The Heart Queen

by Patricia Potter

  He did not know how long he had been at Lochaene. The hours, mayhap the days, had faded one into the other. Janet, or one of the servants, had been with him each time he woke, offering water or the dreadful bark mixture. He remembered a physician, or at least he thought the man a physician. A dour soul.

  He opened his eyes. The heat had subsided. He still felt warm, but his body was not on fire as it had been. His gaze searched the room. Then he saw Janet dozing in a nearby arm chair, her son propped in her lap, also asleep.

  A cap covered much of her hair, and she looked wan, tired. The lad snuggled in the crook of her arm. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful.

  He tried not to make any sound. He was both thirsty and hungry, and he knew the latter to be a good sign. But he had no intention of waking her. He wondered how long she had been here, whether she had slept in her own bed. Sunlight was flooding the room, which was on the east. He thought it must be several hours past dawn.

  Or what day?

  He moved slightly, and he felt pain again, but it was duller now. His thigh was bandaged, and he was wearing a nightshirt again. Had it belonged to Reginald? Her husband? He tried to sit upright in the bed, and the room spun. He was so weak.

  His hand went to his face. It was scratchy, rough. How many days’ beard? How long had he been away from Braemoor? Had anyone there been told of his delay? A hundred questions came to mind, and he did not like unanswered questions.

  Neil moved again, and pain flooded his side, his head. But he stifled any sound. Instead, he silently tried to move each of his arms and legs. One arm was stiff, but the other seemed to work. He felt an embarrassing need.

  He did not know how to behave in a sickbed. Nor had he ever had anyone care for him before. He had been wounded, but only hastily tended and stitched, and he’d needed no one to take care of intimate needs.

  Someone had unclothed him, had washed him, helped him into a nightshirt. He knew she had changed foul-smelling bandages. He remembered her washing his face, her hand touching his skin. Or had that been the kiss nights earlier? Nights? A week? More?

  He had to get back to Braemoor. So many things undone. So many promises to keep, particularly now that he was beginning to realize his own mortality. If he died, the properties would revert to the crown, and he knew what that would mean to the tenants to whom he’d given hope.

  And the men who had shot him. Neil had never believed in turning his cheek. His uncle had taught him it was nothing but a weakness. And yet, they had also …

  Also what? And why? Again the questions descended on him.

  He could not stay here. He put one leg on the floor, then the other. He tried to be silent and yet he saw Janet jerk awake, her eyes drowsy. Then they sharpened and focused on him. She rose quickly, keeping her arms around the still-sleeping boy. She very carefully laid him in the middle of the bed, then went over to Neil. Her hand touched his forehead, and she smiled shyly. Pure delight touched it, and warmth filled him. This warmth, though, was different from the bitter heat that had eaten at him.

  “You are better,” she said.

  “Aye, thanks to you.”

  Her cheeks colored, as if she had never been thanked before.

  “I was afraid …” Her voice faltered.

  He was feeling dizzy again. It was all he could do to remain sitting upright, his feet on the floor. He did not dare stand. But he had to get word to Braemoor.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “Since you’ve been here? Three days.”

  “Since … I left … Lochaene?”

  “You were gone four days.”

  So it had been near a fortnight since he had left Braemoor. “I must send word to …”

  “I would have sent Tim,” she said. “But I didn’t know who he should speak to there. Can you tell me now what happened? You did not make a great deal of sense.”

  But it made no sense to him, either. “I was ambushed, shot,” he said. “They came down, apparently to finish the task. There were two of them. For some reason, the leader decided not to kill me. At first, I thought he hesitated because I had so little money or jewelry with me, and they meant to ransom me. But then …” His voice trailed off.

  “But then?” she prompted.

  “I was feverish but I heard them argue …” For some reason, he felt restrained about saying anything about the other people in the cave. They were innocents. Or were they? But he knew he did not want the authorities to comb those hills for them.

  “Argue about what?” She was insistent.

