Stunned that he should know where to find the pumping of blood, Morrigan could only stare.
“And are you ailing, wife?”
“No.”
“Then what of this?” He lifted her hand, his fingers still at the pulse. “Your drumbeat is too fast.”
“I was hurrying.”
“Why is that?”
“Rhys was tired. When that happens he can become recalcitrant. I didn’t want him to mar the celebration,” she said truthfully. Did she imagine that his features lightened, that his eyes melted away from their slate hardness of moments past?
He studied her for long moments. Then before she could do more than gasp, he’d lifted her into his arms and strode from the room. “You’ve nothing to fear,” he told her as he marched down the dank corridor.
“So you say,” she muttered in Welsh.
“So I do,” he answered in the same tongue, chuckling when she stiffened. “I’ve battled in Wales. One learns to speak the language, milady.”
“Of course.” Her tone was sharper than she’d wanted and it didn’t quite cover the quaking in her frame. “I’ll have to remember to pick up the language if I ever venture to foreign lands to conquer,” she said in rapid Celtic, trusting he wouldn’t pick up all of it.
“I’ll keep you at my right hand, then, and you can help me lead. We’ll battle together, milady.”
Morrigan’s mouth dropped open.
MacKay kicked open a door to a much more splendid suite. Setting her on her feet, he slammed the door shut again. When he saw her looking about, he inclined his head. “You were expecting your Celtic assassins, mayhap?”
Stung, she lifted her chin and glared. “No! I was expecting your infamous voyeurs. Is this moment not for their delectation?”
He shook his head. “If you’re expecting the charivari, do not. I’d not allow it.” He turned and lifted the heavy wooden bar across the door. “There. ’Twould take an army to get through and I’d not countenance it.”
Morrigan swallowed, looking at him fully for the first time. Her secret wouldn’t become tattle for the word mongers. If her husband put her aside it wouldn’t be in front of a contingent of drunken men spitting ribald remarks. If he didn’t kill her on the spot, she could live with the infamy of being returned to Wales. She and Rhys would be under the protection of the Llywelyn name until such time as he could attain his inheritance. The law would protect her when her deceit was unmasked since she was regent of the Trevelyan estate.
Hugh frowned at her. “I have to wonder what takes your concentration, why you wander in thought.”
“I’ve… I’ve not been here before, there is much to see.”
“Join me in wine, or an ale.” He looked around him, smiling when he saw the tray with cups and skins upon it.
She nodded, needing soothing. So did he.
“I went wild when I couldn’t find you below stairs, wife.”
“Why? Surely you knew I’d see to my son.”
Hugh shrugged. “I didn’t. I missed you,” he said through his teeth.
“And that is why you came through the child’s door like one of the bulls of Afrique?”
His smile twisted. “ ’Twould seem so.” He looked toward the drink table, then back at her. “I was crazed when I couldn’t find you.”
Morrigan smiled, feeling a glow spread through her. Even as she looked, his eyes seemed to deepen in color, his face hardening, but not in a fearsome way. There was a hotness there, almost a wanting. It shook her that she wouldn’t have minded had he pulled her into an embrace. What would it be like to feel his strong mouth on hers?
He went to the wine table. “We’ll toast our nuptials, wife.”
“I would have fruited water, milord, since I cannot stand spirits when I’ve had little sustenance since rising from my pallet.”
“You should have supped.”
She tried to smile. “The day was too exciting.” She didn’t lie about that.
“I found it so.”
His lazy hot gaze went over like silky flame. Her head snapped back. She studied his bland expression, wishing she could read his thoughts. Did he make sport of her?
He glanced around the room again, spying the stone jar that would hold the cold, fruited water. He indicated it. “Then you can drink this, and I will take the wine.”
She smiled. He was being kind. God help her, she was beginning to like him more and more. She mustn’t let herself like him too much. When he eventually turned his fury on her, rejecting her dissembling, she felt it would be easier to bear if she could remain aloof now. “Thank you.” She took the glass and willed her hands to stop their shaking. They didn’t.
