by Jessi Gage
“Obviously, you haven’t met him. He’s not going to budge. His mind is made up that I’m a no-good witch and his nephew has been corrupted by me. Nothing’s going to change that.”
“Pish posh,” Constance said, waving away her concerns. “Nothing is impossible. Just look at my private bathroom. Now, let’s start by considering what matters to the laird of the Keith, shall we? What does he value above all else?”
She scoffed. “That’s easy. Power. He’s the kind of man who likes to see everyone around him cower. He likes to think he’s more important than he is.”
“Well, we certainly don’t want to give him any more power. Is there anything he wants that might be within your power to give him?” Constance took her arm and led her from the storeroom.
“Nothing comes to mind.” She doubted Steafan could be bought off with the gold Darcy had given her; he seemed the type to gain a lot more enjoyment from a grudge than from wealth. “Personally, I don’t want to give that jerk anything except maybe a lit stick of dynamite. Why do you ask? And where are we going?”
“To Wilhelm’s study. I believe we’ve received some correspondence from Ackergill Keep in recent years, and Wilhelm keeps everything, especially correspondence. And I ask because no man, however stubborn, ever makes up his mind so firmly that the right woman can’t change it.”
“Well, we’d better write to Ginneleah then. According to Darcy, Steafan’s ga-ga over his wife.”
“Now you’re on to something, my dear Malina.” Constance used Darcy’s name for her in affectionate jest.
She liked the easy friendship she’d found with this woman, even if she thought Constance a tad crazy for taking the comment about Ginneleah seriously. Melanie hadn’t even met the girl; Darcy had told her she was only 17, and she’d married Steafan two years ago, at the tender age of 15. She shuddered. The poor thing.
In Wilhelm’s study Constance poked through a cherry wood cabinet until she came away with two sheets of paper. “Here they are,” she said, showing them to Melanie. “It was the strangest thing. Wilhelm received these a year apart. The most recent came in June last year.”
Constance was quiet while she read the short letters. They were essentially thank you notes for a perfumed oil Wilhelm had sent the couple as a wedding gift and then as an anniversary gift the next year. “Why strange?” The letters seemed quite thoughtful to her. If there was anything strange about them, it was seeing Steafan so cordial and gracious in writing, proving he wasn’t a perpetual ass.
“They’re strange because Wilhelm has never sent a single thing to Ackergill keep, gift or otherwise. To be honest, I don’t think he’d even heard of the Keith laird by name until we received the first letter.”
“Maybe Steafan mistook a gift from someone else as being from Wilhelm,” she said, frowning at the letters.
“The second one seems to refute that.” Constance pointed at a line she hadn’t understood the meaning of. Ginneleah and I hope and pray the saints will bless us through your kind gift as he has blessed you so greatly. “I think this is a reference to our six sons. I think he assumed the oil is a conception aid and that Wilhelm and I credit something of the sort with our good fortune in bearing so many healthy children.”
“But you didn’t use anything like that. You told me so this afternoon.”
Constance nodded significantly.
“Why would Steafan assume it then?”
“Since you arrived, I’ve been wondering the same thing. Thinking we credit a perfumed oil with the birth of our sons is an oddly specific assumption unless the gift arrived with a note. Surely there had to have been a note if he was certain enough to write a letter of thanks to Wilhelm. Twice.” She narrowed her eyes and tapped her chin with a slender finger. “What if someone sent him the oil in Wilhelm’s name?”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“To get him to trust the oil is innocuous or even helpful to conception.” Constance gave her raised eyebrows, waiting for her to make a connection.
It took several seconds, but logic snapped into place. She gasped. “You think someone sent Steafan a gift of perfumed oil and purposefully led him to believe it might help him and Ginneleah conceive?” As her brain spun with sickening possibilities, Constance cocked her head in affirmation. “But they haven’t conceived, not in the two years they’ve been married. And Darcy told me Steafan hasn’t been himself since losing his only child to a terrible skirmish a few years ago. He wants another son, a true heir, more than just about anything.”