  “I do … not remember. It is … mixed up.” Why did he not tell her? Or send a message to Cumberland? Clear the brigands from the hills?

  He had a chance but did not kill you. It was as simple and as complicated as that. He did not believe in turning his cheek but neither did he welsh on a debt.

  “Has anyone informed the authorities?” he asked.

  “Nay,” she said. “Reginald said we should wait … until you felt better, that it might have been … an accident.”

  He tried to comprehend that. Mayhap the honorable Reginald had just hoped he would die first and no further questions would be asked. Nonetheless, he was pleased that Reginald had done nothing, regardless of his motives. He always fought his own battles and paid his own debts. And he intended to fight this one. And, if necessary, pay the debt.

  How much do you owe an assassin who spares your life?

  He tried to stand. He got to his feet, and the room started spinning again. He held out his hand. “Lass?”

  Janet took it and he felt her warmth down to his toes. It crowded out the pain, the confusion, everything. He steadied himself.

  “That is enough,” she said.

  But he did not let go. He took a small step, then another, taking strength from her, although she was a small lass. Still, she had an innate toughness. And he liked having her so close. He liked it too much.

  He took another step, using her for balance. But then his legs seemed to fold, and he barely made it back to the bed. He did not want to crash down on her. Then he remembered a day ago. Or more. He had … hurt her. He swallowed hard as he sat heavily, still holding her hand. He turned it over, saw the black marks from where he had held her. Then he saw other marks. A faint bruise colored one side of her face, along with a scratch.

  The sleeves of her gown came halfway down her arm and he could see more bruises and cuts.

  “Did I do that?” he asked softly.

  She looked down at them. “Nay. I fell from a horse the day you were brought here.”

  “The truth?”

  “Aye,” she said. “In your fever, you grabbed my wrist, but that is all.”

  He sighed, grateful, at least, for that. “You were riding alone?”

  “Aye,” she said.

  He wanted to say something, but he had no right. She was not his wife, nor his charge. But nonetheless, he found himself saying very carefully, “Mayhap you should take Tim or Kevin … with you. Now that you are aware there are outlaws not far away …”

  Her gaze met his. He had not known what weakness was until that moment. Her eyes were so bloody blue, her lips so seductive as her teeth worried them. Her hand was still in his, and the touch stirred every nerve inside him. But even worse was the way his heart reacted. With an aching awareness, he knew nothing had really changed. He still could not marry, with madness being a trait in his family.

  And yet she colored his gray life like a master artist painted a sunrise. She lit every dark corner, even now with the doubt on her face. The thought that he might have physically hurt her would be far worse pain than that damned musket ball.

  Despite her denials, he knew he was responsible for at least one of her bruises, and probably more than a few of much larger ones. And yet her hand rested trustingly in his.

  “Tell me how I came to be here,” he said, seeking to puncture the growing intimacy blossoming between them again.

  “A rider came in and just dump
ed you. Like a sack of potatoes,” she added with a tiny gleam in her eyes. “Then he rode off. No one saw his face. He was riding your horse.”

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  “I saw him. I was looking outside at the time.”

  Neil wished he had left the horse, too. It had been his favorite stallion. Another reason to find this Will.

  Or would Will find him?

  He suddenly felt very tired again. All his strength had been expended in those few steps.

  She seemed to sense it and gently disengaged her hand. “Can you drink some broth?”

  “Aye,” he said. “And some water.”

  She handed him a cup full of water. She looked at the lad who was still sleeping on the bed. “Will you look after him while I get some broth from the cook? Just keep him between you and the wall.”

  “I think I can manage that,” he said dryly.

  She looked doubtful but then hurried out the door. He sat on the side of the bed, willing himself to stay upright. He leaned over and put a hand on the lad. Just then, Colin stirred, yawned, stretching out his small arms, then favored him with a sleepy grin.

  Neil’s heart melted. He held out a finger, and the lad clasped it tightly and pulled himself up with it, then crawled over to him.

