Cecily pushed her bowl towards him. The evening light slewed down from the high arched windows, touching sparks to his hair. ‘Will you finish mine? I’ve had enough.’
He laughed, a muscle clenching beneath his high cheekbone, reaching out to take the bowl. ‘You mean you don’t want to eat any more.’
‘It’s horrible,’ she whispered. His laugh curled around her, wrapping her like a blanket. Sweet Jesu, she had become so used to his presence, to the solid strength of his body alongside hers, his protection, it was going to be hard to give it up. A cold feeling slid through her.
‘Will you stay...when I marry William?’ she said suddenly.
Lachlan threw the spoon into the empty bowl with a noisy rattle. He scowled. ‘I will have to. I promised Henry that I would make sure that the deed was done.’
‘And then what?’ she prompted.
‘And then I will go back to Scotland and claim my lands.’
‘What’s it like...up there?’ Cecily asked tentatively.
Lachlan allowed his mind to drift to those windswept lands in the north that belonged to his family, to the barren mountain tops, the rushing streams and dramatic, precipitous cliffs. He traced a knot on the wooden surface of the table. ‘Wild, barren. Always windy. I have no idea what it’s like now. The castle is gone. Razed to the ground. There is nothing there.’ He spat the words out.
Cecily tucked her hands into her lap, wrinkling her gown. ‘Then why are you going back?’ she murmured.
Why was he going back? The question reverberated around his head. He had always insisted that it was to seek revenge on the clan that had slaughtered his family, but, if truth be told, the fire for that had gone out of his belly. It would make no difference to what he had done.
He raised his eyes, snared her leaf-green gaze, drawing on her quiet steadiness.
Cecily tucked her hands down into her lap, wrinkling her gown. ‘I’m sorry, I should not have asked.’
His eyes pinioned her, chips of brilliant blue. He waited for the shame, the gut-wrenching guilt to tear at his belly, to eat away at his soul. The eternal punishment for a boy who had stood on a hill and done nothing. But the familiar sweep of self-hatred did not materialise. The blunt stranglehold of grief around his heart had eased. He knew the reason why. And she sat opposite him, voluminous hood pushed back to her shoulders, her hastily plaited hair gleaming, the colour of a polished hazelnut. Sweet, angelic Cecily, the luminous oval of her face tipped to one side as she watched the emotions play across his face. The peerless beauty of her skin glowing in the candlelight.
How could he have used her so ill, rolling around on the bed with her like some barbarian of old? He was not fit to walk the ground she trod upon. By finding William, he hoped he could make amends.
Dragging his gaze from her, he pushed his empty bowl away roughly. The spoon rattled within the last gritty dregs of soup. ‘Where is that monk?’ His voice was suddenly sharp, dismissive; he slapped his palms on the table, then pushed back the bench with a fierce push of his legs, rising to his feet. ‘He needs to show us to a bedchamber.’
* * *
The room was cramped, narrow. Entering the room first, the monk swung the flaring torch around, sparks flying over the low truckle bed, jammed up against one damp wall, made up with a thin straw mattress and threadbare blanket. An earthenware bowl and jug for washing sat on a small, spindly-legged table by the window. Taking a stub of candle from a stone niche, the brother touched the unlit wick to his torch flame and set the lighted candle back in its wooden holder.
He turned towards Lachlan and Cecily. ‘There,’ he said benignly, his wide smile pushing out his fat, rosy cheeks. ‘Is there anything else you need?’
Lachlan ducked his head below the door lintel and peered into the room. ‘A bigger chamber, perhaps?’
‘Bigger...?’ the brother responded faintly, his tone puzzled. ‘All our chambers are the same size, my lord, I am sorry. It is either this or the dormitory, where the monks sleep.’ He darted a furtive glance at Cecily, standing behind Lachlan in the corridor. ‘Not suitable for a lady,’ he lowered his voice with emphasis.
Bone-weary, her belly roiling with greasy soup, Cecily stared at the bed beyond the curve of Lachlan’s shoulder. She didn’t care that it was narrow, or cold, or that the blanket was too thin. She simply wanted to lie down and close her eyes. Taking a step forward, she nudged her fists gently against Lachlan’s solid spine.
