Misbegotten

by Tamara Leigh

  "I should be thirsty, shouldn't I?" Emma said. "Aye, I suppose I am."

  Joslyn nodded. "I will bring you drink." Leaning forward, she smoothed the wet cloth across Oliver's raging brow. Though he was in a fever, she was grateful he finally slept. All through the night and into the morning he had tossed and turned, then kicked and Hailed as the plague boils began to appear all over his body. "I will be back in a moment," she whispered, though she did not think he heard her.

  Joslyn walked to the table that stood between the two pallets and filled a cup for Emma. However, the old woman took no more than a sip of the liquid.

  "You should drink more," Joslyn urged her.

  "Plenty," Emma said, and turned her head away.

  With a sigh, Joslyn turned back to the table and Bet the cup down, and as she did so, the small pouch containing the mix of powders caught her eye. Reminded that it was time to dust the fire with them again, she glanced at Oliver to assure herself he was sleeping well, picked up the pouch, and walked to the fire pit. She poured out just enough to fill her cupped palm and tossed the powders upon the fire. I he (lames leapt higher, fuming a caustic odor upon the air.

  Lord, no more heat," Emma groaned from her pallet. "Tis torture."

  Hurriedly, Joslyn stepped to the woven shutters and pushed them open. The air that gusted in was hardly fresh with the stench of the surrounding sick houses upon it, but more so than the air within the wattle-and-daub house. Chilled by it, Joslyn pulled her mantle around her shoulders and started to push the pin of her brooch through the folds of material. However, in the next instant she pulled her hand back to gaze upon Liam's gift.

  It was all she had of him. All she would ever have of him, she reminded herself. It would be unbearable to lose Oliver, but even worse not to have the comfort of Liam's arms to give her something to live for. Her life would stretch into unending emptiness. Of course, God might not make her to suffer too long for her sins. Mayhap a day from now ... a sennight... a fortnight and she would lie victim to the same which now took Oliver from her.

  Gripping the brooch so tightly it hurt her hand, she leaned back against the wall and tilted her face up. She was tired, not from the sleepless night spent mopping Oliver's brow and whispering soothing words to him but from the pent-up emotions she had yet to release. So tired.. ..

  27

  The stench assailed Liam ere he was even fully into the blackened remains of the village. It was worse than he had heretofore experienced. Of course, for Ahmad it was more than familiar.

  "There is much death here," the Arab said as he drew his mount alongside Liam's.

  His thoughts occupied with the news of Oliver's and Emma's affliction, which he had received upon arriving at Ashlingford, Liam struggled up from them and met the man's gaze. "'Tis the reason I brought you here," he replied between clenched teeth.

  Ahmad inclined his head. "If your holy men are receptive, I will instruct them as you have asked," he said, reminding Liam that what he accomplished here would only be effective if Father Warren and the friars were willing to continue the therapy once he returned to Thornemede.

  Liam was the first to dismount. As he dropped to the ground, Father Warren, followed by one of the friars, came out from the nearest sick house.

  "Lord Fawke!" the priest exclaimed. "What do you at Belle Glen? We were not told you were coming. You . . . you should not be here."

  It was the very reason he had left his men at Ashlingford. "Where is Lady Joslyn?" he asked.

  "In the far house with her son and Emma," the priest said, nodding over his shoulder.

  Liam called to Ahmad and strode with him toward the house the priest had indicated. Upon entering, his gaze fell first to Emma, where she lay on the near pallet, her face turned to the wall as she slept. On the next pallet was Oliver, and beside him knelt Joslyn. Her mantle was draped askew upon her shoulders and her black hair hung tousled down her back as she leaned over her son and spoke softly to him.

  Nearing, Liam heard her reassuring words. "Mama's here," she said, unaware they were no longer alone. "Hush, my darling."

  The strain in her voice dragged at Liam's emotions. For certain, she believed she was going to lose her son—and she had good reason to believe it—but if anyone could raise the little boy back up it was Ahmad.