“And when a man wants something that badly…” Constance trailed off, gesturing for Melanie to finish the thought.
“It broadcasts his weakness, makes him a potential target for foul play. What if that oil has quinine in it? What if it’s doing the opposite of what he thinks?”
Constance smiled, but it wasn’t a happy expression.
“But to work, they’d have to use it every time, wouldn’t they? Is that realistic? What if they don’t use it at all and we’re making something out of nothing?”
“Does Steafan strike you as a man who would send a sincere thank you note for something he tosses in a drawer and never uses?” Constance didn’t give her a chance to respond. “Plus, some couples are far from creative in the bedroom. I’d imagine if they used the oil once and liked it, they’d continue using it merely out of habit. I’m by no means certain, but I have a strong suspicion that someone’s taking a great deal of pleasure in Ginneleah’s apparent failure to give her husband what he most desires.”
The thought made her skin crawl. She pretty much hated Steafan, but she wouldn’t have wished that kind of deception on him, especially when having more children might mellow the man. “Okay. Say you’re right. If we suspect something like that, we have to do something to help. But what? It’s not like we know who it is. Steafan’s probably got a list of enemies a mile long. It could be anyone sending him this oil every year.”
Constance nodded. “I imagine we’ll receive another letter in a month’s time, just like the others. Unless our culprit has given up her grudge.”
“Her?”
“Oh, please. Don’t tell me you think a man could be this devious. If we’re right about the oil, it could only be a woman’s work.”
“Hell hath no fury,” she recited, to Constance’s approving nod.
“Steafan thinks you’re a witch, my dear. I wonder if he’d change his mind about the wiles of a magical woman if you were to ‘say a spell of fertility’ over his wife and offer her an oil of your own making, one free from anything harmful.”
She gaped at her friend. “First, that’s awful. That would be perpetuating a lie. I don’t want him to think I’m a witch at all. And if you think he’d let his beloved Ginneleah within ten miles of me, you’re nuts.”
“Not nuts,” Constance corrected. “Optimistic, maybe. As devious as Steafan’s secret admirer, definitely. I’m sure we can come up with something that makes a hero out of you–without perpetuating a lie,” she added with a roll of her eyes as Melanie made to argue. “If nothing else, we can simply tell Ginneleah our suspicions. If we determine she’s using the oil consistently and suggest she stop using it, she might just conceive. Think how grateful Steafan would be. Maybe even grateful enough to invite you and Darcy back.”
“Doubtful,” she said, but regardless of Steafan’s gratitude or lack thereof, she was on board with alerting Ginneleah to the potential harm of the mysterious oil. She’d certainly want to know, if it were her. “So, how do you propose to tell her? It’s not like she’s got an email address or a cellphone. A letter?”
Constance shook her head. “It’s not like the U.S. mail, where the recipient is the first person to open it. If I wrote to Ginneleah, Steafan would see the letter first. And if he didn’t deem it suitable, she might not see it at all. No. Such sensitive news must be given in person and only to Ginneleah. Besides, can you imagine how furious Steafan would be if he found out he’s been tricked in the most perso
nal way imaginable? What if he takes out his anger on his wife?”
She cringed at the thought. “He’ll blow a gasket, all right.” She didn’t want to be responsible for the damage he’d be likely to cause in his fury.
“We don’t even know if it’s true,” Constance said. “We’ll get Ginneleah alone and talk to her about it. See if we’re even in the ballpark with our suspicions.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“I’m going to have Wilhelm write to Ackergill Keep and invite the laird and his wife to Dornoch. What better way to give the happy couple their next installment of perfumed oil, than to do it in person?”
She scoffed. “Steafan hardly leaves the keep, let alone the village. According to Darcy, he hasn’t even led his men in a skirmish since losing his son. There’s no way he’ll come to Dornoch.”
