by Sandy Blair
He looked up into her glossy, clear gray eyes, her confusion and distress were quite evident as she bit her bottom lip and blinked away threatening tears.
Taken together--her question, odd ways, and her plans for her castle—-he decided his wife was merely addled. If Isaac is correct, if there was a plot afoot, she had to be only a pawn in a game in which she had no knowledge.
He would bed her as soon as possible, yet he still couldn’t spill his seed within her. He had to discover--for his heir’s sake--if her coddled brain resulted from heredity or from being coshed on the head. Given her odd turn of mind, the task wouldn’t be an easy one.
“Doth it matter how ye came to be here, lass? Ye be here, we be legally wed, and I shall protect ye.”
She snorted as her hands continued their lulling magic on his scalp. “Duncan, it’s not that simple. Doesn’t it bother you that we’re married but have no love for each other? That we don’t even know each other?”
“Nay, ‘tis the way of marriage. We shall grow accustomed to one another in time.”
“I doubt I’ll ever grow accustomed to anything in this time. I don’t even know what’s expected of me.”
He grinned, “Practice patience.” He then had a brilliant thought. “Can ye read, lass?”
“Yes.” She sounded affronted. “I can also calculate percentages in my head, but that’s not going to help.” She started rinsing his hair. “It’s upsetting having someone like Flora looking askance at me because I can’t speak French, and having Rachael dress me. I feel like an idiot here. I want to go home.”
Her voice sounded so plaintive, so bairn-like, he almost smiled. How had this poor addled woman, living in France since her husband’s death, survived? “Wife, I ken the solution to yer woes.”
“You do?” To his disappointment her hands began making quick work of drying his hair. “Truly?”
“Truly. On the morrow, ye shall have the answers ye seek.”
“Bless you, Duncan Angus MacDougall!” To his utter surprise, she gave him a resounding kiss on the lips. And she tasted of mint.
~#~
Beth’s euphoria dissolved like cotton candy in her mouth, gone before she had a chance to fully enjoy it. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as she stared at Duncan’s solution to all her problems—-a book entitled What The Goodwife Taught Her Daughter. Knowing she’d likely be reduced to hysterics, she did neither, and opened the leather bound volume under his watchful gaze. She slowly scanned the pages. The author had fixated on table manners, but the book’s main emphasis stressed piety, deference, and of all things, restraint. Just what she needed—-more restraints, as if donning headgear, mountains of velvet, and curtsying constantly weren’t restrictive enough.
She closed the book and turned the ring on her still sensitive fingers. Funny, she’d always thought that if she ever wore such a band it would represent love, commitment, and the promise of common goals. When an annoying burn started at the back of her throat she sniffed and smoothed down the pleats of her bodice.
She had no right to complain. Despite her looks and lack of education, she now owned a castle and had a husband, abrasive and annoying as they both managed to be at times. She should be thanking God for his largess, not wishing for things that apparently weren’t meant to be. She should be content with knowing Duncan would survive. Glancing up and finding her hubby looking inordinately pleased, she murmured, “Thank you.”
“Ye are most welcome. ‘Tis a helpful tome, I’m told.”
“I’m sure it is.” She placed it on the foot of his bed. “I’ll begin reading today.” If nothing else, perhaps she could garner some insight into the elaborate finger movements Rachel, Isaac and Flora employed as they ate. She still couldn’t believe the clan didn’t used forks. “We need to change your dressing now.”
Duncan’s good humor immediately evaporated, leaving him looking like a petulant four-year-old who’d just been told he was getting a haircut. “Ack! Can it not wait?”
“Nay, my lord. If you have any intention of getting out of bed any time soon, we need to change the dressing twice a day, so roll over.”
He huffed but did as she asked. “Finish yer tale.”
She sprinkled salt into the warm water at his bedside. “Which tale?”
“The tale of Lady Kathy.”
“Ah.” She stripped off the linen holding his dressing in place. “Kathy found work serving food.”
“Where?”