He poured wine into a goblet and sipped his brew, eyeing her in puzzlement. “You’re frightened. Why? I’ll not let the hordes enter here. Is that what sets your skin to jumping?”
She sipped her water. “That’s part of it.”
He quaffed his drink and poured another. “Then why don’t we talk and then we’ll see how we feel.” He indicated the reclining couch near the fire, then he swiped a hand across his brow.
Morrigan frowned. Sweat had broken out on his visage. Though it was comfortable in the chamber, it was far from hot, yet rivulets ran from hairline to chin. When he blinked a few times and staggered she went to him. “Sirrah! Have you a chill?” When he would’ve finished his wine, she took the goblet from him, ignoring his slurred protest. His body was boiling, yet there were shivers. She glanced at the goblet. Could it be? Was there an assassin amongst the guests? It couldn’t be so. Who would dare try to poison the laird on this day?
Fear was a lance in her soul. No Llywelyn would do this. She closed her eyes, counting to ten, calling on Boudicca and all the old Druidic women who’d aided so many of the Welsh. Think! Think! Not only would she die if she were blamed, but Rhys could be victim as well. She would save Hugh to preserve Rhys’s life and her own… and because she couldn’t bear to lose the great MacKay.
“Mor… gannn,” Hugh said, swaying, frowning as though the effort to look at her was burdensome, well nigh impossible.
“I’m here. All will be well.” It wouldn’t be if the laird was found in such a state. She had choices. Leave him to die, or succor him. In her mind there was no choice. She had to help him.
Either way, whether he lived or died, she could be hanged as perpetrator or accomplice. A Greek dilemma. So often they had tragic endings. She shuddered, not wanting to dwell on that.
They looked at each other, he so weak, though beginning to comprehend.
“I would help you, husband.”
“Cannnn youuu?”
She nodded. Even if she hadn’t begun to like her newly avowed husband, she wouldn’t and couldn’t let him expire without using her skills to try to bring him back to health.
Her hands flew to tearing strips, getting water on to heat, finding tongs she set into the fires. Every move she made was driven by desperation.
A part of her concentrated on her chores. As she worked another part of thinking went over her life, as though she needed the past as impetus.
Living her life in jeopardy had given her sharpened instincts. In the years since Rhys’s birth, she’d been imperiled by the righteous, who might’ve abducted her at any time. Their reason for hanging or burning her would have been the sundering of the commandment against adultery. That she’d had a child out of wedlock would have been the proof. Now she faced an even greater danger. The MacKays could draw and quarter her for killing their chief. She’d be such a handy criminal, they might search for no other. Another paradox where women lost. She wondered why such thoughts were crowding her mind when she was in crisis, even as she began ripping cloths and pulling back the bedcovers.
At the moment her hard-won ability to smell danger gave her an edge in factoring out deception, deceit, even attempted clan treason, mayhap. An assassin had tried to kill the laird, and she would be the obvious culprit. Or if the alternate plan had taken effect, she wou
ld’ve drunk the tainted wine also and expired with the laird before any could help. Were there any among the wedding guests who would know the ways of healing? No time to think of that. She had to act. No way could she let such infamy occur.
Hugh staggered forward. With a grunt she caught him, nearly unbalanced herself by the breadth and height of MacKay. Oh, if only the witches of Wales had accompanied her. She’d learned from them. If only her brothers and cousins hadn’t been busy abroad they would be here. Welshmen were often canny when it came to medicaments. God help her. She was alone.
It was a boon that he’d fallen not far from their marriage bed. Though it took a bit of tugging and pulling, she was able to ease the laird down upon it.
Quick! Quick! Running all the Celtic medicaments she knew around her head, she concluded she had to get an emetic into him before the cramping began, before the poison spread. Had this been meant for her? Had a MacKay targeted her for destruction? Would a disgruntled Welshman do such a deed? There were enough of those who wished no liaison with the hated Scots and their monarch. What would’ve become of Rhys? Steady. Vigilance. She might save him if she followed the recommended treatment of her Druidic ancestors. Think of nothing else. If she was to conquer she had to hurry and she couldn’t make an error.
