by Amy Jarecki
She gave him a quizzical look, but didn’t correct his use of m’lady. Then she gestured toward the door. “If you please, tell no one of our meeting.”
“Very well.” His head pounded when he straightened. He staggered forward, stumbling over a bucket near full with rainwater. Grasping the latch, he glanced over his shoulder. “Please pass along my gratitude to Mr. Howard.”
“Go with God.” She waved then bent down to hold the dog’s collar. It didn’t take a seer to realize Mr. Howard was long gone. But why the devil was this woman living alone with the place crumbling around her? That she couldn’t cook worth a lick was clear. Alexander puzzled. What woman of noble birth could? Highborn women were bred for one thing—to birth sons to keep the nobility in power, just as it had been in his own family.
Once outside, he turned full circle. Where the hell should he go? North? The next time I venture to St. Bees, I’ll be heading there with a galleon sporting eighteen guns. Bloody oath, I’d blast the village off the map this day if I could.
Mrs. Howard’s cottage sat on a sizeable property surrounded by trees. Ahead was a path that looked more like a game trail—most likely it was the one he’d followed in the dark last eve. But the fence caught his eye. It was in such disrepair, he doubted the lady could keep any livestock at all.
Before he set out, he needed to wrap Mrs. Howard’s wimple around his ribs. His every movement hurt with stabbing agony. He hobbled around back, finding things in the same poor condition.
No surprises, aye?
There was a coop with no door, and a flock of chickens foraged around the yard as if they owned the place. Yonder, a half-dozen shaggy sheep grazed in a paddock surrounded by a semblance of a fence. The wee beasties looked as if they’d missed their last shearing. Alexander spied the stable and wondered what disorder he’d find there, but at least it would give him privacy to examine his wounds.
Ahead, the apple orchard needed pruning, and fast. If Mrs. Howard didn’t prune those trees, she’d see no fruit this season at all. But that was none of Alexander’s concern. He’d made the second biggest mistake of his life sailing off in the birlinn without a crew.
He stepped inside the stable. Musty, he was surprised to see not a horse or heifer. A few chickens pecked at the moldy straw on the dirt floor. There were two empty stalls that looked in decent condition, but from the water streaks on the walls, the stable had a leaky roof just like the cottage.
Against one wall, iron tools were neatly hung—an axe, a scythe, a rake, shovel, shears, a two-man saw and an assortment of hand tools. A pair of stools sat pushed beneath an old workbench. Odd, I expected to see everything scattered about the ground, gathering rust.
Alexander removed his doublet and shirt and hung them on an empty peg. Just as he suspected, a black bruise the size of a cannonball spread across his ribs. He pressed against the swelling and hissed. No doubt, he was badly bruised at the least. But Alex was no stranger to pain. He needed to pull himself together and figure a way back to Scotland. Aye? He had a responsibility to return to Raasay…eventually. But to go back now grated almost as badly as the pain from drawing each breath. The memories were too raw.
Alex pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. If only his head would stop pounding.
When he grasped Mrs. Howard’s cloth, the stable spun. He braced himself against the wall, but the spinning whipped around faster. His gut queasy as if he’d guzzled a jug of whisky. His legs wobbled. He dropped to his knees and doubled over, losing Mrs. Howard’s tasteless pottage. Unable to move, Alex rolled to his side and closed his eyes. I’ll be up in a moment or two…
Chapter Four
Jane clapped her hand to her chest and took a few deep breaths. The entire time Alexander was in the cottage, she’d feared for her life. The man was so enormous compared to her, and he had the most intense blue eyes she’d ever seen. They were almost predatory. Every time he looked at her, she trembled down to her toes. Thank the good Lord he didn’t try to overtake her. Heaven only knows what would have happened if she’d been forced to wallop him with the poker.
She sat on the bench and chewed her nail—something her mother would have abhorred. She didn’t like sending the Highlander away when he was obviously in pain, but his mere presence threatened her entire life. Jane also regretted lying to him about her name. However, as the daughter of the Earl of Nottingham, using her family name of Howard was not a complete lie—nor was the address Mrs., she supposed.