  Behind him, Liam heard the soft fall of the physician's feet, which a moment later was drowned out by Oliver's pained whimper. Kicking his legs beneath the sheet drawn up over him, he moaned, "Hot. . . hot."

  Joslyn dipped her cloth in the basin beside her. "Hush," she soothed as she patted cool moisture upon his face. "Hush."

  His long-drawn groan ending on a sigh, Oliver quieted.

  Even with Liam's shadow falling past Joslyn and growing larger on the wall opposite, she still did not look around. Either she believed it was one of the holy men come, he thought, or else she was oblivious to anything beyond Oliver. Most likely the latter.

  Coming to stand over her, Liam laid a hand upon her shoulder. "Joslyn," he said. Immediately, she stiffened beneath his fingers and remained still a long moment before looking around.

  She had not slept in some time, he saw. Her skin was so pale as to appear bloodless, and the circles beneath her eyes so dark as to resemble smeared ash. Most of all, her eyes were so sorrowful there was hardly any of the brilliant amber left in them. The mourning had already begun.

  Though Liam wanted more than anything to drag her into his arms and hold her, something told him she would not welcome it. "I have brought someone to help Oliver," he said. "And the others."

  Silent, she continued to stare at him, her expression empty but for grief.

  Wondering if she was reachable in that place she had retreated to inside herself, Liam lowered himself to his haunches, then gently gripped her shoulders and turned her toward him. "Did you hear me, Joslyn?" he asked.

  She seemed to stare right through him, but her gaze wavered. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

  Liam nodded to where Ahmad stood waiting to be summoned. "I have brought someone to help Oliver," he said again.

  She looked past him, but whatever she thought of the man in Arab dress did not show on her face. Sinking back onto her heels, she turned to Oliver again. "Just tell me he is not going to die," she whispered, though it could not be said there was any hope in her plea.

  Liam had avoided looking upon Oliver, as the memory of Michael was still too fresh, but now he did. His heart—the one that a year ago he had not believed he had—swelled with emotion. Though Michael's boils had been worse, it was still a terrible thing to behold, especially on one so young.

  "Can you tell me that?" Joslyn asked, looking back at him.

  "I cannot," he replied. "All we can do is try." Unable to resist, he lifted a hand and cupped it around her jaw.

  Joslyn wrenched free of his touch and shot upright. "What do you care?" she demanded, hysteria on the edge of her voice. "All you must now do is wait for Oliver to die, and then all this will be yours." She threw her arms wide. "All of it."

  His anger rising with him, Liam slowly straightened. "You know that is not what I want," he said. He tried to control his dangerous emotions by attributing Joslyn's behavior to grief.

  "Isn't it? 'Tis what you have always wanted, and now, finally, you shall have it."

  Grief, Liam told himself over and over as he fought the temper in him that threatened to erupt.

  Joslyn lowered her head into her hands. "You have won, Liam Fawke," she said. "Neither Maynard nor Ivo can thwart you. Ashlingford is yours."

  The silence that followed was so thick it pounded in Liam's ears. "Do you really believe that?" he growled. "That I want Oliver to die that I might have Ashlingford for myself?"

  Joslyn's throat burned with the sobs she fought back, and her eyes stung with tears she refused to shed. She tried not to fall apart. Later, in the great solitude that would be hers, there would be time aplenty for it. Just not now. But she was falling apart, she realized—crack
ing into little pieces that would make her useless in caring for Oliver.

  Suddenly, Liam's fingers gripped her flesh with barely restrained anger. He dragged her from the house and, once outside, pulled her around to face him. "Tell me, Joslyn," he said between clenched teeth. "Is that what you truly believe of me?"

  Though what she wanted most was to find some corner to curl into—to drag her knees up to her chest and bury her face against them that she might cry out all this pain—she forced her gaze to Liam's.

  "Which is it?" he demanded, his face flushed and pupils so enlarged there was hardly any green left to them. "Am I beast or not?"

  As she looked up at him, the love she had tried to suppress ever since Oliver had fallen sick crept back into her heart.

  But there was her sin, she sharply reminded herself. However, what she had said of him was false, spoken out of grief, fear, and these past months of unanswered longing.