‘Lachlan,’ she said sharply, catching his attention. ‘The room has a bed and that’s all that matters. I just want to sleep, please.’
Turning from the monk, he read the fatigue in her face, the puddles of blue beneath her eyes. Christ, why was he even arguing about this chamber; the chit was almost dead on her feet!
‘Never mind,’ he barked, ushering the monk from the room. Cecily stepped in, her leather bag sliding to the floor where she stood. Behind her, Lachlan shut the door, the iron latch rattling into place.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled; her skin grew hot, aware, as she sensed his attention. Silence descended, a thick, uncomfortable silence, heavy with memory. The last time they had shared a chamber and what had happened. Cecily cleared her throat, suddenly awkward, embarrassed in his presence. Her nerves rattled with anxiety, with...an unspent excitement, despite her tiredness.
She spun around. Lachlan’s broad shoulders filled the door frame, his vibrant hair grazing the wooden lintel. Her heart thudded against her chest wall. ‘This feels a bit strange.’
‘Spending the night in a poky, uncomfortable room in an abbey.’ He glanced around the dank stones walls, his mouth set in a grim line. ‘Yes, I agree. It’s not the best.’
‘No, I don’t mean that, Lachlan. I mean... I mean, you and me, sharing a chamber.’
‘After what happened before, you mean,’ he said bluntly.
Her cheeks burned, remembering. The slip of his polished skin against hers. Her heart fluttered; a whisper of desire stirred, deep. She hugged herself, dismayed, trying to douse the longing, praying that he would not notice. He had quite clearly shown that she was not worthy of him; why, he had even stopped their marriage!
‘I can... I can sleep on the floor.’ Her voice was small, hesitant. ‘My cloak is quite comfortable if I roll it up.’
‘Nay, Cecily, I’ll sleep on the floor.’
Her heart closed around a hollow nub of sadness, aching with longing. To share a room with him, to listen to his steady even breathing, the rustle of his clothes, was sheer torture. The sooner they tracked down William, the sooner she could escape this unsettling situation and regain some sense of sanity.
* * *
In the middle of the night, she woke. Moonlight streamed through the narrow, unglazed window opening, bathing the chamber in an ethereal light. Lachlan lay stretched out on the wooden floorboards, alongside the bed; she could hear his deep, even breathing. She traced his rugged profile: the sharp, high indent of his cheekbone, his top lip finely etched; one arm flung out across the floor, his fingers relaxed, splayed out across the floor. Her heart jumped at his closeness, the intimacy of his breath, mingling with hers in this tiny space.
Cecily shivered. Beneath the thin blanket, she brought her knees up to her chest, hugging them tight. She wore all her clothes, even her cloak, yet she was so cold. She had managed to remove her leather boots; they sat at the end of the bed, near her satchel. The chill from the window seem to target her skin, piercing her clothing, sneaking below her collar, around her stocking-covered feet. She put her hand up to adjust her cloak, to bring it closer to her neck. Nausea roiled in her belly, hung heavy. Christ, was she going to be sick?
Rolling off the bed, she stepped carefully over Lachlan’s outstretched legs and staggered across the room to reach the earthenware bowl. Gripping the table for support, she hovered over the bowl, her belly heaving. And yet she was not sick. A fine sweat sprang ou
t on her forehead, coating her neck. A boiling heat suffused her skin.
‘Cecily! What’s the matter?’
Lachlan was there, beside her, his arm around her shoulders, holding her up. She hadn’t even noticed him get up from the floor.
‘I... I felt sick...and I’m so cold,’ Cecily blurted out, swaying over the bowl. The nauseous feeling receded; a violent shivering seized her slight frame. ‘Go back to sleep, Lachlan. It’s nothing. I can manage.’
Ignoring her flustered command, he put a cool hand on her forehead, cursing beneath his breath. ‘You’re burning up. You have a fever. Come back to bed.’
‘But... I might be sick.’ Embarrassment coloured her tone. ‘Please, leave me here.’
‘I’ll bring the bowl.’
He helped her back into the narrow truckle bed, tucking the threadbare blanket around her shaking limbs, settling the empty bowl on the floor. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hip nudging hers, smoothing back the loose fronds of hair on her forehead. The tendrils stuck to her clammy skin.