“In New York at a hotel—-a very big house where travelers spend the night. She worked very hard and one day she received a promotion—-a higher rank. She now had full charge of all the people serving food. Three years passed and she had an opportunity to rise again.” Beth smiled, recalling how excited she’d been the day the general manager of the St. Regis had called and offered her the job. “Now she worked at the most elegant hotel in the city, arranging parties.”
“I ken not par tees.”
Beth slowly poured her warm saline solution over the dried packing in his shoulder. He hissed as it soaked in.
“Sorry.” She winced for him as she poured more, to be sure the dressings edges would loosen. “Parties are banquets where people gather to celebrate.”
“Ah.”
“All was going well until a man arrived at her door saying she’d inherited a castle on an isle.”
He asked through gritted teeth, “Where is this castle?”
“Here in Scotland, near Oban.” She gingerly picked up one corner of the dressing. “This is going to hurt.” She held her breath as she peeled away the old packing. Her prayers had been answered. She found only bright red healthy tissue beneath. There was no evidence of infection. The gash was now only a half-inch deep. Duncan would have a scar eight inches in length and nearly three inches in width, but who cared? He lived. She again thanked God the man had the constitution of an ox.
When she blotted the wound, Duncan shuddered and his heavy muscles contracted under her hands. He hissed, “The castle, lass.”
She patted his shoulder. “Yes, the castle. It’s smaller than many, but lovely to Kathy. This is the first real home she’s ever had.” Ready to place a fresh saline dressing into the wound, she whispered, “Kathy’s castle is haunted.”
“Ack!” He took a deep breath as the packing hit his wound. “A ghost?”
She smiled, quite pleased her announcement had the desired effect of distracting him. “Aye, a big, handsome, decidedly masculine ghost haunts her castle. He follows her constantly, upstairs and down.” Beth wrapped fresh linen around his shoulder then lowered her voice to a conspirator’s whisper. “She even caught him spying on her as she bathed.”
“Nay! And where is her cur of a husband whilst all this chasing and spying goes on?”
Beth suppressed the urge to laugh. Duncan, her resident voyeur, was incensed by the prospect of a man spying on a woman at this stage in his life. “Kathy has no husband. Where she comes from men choose their ladies by fairness of face and by the size of their breasts. The bigger the breasts, the better. Unfortunately, Kathy is thin and plain.”
“‘Tis madness. Fair fades, breasts droop, but not so stones. The woman is worth her weight in or to a landless Knight of Girt and Sword.”
“Is or gold?” She tried rolling her r’s as he had. “The yellow metal?”
“Aye, ‘tis.” He frowned. “Lady Kathy’s clan hath verra strange ways, Beth. Verra strange.”
She patted his good arm. “We’re done.”
“Help me sit, lass.”
“It’s too soon.”
“Nay, ‘tis past time.” He held out his good arm. Seeing this wasn’t a battle she could win, she reluctantly grasped his good arm. Her hands didn’t come close to circumnavigating his right, heavily-muscled bicep as she levered him upright. Once vertical, Duncan immediately blanched and wavered. Angus walked in just as she caught Duncan’s lolling head against her chest.
“My Lady!” Angus strode forward and took Duncan’s weight from her ar
ms. “Ack, man, ye need to rest awhile longer.”
“Nay.” Duncan shook his head. “How can I stand if I canna garner the strength to sit? The dizziness will pass in a wee bit.”
When Angus gave Beth one of those can’t you control him looks that strangers give parents when their toddlers throw fits in supermarkets, she held up her hands. “Angus, according to What The Goodwife Taught Her Daughter I’m to acquiesce to his every wish with a smile on my face, so don’t start with me.” She placed a cool, wet cloth on her husband’s forehead. “Take slow deep breaths, hon. Are you still dizzy?”
“A wee bit.”
Angus steadied Duncan before asking her, “What means hon?”
Beth felt a blush race from her chest to her hair roots. “It...means ‘honey.’ It’s a casual term like ‘you there’, nothing more.”
To her relief Angus only raised a thick, auburn eyebrow and made a thick humphing sound, but said no more.
“Wife, I need speak with Angus. Could ye return in an hour’s time, lass? We can finish the tale then.”