  The lad reached up and touched his face, then frowned. “Ah, you do not like my beard, either,” Neil said.

  The boy beamed at him and garbled something. All the loneliness Neil had known, all the emptiness inside seemed to fade, and his heart cracked open. A smile built inside Neil, and he found himself grinning back.

  They were sitting there grinning at each other when he was suddenly aware that Janet stood at the doorway. She came over and picked up Colin, as if she feared he might hurt the bairn. He closed his eyes. Fool.

  She did not say anything for a moment. Instead she played with her son, her hand meeting his in a mock contest of strength, then she set him down on the floor. He sat there looking first at his mother, then at Neil. After a moment, he seemed to make a decision and started crawling toward Neil.

  Neil leaned over and offered a hand. Colin took it and struggled up on his wobbly legs, balancing on Neil’s hand.

  Janet did not move, but he looked up and saw her eyes. Moisture filled them and a haunting sadness marked her face.

  Did she feel as if he had stolen something from her?

  “He must trust you,” she said stiffly.

  She did not say anything else, but unsaid words shone in her eyes and he thought no silence could be as cruel. He was not worthy of trust.

  He never would be in her eyes. It was a devastating blow, yet was that not what he wanted?

  “You best take him,” he said. “I should not like him to fall.”

  She approached her son just as he moved his hand. Colin let it go, and his mother took him, holding him tightly until the lad squealed in protest.

  “’Tis the first time he has stood,” she said, avoiding his glance and apparently trying to hide her own emotion, that moment of hurt that had radiated from her eyes.

  That flash reminded him of how much he’d hurt her years ago. He had not thought then that his actions would be so damaging. Mayhap because he thought so little of himself, he had not thought her loss great. He had honestly believed that she would find a man far better than himself. The fact that she had not and that, instead, his actions had left her with such a deep wariness made him hurt beyond healing. He suspected it would be a festering wound for a very long time.

  “Lucy will be bringing up some broth,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he said and looked at Colin. “He is a fine lad.”

  “Aye,” she said. “He does not usually take to … men like that.”

  That told him a great deal since the only men in the household had been her husband, her brother-in-law and MacKnight. And mayhap a few more retainers. He was really beginning to hate the dead man. And he did not know how to respond. There had been no children around Braemoor; he had always thought himself awkward when he came upon someone else’s bairns. His size often terrorized children, and he had no easy manner. He remembered his clumsiness just days before with her lasses.

  And yet, young Colin Campbell had favored him a smile. It seemed to him a great accomplishment.

  Just then a young maid—Lucy, he remembered—entered the room. She dipped slightly in a curtsey and gave him a broad smile. “Ye look fine, my lord.”

  “Thank you, lass,” he said.

  “We all thought ye dead for sure, but my lady, she said ye would get well. And ye have.” She set her burden down on the table.

  “Clara said the lasses have been asking to see ye,” she continued, sending a furtive glance at him.

  A painful emotion crawled inside and wrapped around his heart, just as it had moments earlier when Colin had taken his hand so trustingly.

  Janet hesitated. “He’s still very ill,” she said, looking at him. She was giving him an excuse. If he wanted it.

  His decision. He knew he should say he was too tired. He should not insinuate himself into this family. Yet the temptation was too great. Three wee lasses had asked to see him. “If the countess agrees,” he said cautiously. Then he rubbed his cheeks. “And if I would not scare them.”

  “I can shave you,” Janet offered unexpectedly, then looked as surprised as he felt. “I sometimes shaved my husband,” she added defensively as Clara looked astonished. “You are too ill to do it yourself. You need no more bloodletting.”

  He nodded, unsure what to say.

  “But first drink the broth,” she said. “You must regain your strength. Lucy will help you. I will take Colin to Clara and his sisters. They can come down later if you feel well enough.”

  Lucy brought over the bowl and sat next to him as Janet left the room. “Do ye need any help, my lord?”