Racing to the door, his low groans in her ears, she removed the heavy bar, though it took effort and time. A MacKay as big as Hugh and twice as broad was there. She stared at him. “You must trust me.”
FIVE
Mankind censure injustice fearing that they maybe the victims of it, and not because they shrink
from committing it.
Plato
Morrigan held her breath, knowing her life could end in an instant.
A hand as big as a ham slammed across the warrior’s chest. “I serve MacKay and will till I die. I’m Diuran, milady. None shall pass this door.” He studied her, his eyes narrowing, then fixing above her head. “MacKay?”
She took a deep breath, aware she’d never been more imperiled. “Your laird is in severe straits. He could succumb. No! Don’t go to him. Go to my quarters. Under the boy’s clothing is a box. Bring it. You must hurry, or we’ll not save him.”
Diuran stared at her for a wisp of time, then he was gone, on the run.
Cold moisture pearled her body as she sagged against the heavy door for a moment. She closed it behind her without the bar, and hurried to the fire, stirring it up, sweeping the water pot over it. Then she turned back to the couch. She winced at the sight of her spouse. His parchment-white skin beaded with moisture sent her fear spiraling. “No! Be calm. I will prevail,” she muttered to herself.
As though her words commanded MacKay and not her, his eyes opened, somewhat opaque with the beginnings of deep fever. They slid around the room until they found her, barely able to focus.
“And did you kill me, girl?”
Stunned by the words, though she knew they’d come from a soul and spirit beleaguered by evil humors, she could only stare. “I did not.”
The door was flung open and Diuran was there with her box, slamming the door behind him.
“Bar it,” she ordered.
He did and moved to her side, his eyes on his laird. “What did this?”
“I’m not sure. I think the wine.” She jerked her head at the skin on the table.
Drawing in a deep breath, Diuran snarled. “Who?”
She shook her head, not looking up as she laid out her medicines.
“What magic is this, milady?”
Morrigan heard the fear and anger in Diuran’s voice. Without looking up, she answered. “We must make all speed, or we will lose the laird. The emetic will empty his innards. The other purgative, though dangerous, will clean out the rest before the evils travel the way of the blood. If we don’t stop the flow of poisons, nothing will save him.” She looked up. “Will you help me?”
“As long as you know that if he convulses, you’ll die with him.”
Morrigan sighed. “I cede to your code… with qualifications. We cannot discuss them now.” The concession was big. In essence she gave up her life to be martyred if her spouse expired. Caravans from the east who traveled the way of the Venetian, Marco Polo, spoke of the strange cultures in the alien lands that marked the path to what was called Cathay. There was much talk of the human sacrifice of spouses. Morrigan had not thought to place herself among them.
Medicating the very large man who’d become her husband wasn’t easy. Turning him, lifting him, getting the needed herbs into him would’ve been awesome tasks.
Without Diuran’s help she wouldn’t have been able to cleanse his fevered form, bathe him as often as needed after his body rejected the poisons that’d been administered. As it was both Morrigan and the warrior were exhausted by the time they stripped and bathed him for the hundredth time, it seemed, and again put the limp form between clean covers.
“He breathes well,” Morrigan said, trying to smile through her fatigue at her helper. “You’ve done fine work this eve, good Diuran.”
“As you have, milady.” Diuran slammed his hand across his chest. “While you live I shall serve you.”
Morrigan exhaled. “I would have a bath, but I want none in this room, but me.” She hesitated. “My boy, Rhys, could be endangered as well because of this.” She stiffened. “Whoever plotted this is still about, and very dangerous. We must take every precaution, Diuran.”
Diuran shook his head. “No one will bother the lad, nor you, milady. My cousins will attend him. Oengus and Ian MacKay, plus Eamon, his appointed guardian, will ensure the safety of the boy. I shall make sure they know there was an attempt against our laird. They are closemouthed and wise, milady. They will be ever vigilant.”