She nodded, glad for the excuse to escape. Later, she would have ample time to finish her tale as he called it. The sooner he understood her plight, the sooner they could find a way out for her.
Soon she she’d be back to her ghost, coffee and make-up. Pondering why the thought should cause a weird sinking feeling in her stomach, she closed the door.
“Ye should not be sitting up, friend.”
Duncan shook his head. “I must.” He looked at the closed door. “What do you know of Lady Beth?”
Angus grinned. “She may be plain and too wee for yer robust tastes, but she does have a warrior’s heart. Ye’d be dead now, if not for her wee hands. My shock was extreme when she plunged them into scalding water—-not once but many times—-to keep the bad humors at bay.”
“Ye speak of witchcraft?” The notion of his bride practicing the evil craft nearly unseated him.
“Nay. She spoke of cleanliness and Godliness.” Angus shrugged. “I understood naught of these evil humors—-germs as she named them--but Rachael and Isaac knew them well. Her way—-of absolute cleanliness—-’tis, apparently, also in Isaac’s bible. Knowing him to be Godly in his own odd way and to be yer trusted friend, I did not interfere with her ritual.” He grinned as he wiped the sweat from Duncan’s brow. “In truth I had nay choice. Ye were closing fast on death, so I gave her sway.”
Duncan nodded. “Since I still draw breath, I cannot fault yer logic, Angus.” It did not sit well hearing he owed his life to Beth while still questioning whether she was or was not sane...or whether she was or was not the woman he’d contracted to marry. He had to get to the bottom of the quandary soon.
“Angus, ye need not be standing here bracing me like a buttress. Help me to that chair.”
Instead of helping him stand, Angus pulled the chair to the side of the bed and slid his arms under Duncan’s legs.
When Duncan started to protest, Angus grumbled, “I’ll not be the cause of ye falling on yer daft head. But should ye be so stupid as to stand, now I’ll not have to drag yer blasted overgrown self so far to the bed.”
Settled into the high-backed chair, his good shoulder supporting his back, Duncan mumbled, “Thank ye.”
“Ye’re most welcome.”
“Has the Bruce moved on our kine or any of the outlying crofts?” Since Duncan had killed seven of John’s men, it wouldn’t have surprised him had John set fire to all their outlying homes.
“Nay. All is quiet, but ‘tis only a matter of time before he seeks revenge.”
Duncan nodded. The Bruce wouldn’t be alone in seeking retribution. He, Duncan the Black, still had a serious score to settle.
“Have ye discovered who the two dead women were in the carriage with my lady?” Not knowing but assuming the best, he’d ordered them buried in consecrated ground.
Angus shook his head as he started to clean his nails with his dirk. “‘Tis unlikely their Mother Superior has received yer missive yet.”
Duncan had assumed the women accompanying Beth had come from the French nunnery with her, which brought another question to mind. Why hadn’t Beth mentioned the ladies? True, she’d been too overwrought initially, but not now. Mayhap, she could furnish their names. If she still found their passing too painful to discuss, he would let the matter pass. They were, after all, dead, and ‘twas naught he could do to rectify that. “How goes the labor in the chapel and fields?”
“In the chapel, slow but steady. The guards report all’s quiet about the oat and rye.” Angus cleared his throat. “I need bring another matter to your attention.”
“Aye?”
“Eleanor’s mother is dead.”
“Dead?” Kenning the old hag hadn’t a clan to run to after he’d banished her from Blackstone, Duncan hadn’t the heart to drive her off his lands entirely. She was often seen lurking along the border of his and the Bruce’s lands. He now hoped she hadn’t been murdered. “How?”
“According to Betty, the woman who sheltered her, on the same night Lady Beth arrived, the old crone grew highly agitated. Thinking the cause the storm, Betty tried to calm her, but she only grew more crazed. After two days of constant keening and senseless raving, she simply died.” Angus shrugged. “Thinking ye’d not object, I ordered her buried quickly and without ceremony up yon.”
Duncan blew out a breath, relieved to his marrow that he wouldn’t have to seek revenge for a dead woman he’d despised. “Verra good.”
