A Taste of Sin

by Mason, Connie

  Sinjun carefully worded his reply so as to reveal as little about Christy as possible. He wanted to tell Julian in person about Christy and his child, to watch his brother’s expression when he placed his son and heir in Julian’s arms. Despite Christy’s desire to have a daughter, Sinjun felt strongly that he was going to have a son.

  Sinjun told Julian he intended to remain at Glenmoor until early summer, unless he was needed before that for Sir Oswald’s trial. He grinned to himself, imagining Julian’s bewilderment when he read the reply. In the past, nothing had kept Sinjun from the gaiety of a London Season.

  A thaw occurred in early February, and Sinjun decided he’d had his fill of idleness. He found Rory in the stables and suggested they ride out to see how the villagers were faring.

  It felt damn good to have prime horseflesh beneath his thighs and a cold wind clearing the cobwebs from his brain. The sight of sheep huddled together for warmth brought a smile to Sinjun’s lips. Months ago he would have scorned such peace and tranquility, if one could call living among volatile Highlanders peaceful.

  It was just as they had stopped to watch the sheep that disaster struck. An arrow whizzed past Sinjun’s ear. Rory called out a warning and reached for his bow, but the warning came too late. Moments later a second arrow sped from behind a stand of trees, this one lodging high in Sinjun’s shoulder. Had he not heeded Rory’s warning and crouched, it would have found its mark in his heart. Sinjun grasped his shoulder and hit the ground, his blood staining the dirt-encrusted snow.

  The arrows ceased the moment Sinjun fell. The attackers had left as stealthily as they had come. Rory dismounted and crouched beside Sinjun, lifting him to inspect the damage.

  Though awash in pain, Sinjun remained conscious. “What happened?”

  “Camerons, I suspect. Can ye stand? I dinna want to take the arrow out yet until I ken how much damage occurred. I dinna want ye to bleed to death before I can get ye back to Glenmoor. Hang on, Sinjun, Mary will fix ye up all right and proper.”

  “Just get me on my horse,” Sinjun said through gritted teeth.

  Rory helped Sinjun stand, then boosted him onto his horse. The animal seemed to know his cooperation was needed, for he stood absolutely still as Sinjun anchored himself in the saddle.

  “We’ll take it slow,” Rory said, grasping Sinjun’s trailing reins and mounting his own horse.

  Sinjun recalled little of the trip back to Glenmoor. Blood soaked through his tunic as he swayed drunkenly in the saddle. Though the pain was excruciating, he didn’t believe the wound was life-threatening. He’d ducked at the right moment, thanks to Rory’s warning. Apparently Calum Cameron was willing to commit murder to get rid of him. He knew Calum hated Englishmen, as did most of the Highlanders, but he never thought it would come to this. He’d begun to believe he had made inroads toward gaining the clan’s trust.

  “We’re almost home, Sinjun,” Rory said encouragingly.

  Sinjun was beyond speech. He was slumped over his horse’s neck, his eyes closed, his teeth gritted against the sharp bite of pain. The next thing he knew he was being lifted from his horse. Their entrance into the hall was greeted by a high-pitched wail. Christy? Then his mind went blank.

  Christy saw Rory carrying Sinjun into the hall and couldn’t stop the wail of despair that escaped her throat. Her first thought was that he was dead, that Calum had become impatient and killed him instead of waiting for him to leave on his own. She couldn’t move, could only stare at the arrow protruding from his body.

  Having heard Christy’s scream, both Margot and Mary dropped what they were doing and rushed into the hall.

  “What is it, lass?” Margot asked worriedly.

  “Is it the bairn?” Mary wanted to know.

  They saw Rory and Sinjun at the same time. “Lord save us,” Mary said, crossing herself.

  “What happened?” Margot asked, rushing forward to lend a hand.

  “An arrow took him down,” Rory said tersely. “Where do ye want him?”

  “Take him up to our chamber,” Christy said, finally finding her voice.

  “I’ll fetch me medicines and instruments,” Mary said, turning briskly toward the kitchen.

  “Dinna worry, Christy,” Margot soothed, “ye know Mary is the best healer in the Highlands. She willna let Sinjun die.”