Jane shuddered when her mind flashed to the night that had changed her life forever. Roderick had smelled of pickled brandy and was in one of his foulest moods. He’d chased her around the chamber with a candlestick. When he struck her in the back, she’d fallen to her knees. She remembered shielding her head from another blow and seeing the dagger sheathed and fastened to his belt. If she didn’t stop him, he would have killed her. She knew it in the depths of her soul. Without thinking of the consequences, she snatched his knife from its scabbard. In one motion she’d sliced it across his throat.
Jane hadn’t meant to cut him, only to wave the dagger in his face so Roderick would stop hitting her.
The blood had drained from his face so quickly.
In the last moments of Roderick’s life, Jane crouched into a ball, frozen except for her trembling hands. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Cox, she would have been taken into custody that very night. Doubtless, the Whitehaven sheriff would have tried her for murder and burned her at the stake.
The old valet had entered Roderick’s chamber without a word. Then he’d quickly grasped her elbow and led her through the door that joined her chamber to the earl’s. “…I’ll gather some of your things into a satchel…” He’d managed it all while she stood stunned. “…You must go to my family’s cottage in Abbey Wood. It has been standing empty for years…”
Jane had no recourse but to follow the man’s every word, and for the past four months and nine days, Mr. Cox had shown her nothing but kindness, had given her a place to live and, moreover, a place to heal. After a time, he’d delivered a trunk with some of her gowns and personal effects. To help her survive, he’d slipped in a few head of sheep and chickens that wouldn’t be missed from the vast Whitehaven flocks.
She’d taught herself to spin wool with the spinning wheel left in the bedchamber by Mr. Cox’s mother, using wool she found stowed in a cupboard. Shearing the beasts this spring would prove a greater problem. Mr. Cox, at the ripe age of seventy, wouldn’t be much help. She’d need to find a way to shear them, because there was no more wool left to spin. Yesterday Mr. Cox had taken her skeins of yarn, which would pay for her supplies in the near term.
Alas, when Alexander offered to lend a hand, she’d been so tempted to accept. But she could not.
Jane glanced up at the leaky roof, which had finally stopped dripping. True, the cottage needed a great many repairs, but it was her haven from the evil that lurked outside its walls. She’d grown comfortable here and the idea of anything threatening her home frightened her very core.
What if Alexander told someone he’d seen me? At least she hadn’t given her true name, and he was a Scot. Surely he would try to stay clear of the locals as he made his way back to the border. The poor man. If only she could have done more to help him.
She sighed and stooped to scratch Max behind the ears. “At least the rain has ceased for a time. We can collect the eggs.”
After feeding the dog the remaining pottage and emptying the pots filled with rainwater, she picked up her basket. “Come, Max.” Every time the little dog scampered after her, she thanked her stars she’d found the stray—yet another lost soul who’d appeared on her doorstep only a fortnight after she’d arrived.
She pushed through the broken door of the chicken coop. That would soon be fixed, because she’d asked Mr. Cox to purchase a handful of nails. She wasn’t trained in building or cooking or wood chopping, but she’d learned a great deal fending for herself. She reached into the nesting boxes. “Five eggs t
oday, Maxie boy.”
The dog yelped and spun in a circle. Why, Jane honestly believed the dog preferred eggs to her pottage. However, the stew might taste better if she got up the nerve to kill a chicken to add to it. On occasion, Mr. Cox would snap their necks and he’d shown her how to pluck and clean them. She’d even been saving the feathers to make pillows.
Jane stopped at the fence and watched the sheep graze. With winter over, grass was growing aplenty, and they were looking fat—or was it their ample puffs of wool? “Max, you shall have to help me muster them into the yard for shearing.” She looked to the broken mess of wooden posts and rails Mr. Cox’s father had once used as a holding pen to assemble the sheep before they were led into the stable to be shorn. It appeared more like a heap of wood ready for a bonfire.
Her shoulders slumped. She must figure out how to mend fences soon, else the sheep would scatter. Surrounded by a rock wall, the paddock they were in now was the only bit of land on the property that had somewhat secure fencing, but even it showed signs of disrepair.
