glimpse of it in his eyes, and her heart clutched that bit of knowledge close.
If he was frightened for her, he might learn to love her. It was an odd hope when she considered the fact that she should be more worried about opening her eyes again. Instead all she had swirling around in her mind was longing for affection from the man who had touched her heart. She took him into her dreams, and that brought her more comfort than any of the prayers that had been muttered at her bedside.
 
Time became indefinable. Jemma awoke at odd hours; sometimes the church bell woke her, other times it was the wind whistling in through the window. Claire always seemed to be awake when Jemma opened her eyes. The woman moved in a slow motion that was soothing to the eyes. She offered Jemma warm broth that didn't tempt her. Her stomach cramped at the idea of any food, so she closed her eyes and escaped back into sleep.
“Ye need the nourishment, lass.”
Gordon's voice drew her back to the harsh world with its discomforts. She opened her eyes to discover that the sunlight was gone and only moonlight shone through the open window.
Her husband lifted her up and placed another pillow behind her to keep her head more elevated.
“There's my lass, open yer eyes and share a bit of supper with me.”
“The night feels further gone than supper.”
He offered her a smile and a nod. “Aye, it is. The sun will rise in another hour.” Claire brought him a small bowl that gently steamed. Jemma wrinkled her nose, the scent of food sickening her, but her husband offered her a spoonful in spite of her disgruntled expression.
“Ye can nae expect to recover without food, lass, and I've gone to quite a bit of trouble to share a bit of a meal with ye.”
She opened her mouth and swallowed the soup. A cramp seized her belly. It was so painful she gasped. Gordon set the bowl aside and placed a large hand on her stomach to gently massage the tension from her muscles. His fingers forced the knots to loosen, allowing her to draw breath. Sweat dotted her forehead, and she shook her head.
“No more. I cannot stomach it.”
Claire stood nearby, unrelenting in her quiet fashion. The companion took only a single step forward and waited until Gordon turned his attention to her.
“She must eat to cleanse the poison from her flesh, else it will fester.”
Gordon's fingers tensed where they still worked the tight muscles of her belly, and his expression hardened. She'd only seen such determination in him when he faced down the English knights who had tried to kill her. Now it was aimed at her. He picked up the bowl and the spoon, but from the look in his eyes, it might as well have been sword and shield.
“Ye will eat, Jemma, because I know that ye are every bit as stubborn as I am and ye will nae allow this foul deed to take yer life away.”
The spoon was pressing against her lips, but it was his tone that made her open her mouth and take his offering.
“The sun is going to rise, and I want ye to see how beautiful the day is, lass.”
There was no relenting in him. One spoon after the other, he pressed the contents of the bowl into her. But her insides only gave a few more twinges before accepting the soup. It might even be called soothing except that there was dull pain still lingering everywhere within her. She heard the spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl and sighed with relief. Her eyelids closed in weary fatigue.
“Aye, lass, 'tis enough for the moment.” He set the bowl aside, sparing her the last bit. She blew out a sigh of relief while her belly balanced on the edge of nausea. She closed her eyes, trying to think of other things besides the discomfort attempting to make her reject the soup.
“I brought ye something, sweet wife. Open yer eyes and look at what ye reduce me to gathering for ye. Me men believe I've gone soft, and that is a fact.”
Jemma opened her eyes to see him lifting a small bundle of heather up off the table. This time he'd tied it with a ribbon.
“A bit of an enticement to make ye want to rise from this bed. The world is out there waiting on ye to fill it with mayhem once again. I believe even the laundresses miss ye.”
“They do not.” She reached for the heather, her eyes drinking in the sight of the tiny flowers so rich with color. Why had she never noticed the brilliant shade before? Each tiny petal was unique but blended together to form a magnificent display of beauty. It was breathtaking. “So kind of you . . .” Her words trailed off, and the hand she raised to reach for his gift never made it. Now that she was full, her strength seemed to be gone. Her eyelids fluttered shut, but she smiled because she took the vision of that bouquet with her and the feeling of tenderness for the man who had picked it for her.
 
He'd never been so frightened.