  “I must go to him,” Christy said, waddling toward the stairs. “Oh, Margot, what if he dies?”

  “He won’t die. Dinna even think it.”

  Christy negotiated the stairs with surprising agility, considering her ungainly figure. Rory had placed Sinjun on the bed and was removing his boots when she entered the chamber. She hurried to the bed and took Sinjun’s hand. He opened his eyes and tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace.

  “Don’t worry,” he gasped. “I’m not going to die.”

  “I’ll kill Calum,” Christy hissed.

  “Move aside,” Mary said, bustling into the room. “Ye dinna undress him,” she chided as she set her basket of medicinal supplies on the nightstand.

  Rory moved instantly to comply. “Cut the material away from the arrow,” she ordered.

  While Rory and Christy stripped Sinjun and placed a sheet over his lower body, Mary laid out her needle, thread, salves, and bandages.

  “Listen carefully, Rory,” Mary instructed. “Dinna pull the arrow out until I tell ye to. Margot, fetch the whiskey.” Margot hurried away, returning a few minutes later with a jug.

  Mary lifted up Sinjun’s head and placed the jug to his lips. “Drink, yer lordship. Yer gonna need it.”

  Christy watched Sinjun’s throat work as he swallowed. Again and again Mary placed the jug to his lips, forcing him to drink, until it dribbled from his mouth and he could take no more. Mary nodded and set the jug within reach should she need it again. Then she nodded to Rory.

  Rory grasped the shaft of the arrow and jerked it out in one smooth motion. Christy turned white when she heard Sinjun scream. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, Mary was pouring whiskey into the raw wound, which was now bleeding freely.

  “There’s too much blood,” Christy whispered, as close to fainting as she’d ever been.

  “Tis not excessive,” Mary replied, calmly threading a needle with fine silk. She handed Rory a pad of clean cloths and told him to press down upon the wound. “When the bleeding slows, I’ll stitch up his lordship.”

  “Is he conscious?” Christy asked, hovering over Sinjun and wringing her hands.

  “Aye, and a little drunk,” Mary said. “Aren’t ye, me fine lord?”

  Sinjun opened one eye. It was unfocused. Christy’s breath caught in her throat. He looked so comical that if the situation weren’t so serious she’d be tempted to laugh.

  “I’m gonna sew ye up now,” Mary told a barely conscious Sinjun. “Yer a fine braw lad, yer lordship. Ye’ll be up and about afore ye know it. Tomorrow I’ll make ye a bowl of oats to strengthen ye.”

  Sinjun grimaced but said nothing as Mary prepared to stitch him up. Christy moved up beside Mary and took his hand. Rory stood on the other side of the bed and grasped Sinjun’s shoulders to hold him in place for the first bite of the needle.

  To Sinjun’s credit, he neither flinched nor moved as Mary sutured his wound with neat stitches. Or maybe he was just too drunk to feel anything. When Mary was finished, she disinfected the wound again with whiskey and spread a salve made of lard and crushed marigolds. Then she swathed Sinjun’s shoulder and part of his chest in bandages.

  “‘Tis done,” Mary said, stepping away. “He’s a lucky mon. Nothing vital was damaged. I’ll brew a batch of valarian tea to dull the pain.”

  “What about infection?” Christy asked fearfully. She knew that wounds, no matter how minor, could become septic and kill. And Sinjun’s wound was far from minor.

  “Pray, child,” Mary said. “Yer man is young and strong and there is no better antiseptic than good Scottish whiskey.” She gave Christy a sharp look. “What about ye, lass? ‘
Tis close to yer time.”

  Christy gave her a wobbly smile. “I’m fine. I’ll sit with Sinjun, I know you have duties.”

  “Nay, I’ll sit with him,” Margot offered.

  “No,” Christy persisted. “I’ll call if I need you.”

  “If ye say so, lass. I’ll bring up the valarian tea as soon as Mary brews it. Be sure and call if he starts thrashing around.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Christy said, waving Margot and Rory off.

  Once they had left, Christy placed a hand on her distended belly and thought of her bairn. She couldn’t wait to greet her little lassie. Her pregnancy had gone well. Agnes, the midwife from the village, had examined her and predicted an easy birth. Of course Christy knew danger existed—so many mothers and babies died from unknown causes—but she had every intention of delivering a healthy bairn and keeping her that way.

