The Heart Queen

by Patricia Potter

“Please stay here with him,” she said to McNann, then hurried to the room her husband had used. His clothes had not yet been taken to the attic. She took out a nightshirt and drawers and hurried back.

  “Help me undress him,” she told McNann, handing him the clothes. A look of surprise crossed his face, but he did as he was told. He held Braemoor up while she tugged his tattered shirt from his body and pulled the nightshirt over. Then she left McNann to take off what remained of Braemoor’s trousers and pull on a pair of drawers.

  When all was accomplished, she turned to him. “You may leave,” she said.

  He backed out. “Aye, my lady,” he said.

  Lucy appeared then with bowls of steaming water. Clara came behind her with bottles of herbs. They put both on a table, then hesitated.

  Lucy hung back but Clara came over and together she and Janet bathed his face. He moaned and tried to fight them but he was obviously unaware of his surroundings. He mumbled something, just as he had before, and she leaned down to hear. “Neil,” she said again, well aware it was the first time she had mentioned his given name in the past eight years. “What is it, Neil? What are you trying to say?”

  “Jan … et.” She could barely make out her name.

  “Aye, it’s Janet,” she said soothingly. She went back to the table and dipped the cloth back in the water, then squeezed it tightly before taking it back over to him. She washed the area around the oozing foul-smelling wound, then rinsed the wound itself.

  He groaned but did not fight her this time. She prayed she could stop the spreading infection. Please God it did not turn to gangrene. When she was satisfied the wound was clean enough, she left his side and made a poultice of lint dripped in oil and placed it on the wound.

  Clara returned with more water and Janet poured a little into a cup, lifted his head and tried to make him drink. He needed liquid. He swallowed, though his eyes remained closed. She got a little more into him, then stopped. “He will need rest and a dram of bark every three hours,” she told Clara.

  “I will stay with him,” Clara volunteered.

  “Nay,” Janet replied. “You get some sleep. You have to watch the children tomorrow.”

  “Are ye sure, my lady?”

  “Aye, he came here because of me. The least I can do is watch him. You and Lucy get some sleep. I hope the doctor will be here before daybreak.” And in truth, she wanted them to leave. She wanted to be alone with him.

  He was very ill. He would probably die. She did not know how to stop the fever. She could sew up a wound when necessary, dispense some herbs, but not much more. She could only stay with him, let him know he was not alone.

  Clara seemed to sense that need. She left with Lucy, closing the door behind her.

  She pulled out a chair and sat on it. She was still sore from her own mishap this day, but her minor pains mattered little. She reached out and touched his face. The bristles of new beard were rough against her hand, the skin hot to her touch.

  He had been the sum of her hopes once. Then embodiment of her disillusionment. She had loved, then hated him. She had needed him, then resented him. She still did not know why he had come to Lochaene, or what he had really wanted.

  The beard made him look both roguish and vulnerable. She had sensed that about him before and then wondered whether she was wrong. Had she just wanted to see something not quite so sure, so confident, so distant?

  “Stay with me,” she demanded of him. She wondered whether she should send anyone to Braemoor to inform them of his injuries. Was there anyone there who cared? She knew he had no family. But surely there was someone.

  Everyone had someone. She had her children.

  He coughed, then groaned. She offered him some more water and he drank it with more ease this time, but she knew it was instinct rather than consciousness. Did he even know where he was? Would he want to be here?

  What had happened to him? Why did someone just dump him at her door?

  And who?

  But none of that really mattered. The only thing that mattered was making him well.

  Through the rest of the night, she continually rinsed his face and his upper body with cool cloths. He mumbled, moved, fought the bed covering. But there was no lucidity.

  She prayed. She had not done so in a long time. She thought God had deserted Scotland. But now she tried again, just as she had when her brother went to join the Jacobite cause.

  “Janet.” He had murmured her name several times. It seemed strange, since he had seemed to avoid it when he’d been here. Such a plain name. Yet it sounded like more in the raw agonized way it seemed jerked from his mouth.

  She leaned down. She had called him “my lord” since his appearance. Mayhap something more personal might help. “Neil,” she said softly, tasting the sound on her lips.

  His lashes fluttered open. His eyes were swollen and red. They seemed to try to focus, then settled on her. Then his eyes narrowed. “Janet …,” he said again. This time it was as much a question as an acknowledgment of her presence. “Where …?”

  “You are back at Lochaene. Someone left you here last night. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Thirs … ty.”

  She went over to the table and poured more water into the cup she’d been using. She put her arm under his head, lifting it slightly, and put the cup to his lips. This time he drank greedily until it was all gone. Almost reluctantly, she removed her arm. “I will have to get you some more water down in the kitchen.”

  “Stay.” It was more a plea than a command.

  Then his eyes closed, as if the act of drinking and the few words had stolen what strength he had.

  She sat back down next to him. “I have sent for a physician. I hope he will be here soon. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Shot … ambushed.”

  “Someone brought you here.”

  “The … outlaw …”

  She tried to understand. “The man who shot you brought you here?”

  “One … of his …” He stopped speaking for a moment, and a shudder ran through his body. She could see it move in his chest. An onslaught of pain? A memory?