  “Thank you, Lucy, but no.” He took the bowl with its spoon, and balanced it on his lap, then tried to lift a spoonful to his mouth. His hand shook and most of it spilled. Still, some made it to his mouth. The next effort was a little more successful. It was hot and flavorful and he took another sip, and another, until it was all gone.

  Then he handed it to Lucy and, exhausted, he sank back onto the bed. Dammit, but he had to get well. Already, he knew he did not want to leave. He did not want to give up Janet’s smile, fleeting as it was, or Colin’s small hand reaching for him, nor those words, “The lasses have been asking to see ye.” For a moment, he could close his eyes and imagine himself part of a family.

  But reality had a way of quenching hope. He was an unwanted guest here; Colin was too young to know better; and the lasses—well, the lasses were seeing something in him that was not there. Janet knew that. Her wariness told him that.

  Then he remembered something Janet had said earlier. “Lucy, the countess said she fell from a horse. Can you tell me anything about it?”

  Her eyes clouded. “Only tha’ she was not badly hurt.” She hesitated, and Neil realized she was debating as to whether she should continue. After a moment, she did in a strained whisper. “My lady asked Kevin tae take the cinch into the blacksmith. He said the smithy thinks someone may ha’ cut it.”

  “Cut it?”

  “Aye,” she said after a moment’s pause. He knew then that she had not been sure whether she should have said anything. Fear shadowed her face. Only loyalty to her mistress, he thought, had prompted the warning.

  Did Janet know yet? Had the boy told her? And if so, why had she not said anything to him?

  It had happened around the same time he was attacked.

  A coincidence?

  He did not believe in coincidence. Someone had set the man who called himself Will on him. Someone apparently had wanted to injure Janet. The same someone? Seemed likely.

  And there were the rumors that Janet’s late husband had been murdered. Because the speculation had centered around Janet, he had dismissed it. Now he wondered if the speculation had a grain of truth. Just a d
ifferent culprit.

  He did know that he could not leave her here alone. He also knew he could not extend his stay away from Braemoor. Too many people depended on him. His goal was too important.

  But Lochaene was equally as important to Janet and to her son.

  How much was Lochaene worth? A life? two lives?

  “My lord?” Lucy’s voice broke his thoughts.

  “Thank you for telling me,” he said gently.

  “Ye will not tell anyone I told ye?”

  “Nay. You are a good friend to the countess.”

  Her cheeks reddened. “She is a good mistress.”

  She would be. He had seen her concern for the tenants as well as young Kevin. Concern was too rare a commodity these days.

  Obviously afraid she had said more than she should, Lucy backed out of the room.

  Once she was gone, he lay back in the bed, frustrated at his own weakness. His mind kept going over the conversation. He needed to see Will again, had to find out what the outlaw knew about the “woman” who had suggested he might be a good victim. It had to be the countess dowager or Reginald’s wife. But then Reginald could have passed the word through someone else.

  He could not accuse a Campbell, a family favored by Cumberland, without proof. They would turn it back on Janet.

  And Will? Neil would bet his last coin that Will was not the man’s real name. Searching his hazy memory, he knew the man had been well educated, probably a lord, most certainly a Jacobite.

  A light knock came on the door, and Janet entered with a fresh bowl of water and a razor. It was then he remembered that she had volunteered to shave him. Both pleasure and apprehension flitted through his mind.

  She sat next to him and propped him up with several pillows. She regarded him somberly for a moment. “I think I like you as a brigand,” she said with a slight smile.

  “I do not think your lad does,” he said.

  “Well then, we have to do something about that. My daughters also want to see you, so we must make you appear civilized.” She rinsed his face with warm water, then applied some soap. Her hands were gentle, but they ignited anything but gentle sensations. His gaze met hers and emotions shimmered between them. He felt his body stiffen, felt something glow inside him. Then her hands stopped, and he saw the same awareness in her face. Her tongue licked her lips in a gesture so innocent yet so sensuous that his breath seemed to stop.