  The first tear fell. "I am sorry, Liam," she said. "Tis grief that speaks such words from my mouth. Only grief."

  His hold on her eased, and a moment later Joslyn was in his arms.

  Sagging against Liam, she began to shake, then harder as the sobs she had so long suppressed burst from her and the scalding tears rushed from her eyes.

  She cried for Oliver. For all the years before him he would never see. For the laughter she would no longer hear. For the sweetness of his freshly bathed skin she would no longer smell. For the little hand in hers she would no longer feel. For the hundreds of questions he would no longer ask. For this one light in her life blown out so cruelly.

  How long she clung to Liam she could not have guessed, but when finally she sobbed her last, she opened her swollen eyes to discover herself cradled in Liam's arms where he sat with his back against a tree. Though she had not known it, sometime during her outpouring of grief, he had carried her to this place removed from the sick houses. Away from the dying. Away from her son.

  "Oliver!" she gasped, pushing away from Liam. "I must return to him."

  He tightened his arms around her. "He is being cared for, Joslyn," he assured her. "The physician I brought knows the plague well. He will know what to do for Oliver."

  "But I—"

  "Ahmad cast the sickness from Emrys, as well as from several others. You must leave him to his work."

  The Arab had saved Emrys? Hoped flickered in her. Was it possible he could help Oliver as well? She looked into Liam's eyes and, finding the reassurance she needed there, eased her weariness against him.

  Liam stroked a lock of hair back from her face and brushed the moisture from beneath her eyes. "It was a long time coming, wasn't it?" he asked.

  Her tears. Aye, if one could say that the eternity since discovering first Emma, and then Oliver, ill in her chamber was a long time. She nodded.

  Liam stared at her a moment. "I would have come sooner, but it just was not possible."

  "I knew you could not."

  He raised her clenched hand, and only then did Joslyn realize what she still held. Slowly, he unfolded her fingers from the brooch, then lifted it from her to reveal the four distinct impressions made in her palm. Roses.

  Liam captured her gaze again and then brought her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to it. "I love you, Joslyn Fawke," he said.

  Thinking she could not possibly have heard right— or else this was just a dream conjured by her sleep-deprived mind, she stared at him.

  A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "Tis what you have been waiting to hear, is it not?" he asked.

  Though Joslyn had thought her eyes too dry to have any crying left in them, the tears surged forth from whatever well lay hidden within her. Liam Fawke had spoken his love to her. Never mind that the love could never be acknowledged. "I did not believe you would ever say it," she murmured.

  He trailed his lips downward, and kissed the inside of her wrist. "A year ago, I would not have believed it myself," he said, "but for months now, 'tis what I have wanted to do."

  "Then why did you not?"

  Lowering her arm to her side, he leaned his head hack against the tree and sighed. "I just could not— and still I should not have told you."

  She pulled away, better to see him. "Why? You know I love you."

  "Aye, and I also know there is no future for us," he said, exposing the harsh truth.

  She needed no one to tell her that. Although she would always hold in her heart the words of love he had spoken to her this day, she would never know the fulfillment of awakening beside him each morning, of bearing him children, of laughter and tears and a strong hand to hold to when life turned cruel, of growing old with him as the world grew new. . . .

  She must return to Oliver. Raising herself out of Liam's lap, she said, "I have been gone too long."

  He also stood, but he caught her hand as she started to turn away. "I will stay as long as you need me," he said.

  But not forever. "And Thornemede?"

  Drawing her nearer, he brushed his lips across hers. "It can wait," he said. Stepping back, he pulled her mantle closed, deftly fastened the brooch at the neck, and then took her hand and led her back to Belle Glen.

  As Joslyn entered the sick house, a horribly acrid smell struck her like a slap in the face. Realizing that it came from where Oliver lay, she jerked free of Liam and ran forward. "What think you are doing?" she cried to the Arab, who was bent over her son.

  "Joslyn!" Liam called after her.

  She heard him, but it did not matter. Nearly upon the man, she stumbled to a halt when he suddenly straightened and showed her the iron he held. It glowed red at the tip. "He does not feel it, my lady," he assured her. "I have given him something so he will sleep."