  “Christy?”

  Startled, Christy’s thoughts shattered at the sound of Sinjun’s voice.

  “Are you in pain? Can I get you anything?”

  “I can bear the pain.”

  “Mary is brewing valarian tea. That should help.”

  “Did Rory see who tried to kill me?”

  “We think it was Calum Cameron.”

  “He’s not going to get away with this unprovoked attack. When I’m recovered I’m going to report it to the English garrison at Inverness. Does that meet with your approval?”

  Indecision rode Christy. She knew Calum was hotheaded and probably an activist in the movement to drive the English from the Highlands, but Camerons had fought side by side with Macdonalds, Ranalds, and Mackenzies at Culloden, and she hated to see Calum hunted down like an animal. Then again, he had tried to kill Sinjun, and that shouldn’t go unpunished.

  “You must do what you think best, Sinjun,” Christy demurred.

  The conversation came to an end when Margot arrived with the tea. Christy helped him drink the potent brew, and he fell asleep soon afterward. Christy sat with him far into the night, checking him frequently for fever. But Sinjun remained blessedly cool. Margot appeared in the chamber shortly before dawn, insisting that Christy go to bed. Christy reluctantly complied, dragging her exhausted body to the bedroom Sinjun had used when he’d first arrived at Glenmoor.

  Sinjun awakened to pain, and was gratified to find that it was bearable. Gingerly he touched his bandaged shoulder, remembering bits and pieces of everything that had happened after the arrow pierced his flesh. He glanced out the window and saw a weak sun breaking through the clouds. He must have slept through the night. He heard a noise at the door and turned his attention from the window. Christy entered the chamber, and he offered her a feeble smile. Rory followed in her wake, bearing a cloth-covered tray.

  “You’re awake,” Christy said brightly. Sinjun thought she looked tired and wondered if she had sat with him all night. “Mary thought you might be hungry.”

  Rory set the tray on the nightstand and whisked off the cloth.

  “Gruel,” Sinjun complained, wrinkling his nose at the glutinous mess. Truthfully, he wasn’t very hungry, and the colorless blob filling the bowl killed what little appetite he had. “I think I’ll pass.”

  Christy’s frown made him feel guilty. “Could I have toasted bread and tea instead?”

  Christy’s face brightened immediately. “Aye. If Rory will go to the kitchen and fetch it.”

  Rory left, and Christy pulled a chair up to Sinjun’s bedside. “How do you feel? You slept most of the night.”

  “I hope you didn’t sit up with me all night,” he said sternly. Christy’s flush told him she had. “You need your rest, Christy. My wound isn’t a serious one.”

  “Perhaps not, but fever and infection are serious. There is no sign of fever, and Mary will be here soon to change your bandage. She’ll know if the wound has turned septic.”

  As if summoned by Christy’s words, Mary bustled into the chamber. Rory followed, carrying the toasted bread and tea Sinjun had requested. Hands on hips, Mary wagged her finger at Sinjun and shook her head. “One day ye’ll come to appreciate oats, me fine lord. And dinna look at me like that,” she added when Sinjun sent her a petulant look. “Let’s have a look at yer wound afore ye eat.”

  Sinjun lay still as Mary removed the bandage, probed, prodded, and sniffed. “’Tisn’t putrid, yer lordship,” she announced as she spread another layer of salve over the wound and applied a fresh bandage.

  “I’ll be getting up today,” Sinjun announced after everyone but Christy had left.

  “You’re not getting up,” Christy said firmly.

  Sinjun decided not to argue the point. Instead, he mulled over his plans to bring soldiers to Glenmoor, wondering if it was a good idea. If he summoned English soldiers, it was likely to produce more hard feelings and spur talk of rebellion. Damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.

  “Sinjun, are you all right?” Christy asked. “You’re awfully quiet.”

  “I was thinking,” Sinjun said slowly. “When Calum realizes he didn’t kill me, he’s likely to try again. Or perhaps do something to hurt you.”

  “We’ll talk about this later, Sinjun. You need to rest,” Christy said, pulling the blanket up to his chin. “Try to sleep. The faster your body heals the sooner you can make decisions about Calum.”