“That’s the beauty of it. The laird himself may not come, but if he’s truly as thankful for the oil as his notes suggest, he’ll certainly want another year’s supply. He’ll likely send his wife as his representative rather than decline the invitation outright and risk offending Wilhelm.”
Constance lit up with the brilliance of her plan. She clapped her hands once and strode from the study. “Oh, there’s so much to do. We need to prepare the finest guest suite and order caviar from Edinburgh.”
Melanie chased after her with panic fluttering behind her breastbone. “You can’t be serious. What are we going to do, bring her here and start drilling her for details of her sex life? ‘Hi, nice to meet you, Ginneleah,’” she mocked. “‘So, how often do you lube up for your husband? Every time?’”
“Please,” Constance chided. “You’re going to be much more subtle than that.”
“Me? This whole thing is your idea!”
“But you need to worm your way into Ginneleah’s confidence if you and Darcy are going to have a snowball’s chance at earning an invitation back to Ackergill. Remember, dear, Ginneleah is Steafan’s biggest weakness. That makes her your best shot.”
It seemed awfully manipulative to plan on making a friend as a means to an end, but Constance did have a point. It wasn’t like she would be disingenuous in her offer of friendship, and she did want to get to the bottom of this perfumed oil mystery. If she managed to secure a spot in Steafan’s good graces, she’d consider it a bonus. She was willing to try for Darcy’s sake.
Constance sailed to the kitchen and instructed Skibo’s head cook to order some special things from Edinburgh. “Now, let’s find my husband and tell him he’s got a letter to write tonight.”
They found Wilhelm in the practice yard, throwing knives at a target painted in the shape of a man. It reminded her of a modern-day shooting range, minus the firearms and ear protection.
“Wilhelm, a moment, love,” Constance called.
Her husband turned to them with a warm expression that made her blush just from catching the run-off of hat much affection.
Before Wilhelm had taken two steps, a servant dashed into the yard. Between panting breaths, he managed, “The Keith. Riding up the road. Covered in blood and screaming like a wild banshee. And he’s riding a different horse than the one he left on. Come quick!”
Her stomach dropped to her feet as Darcy’s frantic shouts met her ears.
“Wilhelm! Ye bloody better have my wife! Malina! Where are ye, lass? Malina!”
She grasped Constance’s hand, and together they ran after Wilhelm toward the road.
* * * *
Darcy urged Gil’s horse up to Skibo, his gaze scouring the keep for any sign of Malina. Just a glimpse of her, he petitioned the saints. Please.
Just a glimpse of her silvery hair and bonny face would ease the terrible knot in his chest. Just a glimpse and he’d be able to breathe again.
Never before had he felt such agony as the fear of having his wife hurt or worse.
Damn him for leaving her in the care of a near stranger. Damn him for neglecting his duty to her. He’d failed to protect her from Hamish’s cruel hands, and now trusting in Wilhelm may have precipitated her capture.
If Wilhelm had sold her to the Keith, he’d bloody well ride with him to retrieve her, or Darcy would see him pay for his broken promise in blood.
“Wilhelm!” he called again. “Show yourself!”
Wilhelm and a pair of his guards rounded the keep at a run.
He reigned in Gil’s horse. “Where is she? Where is my wife?”
“Right behind me. What happened, man? Are ye wounded?”
Malina came running around the keep with Constance. Relief surged through him to see her blessedly unharmed, though her face was drawn with concern. She was worrit for him.
He flew from the saddle and dashed to her. His ripped thigh protested, but he didn’t falter in his steps. Pain was nothing compared to the need to hold his sweet wife in his arms.
Sweeping her up, he pinned her to his chest. Their hearts reached for each other with every beat. She clung to him as fiercely as he clung to her, and some of the horror of the last hour lifted from him.
“Christ, lass, I thought…I thought–” He buried his face in her hair.
She smelled of herbs and flowers, and underneath was her own scent of sugared custard. She wore a lovely kirtle of sapphire blue and an apron smudged with dirt as if she’d been doing chores in the garden.