Angus sheathed his dirk and finally grinned. “And ye will, no doubt, be pleased to hear the bloody bush ye’ve been coddling these past two years has finally bloomed.”
Duncan laughed. “‘Tis not a brush, ye heathen, ‘tis a tree. A lemon tree.”
Duncan had fallen in love with its fragrant blossoms and fruit while on his way to the Holy Land. Two years ago he had asked a friend in Italia to ship one to him. He’d potted the wee scrawny branch the moment it arrived and had nursed it through two winters in his solar. He grinned. In the span of a few more full moons he would once again hold the beautiful, golden fruit in his hands.
Angus grinned. “Need ye anything else?”
“Aye. The next time ye come this way please bring my diary and writing tools.” He wiggled a brow. “I must record this momentous occasion.”
Angus bowed with his right hand over his heart. “As my liege lord commands.”
Duncan laughed. They’d grown up together, played and fought like brothers. “Out with ye, fool, and send in my wife.”
Aye, this time God had dealt fairly with him. He had provided the prized fruit as compensation for giving him an addled wife.
Chapter 10
Two days later Beth poked at the cold, overcooked joints of lamb and questionable blood pudding--their cook’s fifteenth century version of lunch—-and wanted to pull her hair out.
Bad food aside, every time she had Duncan alone and tried to restart her story, something or someone had interrupted them.
This morning it had been Miss I’m Too Sexy for My Clothes, Flora Campbell. The woman had rushed in whining about some dispute she was having with another woman over drying cloth or dying wool--Beth still wasn’t sure which. Duncan then had to hear the other woman’s version of events. As far as Beth could tell, given their rapid and odd phrasing, the altercation had started over rights to a favorite work area.
It took an hour for Duncan to sort out the truth. All the ladies’ hair snatching and swatting stemmed from jealousy. The older woman had apparently caught Flora flirting with her man. Duncan had sternly admonished them both and set them to working on alternate days. Neither looked too pleased as they left. Then Angus arrived and on it went.
Beth looked about. Most in the castle were eating. She decided now was as good a time as any to try seeing Duncan again. She stood and quickly turned.
Her nose collided with her husband’s chest.
He grabbed her shoulders to keep her from toppling. “Be ye all righ
t, my lady? I didna mean to startle ye.”
She cradled her poor nose with her fingers and tried to blink the sting away. “What are you doing downstairs? You should be resting.”
He made one of his thick humphing sounds at the back of his throat in answer and scanned the room. Beth glared at Angus, now standing behind her husband’s shoulder. He just shrugged.
Seeing she’d get no help from that quarter, she said, “Duncan, you could relapse if you overtire.”
“Relapse?”
She wanted to cuff his ears. By now he understood her well enough. “Yes, husband, your fever and weakness could return.”
He cocked an eyebrow, “Cease fashing, woman. I am mended enough.” She opened her mouth to protest again, and he placed a firm finger to her lips. “I am sorely tired of rest and coddling. ‘Tis much I need attend to, so say no more or leave.”
He was dismissing her! Why the arrogant...
She spun on her heel, embarrassed to her hair roots. How dare he chastise her before an audience?
Before she could take a step, his hand clasped her arm. She instinctively pulled back. He hauled her into his side with little or no effort. Through clenched teeth, she hissed, “Let go.”
He leaned down and whispered directly into her ear, “My dear lady, I canna be seen being ordered about like yer lap dog. I command yon men with the mere lift of my hand, only because they respect my past valor and fear my reprisal should they not obey.” He squeezed her arm just a bit. “Ye ken?”
Fear and embarrassment made blood pound in her ears. Determined not to show it, she hissed, “Aye, my lord.”
Please, God, get me out of here!
He surveyed her face for a moment, then whispered. “Fash not, goodwife. Ye may always say what ye must to me in private.”
Ya, right. And what happens “in private” if what I have to say isn’t to your liking? She shuddered.
While vulnerable and dependent, her husband had been as docile and compliant as a trained bear. On the mend now and feeling more himself, was he finally showing his true colors?