  Sinjun took her suggestion seriously, especially since he could scarcely keep his eyes open. Had Mary fed him that damn valarian tea again? A few minutes later he dropped into a sound sleep.

  Sinjun made an amazing recovery. Both Christy and Mary had insisted that he remain in bed a full three days. Though he chafed under the inactivity mandated by their stern rules, the bed rest did give his body time to mend itself. By the fifth day he was exercising his arm without experiencing excessive pain. By the seventh day he was able to ride short distances.

  March arrived like the proverbial lion, but it didn’t last. All signs pointed to an early spring. Snow was melting on the hillsides, and preparations were being made for shearing the sheep. With the return of his health, Sinjun thought about confronting Calum. The only thing that stopped him was the impending birth of his child.

  Christy looked so uncomfortable that Sinjun wondered how she could walk, much less continue to function. He knew her sleep was restless, for she had moved back into his bed after his recovery, and he’d been awakened nearly every night by her tossing and turning. He knew it wouldn’t be long now before the birth of their child, and that thought excited him.

  A message from Julian arrived two weeks to the day after Sinjun’s narrow escape from death. John Coachman had braved bogged-down roads and inclement weather to deliver it. Sinjun sent the exhausted man to the kitchen for refreshment while he read Julian’s urgent letter.

  “Bloody hell!” Sinjun cursed after he read the first two sentences.

  Christy came up beside him and peered over his shoulder. “What does Julian want?”

  Sinjun skimmed through the rest of the letter. “Sir Oswald’s trial has been set for the last week in March. I’m to return to London immediately to testify.”

  He heard Christy gasp and cursed his brother’s bad timing. Furthermore, Julian’s message held a none too subtle demand that Sinjun couldn’t ignore. Upon his return, Julian expected Sinjun to report on the situation at Glenmoor, as well as explain why he had delayed his return to London.

  “Are you going to go?” Christy asked quietly. Too quietly.

  Sinjun felt the weight of indecision bearing down on him. He was needed in London, but he was needed here, too. Though he had often pined for London’s social whirl during the long, dreary winter, he wanted to be here to see his child emerge into the world. He searched his mind for an excuse to remain at Glenmoor, one that would satisfy his brother.

  Should Sinjun ignore Julian’s urgent summons, he felt certain his brother would hear about the attack upon him from John Coachman, for servants were notorious gossips. And knowing Julian, he would get himself to Glenmoor as fast as he could
and bring a company of soldiers with him.

  Christy stared at him, her eyes watchful. Then she surprised him by saying, “You have to go.”

  “You want me to go?”

  “That’s not what I said. Sir Oswald has cheated you and caused my clansmen great hardship. He could go free if you don’t testify. Is that what you want?”

  “No, the man deserves to be punished for what he’s done.”

  “Then you must go.”

  “But the babe…”

  “… will be born in her own good time. Besides, you’ll be safer in London.”

  “Dammit, Christy! I’m not frightened of Cameron. I promised to be here for the birth of our child.”

  “Do you think I haven’t noticed your restlessness this winter? I know you miss London. You’ve conducted your life as Lord Sin too long to change over the course of a few months.”

  Sinjun’s eyes narrowed. “Are you deliberately goading me? Have I interfered in your life? Are your clansmen more important to you than I am? All you ever wanted from me was my child to ensure Glenmoor’s future. He was conceived for only one purpose. To continue the Macdonald dynasty and hold the land for future Macdonalds.”

  Her face turned pasty. Oh God, why were they arguing like this? Sinjun silently lamented. They were at each other’s throats over old issues that had been resolved long ago. Or had they been resolved?

  Christy knew exactly what she was doing. It was in Sinjun’s best interest that he return to London. Not just for the trial, which was reason enough, but to find out if he could be happy with one woman. He had to discover that truth for himself. She’d seen the way he’d moped around all winter, those faraway, wistful looks when he thought she wasn’t looking. She didn’t want him if he was remaining at Glenmoor simply because he thought she needed him.

  She wanted Sinjun to love her as much as she loved him. She knew he cared for her, but did he care for her enough to abandon his old life? Returning to London now would give him a taste of what he had been missing and settle the question once and for all.