Gordon watched his sleeping wife and ground his teeth in frustration. His sword arm was no use here. The urge to have Anyon whipped until she confessed threatened to boil over, past his logical ability to reason. Although the girl was the likely culprit, they had no proof. He'd never been a laird to condemn without evidence. Barras Castle had never once held the reputation as being a place where mercy was absent. There was no rack in the dungeon or any other foul means of torture. At the moment he felt as if that fact was the only thing holding his hand back from ordering something he might regret.
He wanted to hang her.
Or himself for tumbling her. It had been the rash mistake that many a man made when they'd had one or two ales and the night was cool enough to make the idea of pressing up against something warm enticing.
Aye, a mistake, and one that may have risen up to cut far deeper than he believed he might survive. Jemma was too pale, and dark circles ringed her eyes. Lady Justina would not confirm to him that his wife would recover; instead, the lady offered him only the hope that their action ensured—that no further poison would make its way into her body. He reached out and stroked his hand along his wife's face. Her skin felt more delicate than before, more fragile. But her breath teased his knuckle, giving him solid proof that she was still the wildcat he'd labeled her. There was fight in her yet.
But would it be enough?
That question tore at the very fabric of Gordon's soul.
He stood up and left the chamber, moving toward the sanctuary of the church. There had never been a woman who drove him to his knees, but now he knelt willingly in the hope that God might hear him.
For his lament was great and the blessing he sought more precious than he could say. For Jemma, he would fall to his knees.
Gladly, even humbly.
Chapter Eleven
“
I
am so tired of this bed.” Jemma folded her legs and let out a huff. Claire eyed her from across the room.
“You should spend more time being grateful that you are still alive.”
“I am grateful.” But she did sound like she was whining, and she was very aware of how fortunate she was to be alive. The sunlight looked brighter and the air smelled better than she had ever noticed. Scooting to the edge of the bed, she stood up, but she had to hug the thick banister that held up the curtain to remain on her feet. Weakness still ruled her.
Claire knew her duty well, for the companion was quickly by her side, offering her shoulders to help support Jemma.
“Do you wish to go to the window, my lady?”
“Yes, thank you.”
It was a long journey that frustrated Jemma almost to the point of tears. Now that the pain was gone, she was impatient to return to normal, but her body didn't seem to agree. She needed to lean on Claire for every step. Her knees felt wobbly, and the activity demanded that her heart move faster, but it felt like the muscle was too weak to keep up with the simple task of walking. Her blood was sluggish, resisting the command to circulate. Along her legs, her muscles protested having to move, but the sunlight drew her forward.
“There now, the sun must feel good on your face.”
“It does.”
And the sight of the yard filled her with happiness. The church was in sight, and she could see the nuns tending to the windows. Off to the other side the boys were once more training with their wooden swords. She could see men walking along the curtain wall and hear the blacksmith working on his anvil, the steady hammering drifting up to her window. She could also hear the water beyond the tower in front of her. Her senses wanted to notice everything suddenly, and Jemma drank it in, absorbing it. But she forced herself to be realistic about how much effort it was going to take to return to the bed.
She might be weak, but she was sick of being carried like a babe.
“I should return now.”
“Very well, my lady.”
Claire lent her strength again on the way back to the bed, and Jemma blew out a tiny sigh of relief when she reached it. Her legs quivered, but satisfaction filled her, too, for being able to do something beyond waiting to be catered to. There was an ache in her legs, but the sort that came from working hard. She felt better, as though the short walk had begun the process of unfreezing her body. Her breathing felt deeper, and she smiled as the increased air cleared up her thoughts even more. The fresh breath banished the haze that seemed to have settled into her for so long. Relief replaced the weakness, and she smiled with satisfaction.
“Shall I read to you, my lady?”
“Umm, that would be thoughtful.” And a test of her newly cleared thoughts.
Claire opened up a small book and sat down on a stool near the bed. Her voice was even and soft as she began to read. Jemma reached over to pick up the newest piece of heather Gordon had brought her. Holding it up to her nose, she inhaled the fragrance, allowing it to chase away the depression that was attempting to settle into her.