She glanced into her basket of eggs—sustaining food she had collected herself. That made her stand a bit taller. “Max, we must go inside at once and make a list of all that needs to be done. We shall accomplish one thing at a time, and I’d wager by summer’s end we’ll…” She turned a full circle, but the little dog was nowhere in sight. “Max?”
To where on earth did he wander? Jane headed toward the orchard, when a whimper came from the stable. “Max?”
She stepped inside the dim room. Ahead, the dog yelped. Blinking to help her eyes adjust to the darkness, Jane gasped. Alexander lay with his back to her, unconscious on the stable floor, and Max was licking the poor man’s face. Moreover, the Highlander had removed his shirt. His sculpted back muscles were more prominent than anything she’d ever seen, his skin riddled with white scars, as if he were no stranger to battle.
Jane hissed at the sight of the black bruise that spread along the side of his ribcage. “Oh my. His injuries are far worse than I’d imagined.”
She knelt and brushed the dog aside. “Alexander, sir.” She held out her hand and opened then closed her fist. She wanted to touch him, but it would be ever so improper. Steeling her resolve, Jane placed her palm on his warm shoulder and shook. “Please wake.”
He lay completely still. Jane held a finger under his nose. Thank heavens a faint breath caressed it. She covered her mouth. At least he no longer posed a threat inside the cottage. But what on earth should she do with him? He’d complained of a headache as well as sore ribs. Perhaps he should drink some willow bark tea when he woke—she knew how to prepare that.
“Max, stay.”
Jane dashed to the cottage, grabbing some wood along the way. After she’d stoked the fire, she hung the kettle to boil some water. Then she set to mixing a batch of kettle scones—Mr. Cox had shown her how. He said they were easier than making bread.
Now what? As soon as he wakes, feed him and hope he’s well enough to be on his way by morning? She opened the shutter and peered through the wood. What if someone comes looking for him?
She added lard to the flour, a pinch of salt, leavening and some water. Stirring furiously, she imagined a whole army of brawny Highlanders descending upon Abbey Wood and surrounding her tiny cottage.
Jane spooned a dollop of dough into the big cast iron kettle. Stop it, Jane. He said himself he was dumped and left for dead. She scooped another dollop and swiped an errant strand of hair away from her face. But what if his kin are looking for him? He said nothing about traveling companions or his home aside from the Highlands.
Her stomach roiled. Clansmen from the wild Highlands could be searching for him this very minute.
Straining with effort, she lifted the kettle and hung it on the articulating arm. Henceforth, Lady Jane would have a far greater appreciation for all the work servants did.
She clapped the flour from her hands and faced the door. “As soon as he rouses, I must uncover more about him—ensure no more unexpected guests happen upon my doorstep.”
***
Alexander awoke to the call of birds. Again his head rested upon a pillow and a blanket covered him, but this time, the ground beneath was far softer than it had been in the cottage. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. Beside him rested a tankard containing liquid and a wooden plate with some pasty-looking scones.
Alas, he recalled collapsing in the stable. He peered through the doorway. Mist shrouded his view, but he could tell daylight was anon. He must have been unconscious a whole day.
Ever so thirsty, he picked up the tankard and guzzled greedily. Sticking his tongue out, he spat. “Christ, what sort of chalky, bitter brew is this?” Dubiously, he reached for the scone. If he weren’t half starved, he’d give the food a pass. Nothing Mrs. Howard had prepared was fit for consumption. No wonder the woman was so thin. Alex doubted she’d be able to eat her own cooking. But when he bit into the pastry, his mouth watered. “Mm.” Perhaps Mrs. Howard should live off her scones.
He washed it down with another gulp of her bitter brew and something clicked. He’d drunk this before. It was willow bark tea, given to him by Friar Pat on Raasay. He regarded the tankard and smiled. Mayhap Mrs. Howard was concerned for his health.