  Liam's hands fell heavily upon Joslyn's shoulders, preventing her from lunging forward and shoving the strangely garbed man aside. "'Tis this that saved Emrys," he said, his fingers tightening upon her. "Trust me, Joslyn. If there is to be any hope for Oliver, you must not interfere with Ahmad's work."

  Trying to hear Liam despite the fear shrouding her, Joslyn shuddered. Was it truly possible that this man from a far-flung country could do what had not yet been done at Ashlingford? Could he save Oliver? If there was even one chance in a million, she must take it. She swallowed, then said, "I want to see my son."

  Ahmad's eyes lifted from Joslyn to where Liam stood behind her, questioning him.

  The Arab stepped aside.

  Oliver lay unclad on the pallet, but though the boils upon him had all been laid open, and many of them cauterized, he looked to be resting quietly. Still, it was frightful. Her little boy—

  "The boils must be discharged, my lady," Ahmad explained. "The poison let out."

  Turning, she pressed her forehead to Liam's shoulder and gripped his tunic with desperate hands. "Do not let him die," she pleaded. "I could not stand it."

  Liam held her close and stroked a hand up and down her back. "Ahmad will do all he can," he said. He guided her across the room to an empty pallet and pulled her down beside him. "Sleep," he said. "When Oliver awakens, he will need you rested."

  "I. . . do not think I can," she murmured.

  "You must."

  Shortly, Joslyn found the sleep she had not believed she would.

  Liam stayed with her, loath to let go of her, but then Emma's groan sounded around the room. Gently, he laid Joslyn down and strode to the old woman's pallet.

  "Oliver," she rasped. "My boy."

  Liam lowered himself beside her. "He is being tended to, Emma," he reassured her.

  Frowning, she opened her eyes, as best she could. "Is it really you, Liam?" she asked, her hand searching across the sheet spread over her.

  Reaching forward, he covered her gnarled fingers with his. "It is," he said.

  Her face relaxed. "I knew you would come. You love them too much to stay away."

  Knowing she referred to Joslyn and Oliver, he said, "I do."

  "Is Oliver . .. better?" she asked.

  "He is,
" Liam said, not knowing whether or not he lied, though it was likely he did. But it was what Emma needed to hear, and he saw no reason to withhold it.

  Breathing a long sigh, she closed her lids again. "He is such a good boy," she murmured, "just like my Maynard was."

  Refusing to think on what Maynard had later become, Liam asked, "Is there something I can get you, Emma? Are you thirsty?"

  "Always," she whispered. "And I do hurt so."

  Releasing her hand, Liam stood to go to the table where pitchers of drink were set. However, Ahmad had already seen to it. Carrying a cup filled only half full, the Arab stepped past Liam and went down beside Emma.

  It was probably best that the old woman was too weary to open her eyes, Liam thought, for otherwise she would surely have been distressed by the strange face before her.

  Though she seemed content with only a sip of the drink, Ahmad continued to press it upon her until the cup was drained. Then he lowered her head back to the pallet and straightened. "How is she?" Liam asked.

  Ahmad shook his head. "I gave her a draught to ease the pain," he said, "but I fear I cannot save her. She will die ere morning."

  Liam was not surprised, but still there was a great ache in him for this woman he had always cared for. "And Oliver?" he asked, glancing to where the boy lay so small and still upon the pallet.

  "The night will tell," Ahmad said.

  28

  The night was long and grew longer, as Oliver's tormented cries and violent thrashing tested Joslyn's sanity. Though Liam urged her to sleep during those times of respite when Oliver fell into a restless slumber of his own, she couldn't. It seemed that all the Arab had done was for naught. Believing Oliver was soon to die, she refused to leave his side. He needed her, and she needed these last hours with him-—painful as they were.

  Hardly aware of Liam even though he hovered near her and his hand was often upon her shoulder, she knelt beside Oliver's pallet and allowed her tears to fall unchecked. She spoke softly to him and wet his brow whenever he awakened in the course of a fit.