He hasn't told me he loves me.
Which was not to say that he didn't, but it wasn't to say that he did.
I love him.
She knew it now and even found herself being thankful for the poison because it had forced her to see what she had. When time grew short, everything became dearer. It had been that way with her father, too. She smiled at the memories, able to recall them without sorrow now. She would never regret the years she had spent with him, for that was what made her into the woman she was. It was what had taught her to love. If that was insanity, so be it. She wanted no cure, only time to spend loving the man who was her husband. There was never enough time to love the ones you held dear, but always plenty of days to mourn your mistakes.
A soft knock landed on the door. Claire stopped reading and stood up, but the door opened before she reached it. Jemma turned her head to see one of the nuns standing there in her wool robe. The garment was undyed, only the light cream color of the wool. Her head was covered with another piece of wool; this one had a black band that tightened around her forehead. The black signified that she had taken her final vows. There wasn't a hint of her hair showing, the head wrap tightened down to help her preserve her chastity and modesty vows. She even hid her hands inside the wide cuffs of her sleeve by crossing her arms in front of her body and clasping her own wrists. Jemma wondered if the girl had a true calling, for she appeared to take the duty of being a nun very seriously.
“Forgive me, but the laird wishes to see ye in the church sanctuary.”
Claire frowned and looked at Jemma.
“The laird bid me care for his wife while you attend him.” The nun was meek and her tone mild. She even lowered herself when she finished speaking.
“I see. Yes. Thank you.” Claire walked toward the wall where her length of rust and orange Barras wool was hung. She placed it over her shoulder and belted it at her waist as she had been instructed to do. There was nothing to show that she was anything but another girl brought into the castle to work during the busy harvest season.
“I will return, my lady.”
The door opened and closed softly behind Claire. The nun seemed to be frozen in place for a long moment. She stared at her with eyes that were impossible to read. She suddenly stiffened and walked to the window. Reaching out she placed her hands in the opening and rested them on the thick stone of the wall.
“I saw you looking out of the window.”
Jemma felt a shiver go down her back. There was something in the tone of her voice that seemed cold. “Yes, the sunlight drew me toward it.”
“No, that is not what drew you toward the window.” The nun spoke sharply.
Jemma jerked and pushed herself up off the pillows. The nun turned slowly and watched her while shaking her head.
“It was God who drew you to this window.
God.
”
“Yes, of course, since God made all things.”
The nun had a smile on her lips that looked strange. It was almost as if the woman enjoyed seeing how much Jemma had to strain to sit up. She turned and looked out the window before turning back around to aim her attention at Jemma.
“God sent you to the window so that I might find you and finish the duty that He charged me with.”
The chill went down her back again, this time much colder because the nun was moving slowly toward her.
“What duty is that?”
“To help my husband live a pure life.” The nun's voice turned sweet. “We shall be blessed in too many ways to count just like Abraham if we remain free of sin. But he doesn't understand, he doesn't trust in the gift that God can grant to those who listen to him.”
“Your husband?”
The nun moved closer and nodded. “Gordon, my husband. My father made me swear to wed him in spite of my devotion to God, but I see now that I may serve both God and my husband.”
“Imogen?”
“I am Mary Job. Sister Mary Job, and God sent you to that window so that I might know where you were and finish removing ye from tempting my sweet husband away from me.”
“Sweet Christ.” Jemma scooted across the bed, horror filling her. The woman was mad; Jemma could see the insanity burning brightly in her eyes.
“Yes . . . why yes . . . You understand. I am going to send you to our sweet savior where there shall be no earthly sin.”
“Imogen, no! This is not what God wants.” Jemma swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
Imogen didn't like hearing her name. She frowned, her face turning red. “It is, and you are naught but a usurper! Trying to take my husband, oh whore! Ye shall not sully him! I shall smother you and remove ye from his path!”
Imogen lunged at her with her hands outstretched like the claws of a wolf. Jemma screamed and stood up. She had strength for enough steps to get to the door and pull it wide, but even the fear of her life was not enough to overcome the weakness that the poison had left. She stumbled into the wall, and Imogen slammed into her. Pain slashed through her as Imogen grabbed her braid and yanked.
