by Connie Mason
Then he kissed her, making Gillian forget Gizela’s warning, forget Seana, and forget even her reason for seeking Ross in the first place.
Two days later, Ross, Donald, and Niall left for Wick. They expected to be gone two, mayhap three days. Gillian tried to keep to her routine during Ross’s absence. She set some women to rendering fat from the hog they had butchered and salted, and others to making candles to burn during the long winter nights to come. She conferred with Hanna about meals and busied herself counting bed linens.
While all this activity was going on, everyone but Seana offered to lend a hand. Gillian avoided the haughty woman as often as possible, but sometimes their meeting was unavoidable. Two days after Ross left, Seana confronted Gillian in the hall.
“When do you expect Ross to return?” Seana asked.
Gillian glanced out the window, noting that the sun had already set. “Probably tomorrow. If he were arriving today he would have already been here. Why are you asking about Ross instead of Niall?”
Seana bristled. “I was referring to all three men. Tomorrow,” she repeated. “Excuse me; I just recalled something important I must do.”
Gillian stared after Seana as she hurried off. The woman was a thorn in her side. Though Seana had done naught to rouse suspicion, Gillian couldn’t forget Gizela’s warning. Since Seana hadn’t left the keep since the men’s departure, Gillian saw no reason for alarm. Ross was right when he said Gizela thrived on predicting doom and death.
The cart was loaded with all the items Ross had purchased in Wick and ready to roll three days after he and his kinsmen left Ravenscraig. Though Ross had wanted to return home a day earlier, it had taken longer than he’d expected to find all the items they needed. After breaking his fast that morning, Ross had decided to ride ahead and let the slower cart follow at its own pace.
Ross couldn’t believe how much he had missed Gillian. During the past three days she had never been far from his thoughts. Her flaming hair and responsive body haunted his dreams. Considering theirs had been an arranged marriage neither he nor Gillian wanted, Ross had become inordinately fond of his feisty wife. He had to chuckle every time he recalled her attempt to run him through with her sword during that final battle between Clan MacKay and Clan MacKenna.
The situation would have been laughable if Gillian hadn’t been so serious in her endeavor to skewer him. The experience had taught him never to underestimate a woman wielding a sword.
Ross’s thoughts of Gillian eased the monotony of his long ride to Ravenscraig. Before he realized it he was at the halfway mark in his journey, with the cart still some distance behind him. If he hadn’t been so distracted by his thoughts, he would have seen riders approaching him from the west. They were nearly upon him before he became aware of their presence. When he recognized their plaid, he stopped to await them.
“What brings you so far from home?” Ross asked when the leader approached him. “Are you traveling to Wick for supplies?”
When the leader did naught but stare at him, Ross asked, “What is it, man? Is aught amiss?”
Stunned, Ross scarcely had time to twist aside as the man pulled his sword from the sheath he carried on his back and thrust it without provocation into Ross’s flesh. Though the assailant had aimed for Ross’s gut, his sword wavered at the last minute and found a home in Ross’s right side.
As the leader withdrew his sword, Ross gasped out, “Why?”
Then he slid from the saddle onto the frozen ground. The attacker cast one last glance at Ross, turned his mount, and led his men away, leaving Ross to die on the cold ground, his life’s blood pooling beneath him.
Gillian had planned a grand feast for Ross’s homecoming. Though she didn’t know precisely when he would return, she expected him today, and had been lingering in the hall so she could be the first to greet him. Thus, she wasn’t surprised when she heard the cart roll up to the front entrance. She ran to the door and flung it open, shivering in the blast of cold air that struck her. Apprehension sliced through her when she saw a riderless horse tethered to the rear of the cart.
“Fetch Gizela!” Niall shouted as he jumped from the cart. “’Tis Ross; he’s been hurt. Send men to help carry him inside.”
“I am here,” Gizela said. “I have already summoned help. Why didna you nae heed me, lass?” she hissed to Gillian.
Gillian had no time to wonder why Gizela had been so near at hand. She gave an agonized cry and ran out to the wagon, ignoring the cold that penetrated to her bones. Gordo was close on her heels.
“Och, nay!” she cried, nearly collapsing when she saw Ross lying in the bed of the cart with supplies piled around him and blood pooling beneath him. “What happened? He isna dead, is he?”
The thought that Ross might be dead sent her heart spiraling out of control. Ross couldn’t be dead! He was too strong, too vital. Who would want him dead?
“Get out of the way,” Gordo ordered as men arrived to carry Ross into the keep.
“Be careful,” Gillian admonished. “Doona hurt him. How did it happen, Niall?”
“We doona know,” Niall answered with marked impatience. “Ross was anxious to return home and rode on ahead. We followed in the cart some distance behind. We doona know when or how it happened. When we came upon him, he was lying on the ground, bleeding from his wound.”
“What kind of wound, and where is it?” Gillian demanded, following close behind the men carrying Ross into the keep and up the stairs to the solar.