  Braemoor did seem to be a man who would shy away from a memory.

  She leaned over. “Who was he …?”

  “Called himself Will,” he said. “They … expected me.”

  “Why did he bring you here?”

  But his eyes were closing again, his chest rising and falling. More easily? She did not know. She could only hope.

  And wonder. He was ambushed. Then whoever ambushed him had brought him back. Had they thought him dead and were sending her a message of some kind? Or had it been some afterthought of compassion? Compassion was a rare commodity these days in Scotland.

  But she would know no more until he woke again. He needed as much rest as he could get. She stood, then decided to go downstairs to fetch some more water. Some needed to be heated for a new poultice. She needed to drain as much of the poison as possible.

  She hurried down the stairs with the pitcher, hesitating for a moment at the door. Then she opened it and looked outside. Dawn was breaking. Fog cloaked the nearby hills but the first light of morning had lightened the sky. It was cold, and she shivered in the hostile wind. But then Scotland was a hostile land, and now she felt it more than ever.

  Janet closed the door and went back inside to the kitchen. The huge fireplace was always lit, and the cook and one helper were already busy preparing bread for the ovens built into the hearth. “I need some more water,” she said.

  Bridget, the cook, hurried to get it. “I heard someone brought the marquis back.” The statement was full of questions.

  But Janet had no answers. “Aye. He is ill. I was hoping the … physician …”

  “He seems a good mon,” Bridget said. “God will look after him.”

  Janet wished she felt her faith that clearly. Instead, she took the water, a more visible and viable sort of help. “Will you make some broth for him? May
hap I can get him to eat.”

  “I will fix the best tha’ can be made,” the woman assured her. “If ye need anything else …”

  The worry was evident in Bridget’s voice. So someone else in the household cared about the marquis, too.

  “Thank you,” she said, feeling an odd pitch of her heart. The Marquis of Braemoor had seemed so alone to her, and never so much as when he was dumped like a sack of potatoes in the courtyard. She did not want him to be alone now.

  She speeded her pace up the stairs. The door was closed. She was sure she had left it open. Mayhap a draft …

  Janet pushed the door open and saw Louisa leaning over the sleeping marquis. “Louisa?”

  The woman jumped as if Janet had been a ghost. Then she appeared to relax. “Oh, it is you, Janet. I rose early, and I heard about the marquis. I came to see whether he needed anything and found him quite alone. He appears to be very ill.”

  “He is,” Janet said, “but the physician should be here soon. And the marquis is a strong man.”

  “So was your husband,” Louisa said, shrugging one shoulder gracefully. “Men do not seem to fare well around you.”

  “I would suggest you go down and wait for the physician,” Janet said coldly. But her heart was beating faster. Louisa was right. She did seem to be a Jonah. But she was not going to let Louisa know her words had affected her.

  “Dreadful thing,” Louisa said. “So much lawlessness today, and His Grace cannot seem to do anything about it.” An almost satisfied look came into her eyes. “I really do not think you should ride alone any longer. Especially considering your fall yesterday.”

  “Your concern is touching,” Janet said dryly. “I will be careful. I am sure the marquis would appreciate it also.”

  “Just remember what I said,” Louisa said, sweeping out the door as if she were a queen. Which was, Janet knew, exactly what Louisa believed she should be.

  She put down the pitcher, then closed the door and returned to look at Braemoor. He had thrown off his bed covering. She touched his face. Was it warmer than before?

  Janet tugged at his nightshirt, urging it over his shoulders. No groan this time. Nothing. Fear ran through her, and her hands trembled as she touched him. His body seemed to be on fire.

  What had Louisa been doing here? Louisa did not appear to have one compassionate bone in her entire body. Curiosity? And what was she doing up at daybreak? She seldom appeared from her room before noon.

  “No!” Braemoor shouted. She leaned down and tried to keep him still so he would not disturb his wound. But his arm flailed out and caught her in the chest, and she went flying back, landing on the floor. All the parts that had been bruised earlier reacted poorly. Painfully, she managed to get to her feet and keep him from falling off the bed.

  “Neil,” she whispered, as she had earlier. It had quieted him then, but now it seemed only to excite him further. He shouted again, his words muffled, and he grabbed her wrist, squeezing it so tight she called out.

  At the sound, he stilled. His grip on her relaxed. She leaned down with her body, her wrist still caught in his grasp. “Neil,” she said again softly, “I am here. Is there anything you want? More water?” Her free hand touched his forehead, ran down the darkened cheeks.

  His eyes opened again. They looked frantic until they focused back at her. “Janet. You … are … safe?”

  “I am well,” she said, “but I canna say the same for you.”

  His eyes went to the wrist he still held. He slowly let go and his gaze fastened on her wrists and the bruises there. “I hurt …”

  “Nay,” she said softly. “’Tis nothing. You did not know what you were doing.”

  She stood and picked up the cup, returning to his side. “Can you drink something?”

  “Aye. I think I could drink the ocean.”

  “You were having nightmares?”