“I must smother you in yer bed to show him what lust brings! Nothing but death.”
Jemma forced herself to draw enough breath in to scream again. This time the sound echoed down the stairway.
Imogen snarled and tried to drag her back into the chamber, but the door had shut, making it necessary to open it with one hand. Jemma jerked against her hold while it was divided between the door and her hair. Imogen snarled and pulled on her head, but Jemma allowed her legs to crumple, making her body dead weight. Imogen was jerked off her feet and fell over the top of her.
A shriek came from the nun's lips as she began falling down the narrow stairs. Her hand tightened in her hair, pulling Jemma after her.
At least the truth will be known . . .
It was little comfort, and her body tumbled down the steps. Pain tore through her as her spine struck the edge of one step and then her shoulder fell against another, and over she tumbled to strike her cheek. She lacked the strength to stop her fall, and it felt like time was standing still. Jemma heard each one of her heartbeats, listened to them and discovered that the wait between one and the next was very long indeed when you were anticipating the end of your life. They fell for what seemed like an hour before landing on the bottom floor.
“I must kill you!”
Imogen rose up with blood staining her cream-colored robe, the crimson fluid flowing from a cut in her forehead. Her eyes glowed with insanity, and her fingers were clenched into fists. Jemma tried to rise, but her body refused. Her muscles were useless, the weakness completely laying her at Imogen's mercy.
“I must strike now! Now where God has delivered ye to me.”
Jemma rolled over and stumbled away from her a few more precious steps.
“No!” she wailed loud and almost pitifully.
“You interfere in God's work! Stand steady to receive His judgment.”
Jemma gritted her teeth and forced her protesting legs to move again. But Imogen was far stronger. The nun jumped onto her, pushing her back onto the stone floor. Her hands locked around her throat, choking the breath from her. Jemma struggled, but Imogen held tight, preventing any breath from reaching her burning lungs.
“Yes . . . yes . . . so simple . . . ye will die now!”
Jemma forced her hands to stop trying to break Imogen's hold on her neck. She clawed at the nun's eyes instead. Imogen snarled but suddenly gasped when men rounded the corner. They were running and skid across the stone floor when they realized the way was blocked.
Jemma gasped for breath now that she could. Kerry reached out and pulled Imogen off her with one jerk of his arm.
“Christ in heaven, what are ye doing to the Mistress?”
“She is not the Mistress! She can never be my husband's wife.” Imogen was distraught. She began walking in a circle while she babbled.
“Sweet God.” Kerry crossed himself, his face full of horror to hear a nun talk of murder. He went to grab Imogen but couldn't force his hands to close around her arm. He didn't need to. The nun was in shock, hugging herself.
“Why, God? Why wasn't I able to kill her? I have been so close twice, and yet she still draws breath . . . he is my husband, joined to me by yer holy church . . . she is worldly sin and everything ye forbid . . . ye sent me to kill her, why did I fail? I am yer servant, yer most humble servant . . .”
The men who had come with Kerry all backed away from Imogen. Another set of footfalls came around the corner. This time Gordon led the charge, but he stumbled to a halt when he ran into his captain.
“What goes on here?”
The horror on Kerry's face drew a frown from Jemma's husband.
“Yer first wife, Laird.”
Gordon froze and turned to look at the nun. His face drained of color while he listened to her continue to babble.
“Imogen?” It was a whisper filled with horror and the desire to have himself proved wrong. His first wife looked up and smiled as innocently as a child. She held her hands open to him in welcome, but her palms were covered in her own bright red blood.
“Dearest husband, we must seek God's favor through rejection of all earthly sin . . . I failed to kill the whore that draws ye away from chastity . . . so ye must help me . . . ye are my husband, my partner in this world . . . together we shall have all of the Lord's blessings if we keep His commandments . . .”
“No, Imogen. Ye are nae me wife, ye chose the Church and I bid ye joy.” Gordon shook his head. “Take her away, Kerry.”

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