“I thank you, good Diuran. I shall remain with the laird. If I have need of you, I’ll rap upon the door. None must enter but you.”
Diuran nodded. “There’re others I’ll call to my side, and we’ll hang the assassin who dared assault our laird. ’Twill not be done quietly.” He glowered. “For now, you and your son will be safe, milady. Fear not that any craven will pass this door.”
“Thank you.” It might’ve been more of a relief to know she and Rhys were totally safe. Suspicions had crowded her soul all the while she ministered to her husband. Who had put the wine in the chamber? Who had such free and easy access to the sleeping area of one of Scotland’s most powerful lords?
Something told her that MacKay’s enemies were hers as well. What did it matter who first tasted the wine? Or if they’d drunk it together? ’Twas a mere happenstance that she’d not tasted the brew. Had that been the plan? That they would die together? Who plotted the deed? Were they the enemies of Llywelyns or Trevelyans, as well as MacKays? It didn’t take a soothsayer to tell her that despite what had happened she was safer with MacKay than abroad in an unfriendly world, that keeping him alive and well was the best bulwark for both Rhys and herself against known and unknown foes. Even back in Wales, where she had the protection of the Llywelyn name, all was not without peril. Her relatives were flung far and wide throughout the country, not within call. At least MacKay was here. She glanced at the supine figure. For now he was. It looked like he would recover, but she couldn’t be sure. Evil humors were known to attack without warning when one was debilitated. She would use every care to aid in his recovery. It was her best hope.
She laid the hot cloths she’d immersed in the fireplace cauldron onto his chest and stomach. She could create a fever to burn a fever. God help her if Diodura’s ways were wrong. She sped between bed and fire, her mind tumbling with queries as she worked.
And what of other MacKays? Would they be her allies after finding out what happened to Hugh? Were some among them false to Clan MacKay? Yet, how could she fault the loyalty of Diuran to his laird? He commanded great loyalty. Could it protect her and Rhys? Her innards crawled with the certainty that there was an element that would see her brought down, along with the Earl of MacKay, but she didn’t know who it wa
s. She needed MacKay’s long, strong arm of protection.
She could comprehend Diuran’s loyalty. It touched her that after their duties to the patient were done he seemed to brook no suspicion about her. That he could believe her innocent of such a heinous crime made her weak with relief. She needed friends among the MacKays.
She yawned, all but cracking her jaw. At the moment she was too fatigued to care about anything but sleep, though she was sure that MacKay would wake her in the night with his wants and needs. The fever could rise again. There would be sweats and chills demanding cloths and warm woolens. She might catch a nap, not much more.
Diuran returned with a retinue of helpers whom he hurried through their assigned tasks. Though there were curious glances, there were no queries.
In short order the steaming copper tub was readied for her, then Diuran waved away the attendants assuring her they were loyal MacKays. “I’ll guard the door through the night, milady, and there will be others beside me who will be ever watchful. No one will enter unless you call them.”
“Again I give you thanks, good Diuran. I think the laird will win this bout.”
“Assuredly he must, milady.” He hesitated.
“What?”
“You have a bar for the door, but perhaps ’twould be safer for you unbarred, in case you have need of me.”
She nodded. “True.”
She waited for the door to shut, then went to the copper bath, stripping her stained wedding raiment from her body.
After laving herself and seeing to Hugh, she sank down on the couch.
The much-needed rest eluded her because she rose many times when Hugh required her assistance. He was so dry he needed water time after time, or a biscuit to settle him. Then he shook as though from ague and she had to embrace him with woolens. More often than not she had to change the sheets every turn of the glass since he soaked them with sweat.
Finally, almost too tired to move, after changing his bedding for the umpteenth time and the last she hoped, she gave him a soothing draft. Tired to the bone, she finished what was in the goblet herself, and climbed into the big bed next to him, rather than go back to the uncomfortable couch.
The Pledge Page 7