  His dark eyes were brilliant and glittering from fever. But he did not answer, only took some of the water, then fell back on the bed. She pulled back the cover she’d tried to replace and which lay halfway across him, and took the poultice from his wound. It was badly soiled. She quickly made another and carefully placed it on the wound. His body flinched at the new irritation, but no sound escaped his lips.

  His body was still warm with the fever. She had made several drams of water mixed with bark and she took a potion to him. “it doesna taste as good as the water but it will help the fever.”

  He obediently drank it down, then lowered his head, but his eyes still watched her. “You … undressed me?”

  “Nay, McNann did it.”

  “McNann?”

  “Our new butler.”

  She watched him try to absorb that.

  “Can you tell me how you got here?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “You said a bandit ambushed you.”

  “Aye.”

  “You said he knew you were coming.”

  His eyes closed again and for a moment she did not know whether he had lost consciousness again, or was just thinking, recalling, or even measuring what he wanted to say. Even now, he kept so much to himself.

  “Neil?”

  “Not ‘my lord’?” he asked with a tiny hint of humor.

  Poor as it was, it heartened her. But just then she heard noise from below.

  She went to the window. The physician had arrived. He had been here when Alasdair had died, and she had sensed his suspicions. And now … he would probably think the worst of her for having nursed a wounded man who was not her husband.

  “My … lady.” She turned back toward the bed at his words. “Thank you.…”

  They were back to her title. She had liked “Janet” far better. Nonetheless, she kept her voice cool as she replied. “I could hardly let you die.”

  His eyes lost some of their glitter. “In any event …”

  “In any event, the only thanks I need is for you to get well,” she said.

  Their gazes met. His eyes were full of questions.

  Why?

  But she had no time to explore them, for Reginald and the physician stood at the door. She would have to wait to ask her own questions.

  Chapter Twelve

  The physician examined Braemoor, then drew her outside. “He is very ill,” he said. “I will bleed him, extract the poison from him. But I can guarantee nothing.”

  “Nay,” she said.

  Startled, the man started to bluster.

  “He has already lost a great deal of blood,” she said. Losing more made little sense to Janet.

  “I hardly believe you are qualified to make that decision,” he said, squinting his eyes at her. “Your husband did not fare well under your attentions.”

  A chill ran down her back. Reginald and Louisa had done their work well. But she was not going to surrender.

  He turned and went back into the room and stood at the side of the bed. Braemoor had submitted wordlessly to his examination, but now his eyes were angry. He obviously had heard the physician’s words. He tried to sit up, but fell back down.

  “You will do as the countess asks,” Braemoor said.

  “You should be bled. If not, I will take no … responsibility.”

  Braemoor squinted, as if having difficulty in focusing. “Then you have none,” he said.

  “I must protest, my lord.”

  “Then protest, but … do as she says.”

  “Her … husband …”

  “Bloody hell, I … will not be bled,” Braemoor said.

  “Aye, my lord,” the physician said, glaring at Janet. “Then I will leave some medicine to make you sleep …” He turned to Janet. “If he dies, I will report this to the authorities.” He gave her a bottle. “Mix it with water and give some to him every two hours and keep changing the poultices. Keep him as cool as possible.”

  Then he left. Janet stood there, shaking. She wondered whether she had just condemned Neil to death.

  His eyes were closed, as if
the last few hours had completely exhausted him. For a moment, she panicked. What if she was wrong? Yet the physician had done nothing to help her husband, had not, in fact, even decided what had killed him. Still, she had hoped for some miracle.

  She reached out and touched him. He was still so warm.

  “Neil?” she said. But he had drifted away again. She sat next to him, worrying that she had made a terrible mistake. And yet …

  Time passed. She did not know how much. She hesitated to change the poultice again for fear of waking him, and rest, she thought, would be the finest thing for him. What if she was wrong?

  He started to move restlessly again. She sat next to him, sponging his body to keep it cool, changing the foul-smelling poultices, and talking to him even if she was not sure he could hear her.

  Neil drifted in and out of darkness. When he woke, he had no idea how much time had passed. The world was a haze of pain and heat. But he still preferred it to the nightmares. To the faces he saw in his dreams.

  He saw Will over and over again. Standing above him. Dirk raised. He remembered the pain when the man had probed for the musket ball. Most of all, he recalled bits and pieces of the man’s words. He did not know how much had become jumbled in his mind, however. How much was true? How much were lies? And how much had been twisted by the confusion in his own fevered state.

  A woman. He kept remembering that. The outlaw had said a woman had told him that he might be traveling that way.

  And Janet’s soft, soothing words became tangled in it. She kept drawing him back from the darkness. Her hands were so gentle. He even thought he had seen tears in her eyes. Why, of all places, would he have been brought here?

  Janet’s soft questioning had done nothing to sort out the confusion. He did know, however, that his first fleeting thought that she could have been responsible was wrong. She’d had more than a few chances to let him die. Instead, she seemed at his side every time he woke, her voice encouraging, urging, refusing to let him go.

  Which meant someone else in this house must have informed the bandits. And if they rid themselves of him, what of Janet? Would she be next?

  It was that thought that kept him alive, that made him fight against the darkness when all he wanted was to sink back into it.