She shuddered. ‘Your fingers are so cold, Lachlan.’ Turning on to her side towards him, she hugged herself tightly. ‘My skin hurts when you touch me.’
Panic slid through his chest wall, unexpected, insidious. ‘We need to break this fever,’ Lachlan muttered, almost to himself. Throwing off her blanket, he rolled her slight weight towards him, pulling her thick cloak away from her body.
‘What are you doing?’ Cecily whimpered, distraught; her head shifting uselessly on the mattress. The straw crackled beneath her head. She managed to snag the edge of her cloak, trying to haul it back again, closer against her body for warmth.
He flung it to the floor. ‘Nay, Cecily, we must take this off, at least, to try and cool you down.’ Frantically, he searched his memory—what was the best way to treat her? Fear churned through his brain, dragging at his thought process. What? What should he do?
He rummaged through her satchel, seizing a length of linen. He sloshed water from the jug, clumsily, into the bowl by the bed. Puddles dropped on to the wooden floorboards, staining the light oak. He plunged the flimsy cloth into the water, wringing it out with his powerful hands.
He laid the damp cloth on Cecily’s forehead. She moaned, twisting her head away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. Again and again, he dipped the cloth into the water and pressed it against her fevered skin, against her cheeks, the back of her neck, her throat. And yet, despite this, she became more agitated, beginning to mutter incoherently, her slight body restless against the thin mattress.
She was not improving. He needed help.
Fear, apprehension, tore at him as he chucked her veil back into the bowl. An unsettling disquiet. The thought that he might lose her. Charging out into the corridor, he ran along in the darkness, blindly, thumping on doorways with his great fists. ‘Help me,’ Lachlan roared. ‘I need some help here, please!’ His voice ripped from his lungs, hoarse, cracked. She could not die! She would not die!
He reached a door at the end of the corridor and burst through it. The door slammed back in its hinges. He had a fleeting impression of a row of beds, of shorn heads rising and turning towards him in the shadows, a worried murmuring filling the air. The abbey dormitory, of course.
‘What is the meaning of this intrusion?’ A tall man, dressed in a grey tunic, a silver cross swinging across his chest, strode towards him. His face was creased with sleep and he carried a wan, exhausted expression. His grey hood was pushed back behind his neck, his head was shaved, his feet bare. ‘I am Abbott Bertram. What is the meaning of this?’
‘I need help!’ Lachlan gasped, the words sticking in his throat. ‘It is my...my Cecily! She is ill.’
Abbott Bertram grabbed Lachlan’s flailing hands. ‘Calm down, young man, and take me to her.’
They crowded into the narrow chamber, Lachlan, the Abbott and two monks who had accompanied them, all peering at Cecily. She lay on her back, her skin blotched with red patches, her head wrenching pitifully on the mattress. Her lips were dry and Lachlan seized the wet cloth once again and pressed it to her face. ‘She is worse,’ he muttered.
‘She is very ill,’ the Abbott agreed, ‘but we cannot treat her here...’
‘What? What do you mean?’ Lachlan roared, his heart splintering. ‘What do you mean, you cannot treat her? Don’t you have a hospital? Brothers who have studied medicine?’ A huge sense of loss tore through him, a rickety vulnerability. The thought of Cecily, not being at his side.
‘Let me finish, my lord.’ The older man laid a comforting hand upon Lachlan’s forearm. ‘You are too hasty with your speech.’
‘What is it?’ Lachlan demanded. ‘Speak, man.’
Shock crossed the Abbott’s face. He was not usually addressed in such a violent manner. ‘The nuns can treat her. They live in the priory next door; they have a hospital. The sisters will be able to tend to her. John, Francis—’ he flicked his gaze to the brothers waiting by the door ‘—please carry this good lady to the priory gate...and careful how you go.’
‘I will carry her,’ Lachlan growled possessively. Dipping down by the bed, he slid his arms beneath Cecily’s slight weight, hoisting her up easily. Her head lolled against his chest, one arm trailing down limply. The heat from her body seared through his tunic; his heart lurched, staggered with despair.
‘Cover her with her cloak,’ the Abbott instructed one of the monks. ‘We will be out in the cold.’ His hazel eyes met Lachlan’s. ‘Follow me and do not worry.’