Her hair flowed like silk through his fingers as he ran his hand over her head and face, assuring himself she was hale, all except for the purple marks around her left eye from Hamish’s hand. Passing over her cheeks, his fingers came away wet with her tears.
“Dinna weep, Malina mine. All is well.”
“You’re hurt,” she cried. “Let me see. There’s so much blood.”
“What happened?” Wilhelm demanded.
“How much of the blood is yours?” Constance asked.
He ignored all but Malina. “I’m all right, lass. I’m all right. Just a few scrapes.” He permitted himself a relieved breath as her face smoothed somewhat, but he refused to let her go. He couldn’t even bring himself to lower her feet to the ground.
With Malina in his arms, he was whole. She wasn’t only his to love and protect; she was part of him.
Realization struck him with blinding force. “I canna let ye go back,” he said. “I willna. Ye are mine, and I willna send you away to your time.” The tightness in his chest unfurled.
Malina’s eyes widened with shock. Her rose-petal lips parted to say somat, but he silenced her with a kiss. He couldn’t help himself. Let her hate him for a time. He would find a way to earn her love and forgiveness. He’d earn them every day for the rest of his life.
Christ, it felt wonderful to have the decision made. He showed her how wonderful it felt with his lips, feasting on her, loving her, pushing his tongue inside of her as he longed to do more privately with her skirts up around her hips.
He expected her to shove him away, to pummel his shoulders with her wee fists and demand he keep his word to help return her to her time. But she did none of those things. Instead, she tightened her arms about his neck and kissed him back with all the urgency and passion coursing through his own veins. Her tongue plunged with his, and her lips stole his breath. Her taste exploded in his mouth as they fought to meld together as one.
Whatever his Malina thought of his declaration, ’twas nay hatred she felt for him.
He kissed her harder, deeper. The joy of their reunion made him deaf and blind to all else. Pressing her legs around his waist, he turned toward the keep. He would die if he didn’t prove his love to her in every physical way he could.
Wilhelm’s voice broke through his haze of desire. The laird’s hand clapped his unwounded shoulder. “There’ll be time for that later, lad. But first, your wounds need seeing to, and I need ye to tell me what’s happened.” To Constance, he said, “Take Malina and make arrangements to sew him up.”
Constance reached a hand toward Malina, but his wife refused to leave him. His chest swelled with pride t
hat she would cling to him against their host’s wishes, even after he’d decreed he would be breaking his word. He didn’t wish to release her either, didn’t think he’d survive another minute without her after their two-day separation had felt like two years.
“Come along, Melanie,” Constance said in a firm but compassionate voice. “It seems our lessons today must include doctoring a bleeding husband.”
Malina searched his face.
“Go, lass. I’ll come find ye shortly.” As much as he wanted to carry her to their room and forget the last hour in the haven of her arms, Wilhelm was right. There were bodies in the road needed tending to. A horse and two men, men whom he had killed, it seemed, for no better reason than they’d lied to him about having his wife. Regret plowed him over.
Malina released her fists from his plaid and slipped from his arms, glaring at Wilhelm as if warning him not to keep him for long. Then she tugged him down for a parting kiss. He let her lips soothe the raging guilt that would be sure to eat him alive the moment she stepped away.
He’d acted rashly and the price would be a never-healing wound on his conscience. He’d killed when killing hadn’t been necessary. May the Lord deal mercifully with him.
Malina’s lips left his, and he felt bereft. Though Constance led her into the keep, she kept her gaze locked on his until the door shut behind her.
“Where’s your horse?” Wilhelm asked. “And whose blood are ye covered in?”
Chapter 20
“No,” Wilhelm said in a tone only a fool would argue with.
“I must,” Darcy insisted. “They are my clansmen.”
Wilhelm didn’t pause in saddling his chestnut stallion. “They played ye false and made ye fear for your wife. Not to mention ruining your fine horse. I would have done the same as ye, and I wouldna be flogging myself for it. Go find your wife. My men and I will see to the road.”