Standing, he stretched to test his bruised ribs—not quite as sore as yesterday, but it still hurt to take a deep breath. Perhaps spending a day unconscious had helped him heal. The pounding in his head had ebbed a bit too.
After he polished off the second scone, he regarded the tools on the wall. I could help the lass afore I set out. After all, it would be obvious to a blind man she needs a charitable soul.
He pulled the shears from the wall, grabbed a rickety old ladder and lumbered to the orchard. Of all the things he’d noticed yesterday, pruning was the direst chore in his mind. Mrs. Howard needed food. She could not only eat apples, she could make cider and tarts. Alexander licked his lips. A tart would go down nicely ’bout now.
Reaching up to trim the high branches hurt so badly, it made his eyes water, but after the first half-dozen trees, his body grew somewhat impervious to it.
Max bounded from the cottage, racing toward Alexander with a ferocious bark. The dog jumped up against the ladder. It teetered and Alex latched on to a branch. The blasted thing cracked and snapped.
“Argh!” Alexander tried to swing his feet beneath him to break his fall, but he crumpled to the ground in a heap. Lying on his back, the sharp pain in his ribs punished him with an extra bit of throbbing.
Max licked his face.
“Ye bloody mongrel dog.”
“Oh my heavens.” Mrs. Howard came running. “Are you hurt?”
Alexander swallowed back his agony. “Just a few more bruises to add to the ones that were already there.”
“Bad dog.” She shook her finger, and Max circled around her with his ears back and tail between his legs.
Alexander grunted as he stood. “Och, the dog was just excited to see me.”
“I daresay he slept beside you all afternoon until I made him come in for the night.”
“Aye?” Alex bent to straighten the ladder, swallowing his urge to bellow with the jarring pain.
Mrs. Howard planted her fists on her hips. “And whatever are you doing out here after being unconscious?”
“I thought I’d lend ye a hand afore I took me leave.” He picked up the shears. “If these trees are no’ pruned in the next sennight, ye’ll see no harvest at all.”
“Oh?” She smoothed her fingers over her chin. “Mr. Cox didn’t tell me that.”
Another piece of the mystery unfolds. “And who is he?”
“Ah…” She blushed redder than the apples these trees would bear. “He’s the man who let me the cottage.”
Alex repositioned the ladder and climbed. “Well, ’tis good to ken ye’re no’ out here in the wood without a soul to check on ye.”
“And what of your family? Are they not missing you?”
He snipped a br
anch. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about his kin. Yet the tickle at the back of his neck told him they would be looking. His brother Ian wouldn’t want to step in as laird for long. And then there was his son, Malcom. Only two years of age, Alexander’s mother, Lady Anne, would tend to the bairn’s needs until he returned to Raasay. But he didn’t want to think about any of it right now. He glanced down at Mrs. Howard. She crossed her arms, waiting for an answer. “Alas, m’lady, I have no family.”
Though the lie bit, he couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth.
Her face brightened a smidgen. “No one will be out looking for you, then?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” The second lie was easier. “I’ll prune yer trees and be on me way.”
She bowed her head. “Well then, I thank you, and there will be an extra ration of kettle scones for your abounding kindness. Come, Max.” She started back toward the cottage, but stopped. “Have you ever killed a chicken before?”
He’d killed for food, killed in battle… “Aye, m’lady.”
With a sharp gasp, she clapped her hand to her chest. “Would you mind killing a chicken before you take your leave? I haven’t quite the stomach for it.”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “Any bird in particular?”
“No. Mayhap a plump hen.”
“I shall have it to ye by midday so ye can prepare the chicken for yer supper, m’lady.” He watched her reaction again. Referring to her as “m’lady” most definitely disturbed Lady Howard.
Chapter Five
Jane spent the morning foraging for vegetables to add to a new pottage. The last one she’d made contained only barley and leek with no meat at all. The thought of adding fresh chicken made her stomach rumble. She’d dropped quite a bit of weight fending for herself. At Buttermere Castle, she could clap her hands and servants would appear with anything she fancied, as long as it was in season. Oh how spoilt she’d been. Now she’d eat her wimple if forced. Please, may things never become that bad.