The gateway to the priory was a wide arched door set into the thick wall surrounding the abbey. An iron bell, crudely made, hung outside and, grabbing the rope that hung from it, the Abbott proceeded to ring it, violently, for a long time. At first there was nothing, no noise from the other side of the door, and then, thank God, Lachlan heard footsteps approaching.
The door opened, a fierce squeak to its hinges. A woman’s face peered through the crack, a face completely encased in a tight white wimple. ‘Abbott Bertram,’ she exclaimed. ‘What is it?’
‘Sister Agnes, forgive this intrusion so late at night. This lady is ill and must be treated,’ the Abbott explained calmly. ‘She is running a high fever.’
The nun stared at Cecily, lying against Lachlan’s chest. She lifted her eyes towards him. ‘Bring her in, my lord. The first chamber on the right.’
With slow, infinite care, Lachlan laid Cecily down on to the bed in the chamber indicated by the nun. She slumped across the mattress, drawing her knees up, mumbling incoherently. Kneeling on the floor, he pushed her damp hair back away from her forehead. Perspiration coated her neck, a rapid pulse beating in the silky dip of her throat.
Her eyes flicked open, observing him blearily, the brilliant green of her irises dulled by the fever. Her small hand drifted upwards, almost in wonderment, catching at his sleeve. ‘William?’ she whispered. ‘Is that you?’
His heart split, ripped apart by her words. He rocked back on his heels, misery crashing over him. Christ, if he needed any proof that she wanted to be with someone else, then he had it now.
‘My lord.’ Standing behind him, the nun cleared her throat. ‘You must leave now. Your lady is delirious and we must treat her.’
Cecily’s eyes had closed again, yet she still muttered incoherently. Lachlan rose to his feet, frowning. ‘Nay, I would stay.’ He towered over the diminutive nun.
The sister folded her arms across her pristine white habit and took a step closer to him, lines etched deep into her forehead. ‘Men are not allowed in here. You must leave.’ Her voice was gentle, but firm. ‘We will take good care of her, my lord. Please be assured of that. If there is any danger, we will send a message immediately.’
If there is any danger...
‘You mean if she’s going to die.’
The thought stabbed him, gouged his heart. Defeated, he stumbled backwards. His bre
ath roared in his ears; a wild vulnerability seared his heart. He could not lose her, yet he could do nothing to protect her against this.
‘If you do not leave now, my lord,’ the nun continued, ‘then I’m afraid I will have to fetch someone to help you leave.’
A nun, threatening him?
‘I am leaving.’ Lachlan struggled to find his voice. ‘But hear me, Sister. I will only be on the other side of that wall.’ He jabbed the air in the direction of the gate. ‘Please, you must let me know the moment anything changes. Anything, you hear me?’
The nun nodded. ‘I hear you, my lord. Rest assured that we will do everything in our power to make her better.’
Bending down over the bed, Lachlan placed his hand on her forehead. Her skin burned against his palm. ‘I will fetch William for you, Cecily.’ A churning desolation swept through him. ‘You need to fight this, Cecily, so that you will see him again.’
Lachlan turned away, his heart breaking into a thousand glittering pieces.
Chapter Sixteen
Cecily scrubbed at her eyes, her vision blurred as she dragged them open. She lay on her back in a bed, but it was not the same bed, not even the same chamber, that she had gone to sleep in the night before. Narrow oak rafters formed the ceiling above her head. Mottled with greenish mould, the roughly plastered walls were bare, except for a single niche containing an unlit candle and a silver cross. Cecily swept her gaze around the chamber. Where was Lachlan? There was no evidence of him ever having been this room at all: no cloak slung in a heap, no sword or belt.
A vague disquiet scraped the lining of her chest. Trawling her sluggish brain, she searched for fragments of memory. Nausea roiling in her stomach; a fleeting impression of being carried within powerful arms and a deep voice, Lachlan’s, in her ear, reassuring. Her flesh ached, her muscles felt weak, useless, beneath the coarse sheet. As if she had fallen from a horse, thumping the hard ground heavily, or had been run over by a cart wheel. She remembered the heat suffusing her body, the clamouring thirst—she had been ill, that was it.
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