Niall sent her a cursory glance, as if her questions were annoying. “He suffered a grievous wound, lady. Someone thrust a sword into his side.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“Ross is the only one who can tell us that,” Niall answered darkly. “When we find out, he will be avenged.”
They had reached the solar. Ross was lowered gently to the bed. With Gordo’s help, Gillian began tearing off his clothing to inspect the wound. When she finally bared his torso, she let out an involuntary cry. The wound was jagged and ugly, blood still oozing from it. And his body was cold, so very cold.
“He’s freezing!” Gillian exclaimed. “Bring more blankets, lots of them.”
“Move away,” Gizela said, gently pushing Gillian and Gordo aside. “I canna treat the laird with you hovering over him.”
Reluctantly Gillian moved aside, wringing her hands in despair. Ross’s breathing was shallow, his skin pale, his lips blue. He looked more dead than alive.
“Can you save him?” Gillian whispered.
“All I can do is try, lass.” She glanced over her shoulder at the people crowding into the chamber. “Get out, all of you. The laird’s wife will assist me. Bring hot water and clean cloths,” she ordered Alice, who hovered nearby, wringing her hands.
When Ross’s kinsmen lingered, Gizela said, “Get out, all of you; you too, Gordo!” The room cleared. “Close the door, lass.”
Gillian obeyed, then returned to Ross’s bedside. “What can I do to help? How bad is it? Will he live?”
“God’s will be done,” Gizela intoned piously.
Alice arrived with a basin of hot water and a stack of clean cloths. She placed them on a nearby table and departed. Gillian watched anxiously as Gizela carefully probed and then cleaned the wound with hot water and sprinkled dill seeds directly into the gaping gash.
“Thread the needle for me, lass; my eyes are nae as sharp as they used to be.”
Gillian searched for the items in Gizela’s medicinal basket. Her hands were visibly shaking when she attempted to push the thread through the eye of the needle, but she finally succeeded. Gizela snatched it from her fingers.
“His skin is so cold,” Gillian complained. “He must have lain on the frozen ground a long time.”
“You can thank God for that,” Gizela answered. “The cold thickened his blood, keeping him from bleeding to death.”
Gillian winced as the needle pierced Ross’s flesh, but Ross didn’t seem to notice; he didn’t ev
en stir. “Did the sword pierce anything vital?” she asked fearfully.
“I doona think so, but it was close.”
Gizela tied off the last of the many stitches and reached for a jar of salve.
“What is that?” Gillian asked.
“Yarrow salve—it promotes healing.” She picked up several clean cloths and made a thick pad, placing it directly on the wound. Then she tore the rest into strips to wrap around Ross’s torso. “Lift him, lass, while I bind the bandage into place.”
Ross was deadweight in her arms as Gillian lifted his torso off the bed. Gizela worked fast, and moments later she instructed Gillian to lower Ross and cover him.
“Stay with him while I go to the kitchen to make an infusion of mandrake root. If we can get it down him, it will put him into a deep sleep and dull his pain.”
Gillian nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Ross couldn’t die. She wouldn’t let him. Reaching out, she pushed a strand of dark hair from his forehead, and then she stroked his cheek. If only he could tell her who had done this to him.
She kissed his cold lips and spoke softly in his ear. “Ross, can you hear me?”
No answer was forthcoming.
“Ross, please, tell me what happened. Who did this to you?”
Miraculously, Ross opened his eyes. They were dimmed with pain and confusion.
“You are safe, Ross,” Gillian crooned, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Gizela will take care of you. Can you tell me who did this to you?”
Ross stared at her. His mouth moved, as if there were something he wanted to say but he couldn’t quite get the words out. Gillian leaned close. “Try, Ross, please. Tell me who hurt you.”
He gasped out a word. Stunned, Gillian strained closer, waiting for him to speak again, to repeat the name. His eyes closed and he gasped the name on a sigh. Though Gillian had heard the same name on his lips twice, she couldn’t credit it. And she didn’t dare repeat it until Ross awakened and confirmed what she’d heard.
A short time later, Gizela returned with the narcotic, and together they managed to dribble enough down Ross’s throat to put him into a deep sleep. Until he awoke again, there was nothing Gillian could do but wait.
Chapter Ten
Ross hovered between life and death while Gizela worked whatever magic she was capable of to keep him from crossing over into the world of perpetual darkness. The entire hall was in mourning, and prayers were being offered up daily for the laird’s recovery.
Gillian rarely stirred from Ross’s bedside. She slept little and ate even less. If she was aware of the animosity drifting up from the hall, she made no mention of it. Four days after the attack upon Ross, Gizela entered the chamber and ordered Gillian to eat and rest.
“I canna leave him, Gizela. What if he should die while I am gone? I need to be with him.”
“Ross willna die, lass,” Gizela said with confidence.
Gillian looked up, her eyes filled with hope for the first time in days. “Are you sure? He still hasna awakened.”
“Sleep is the best healer. The laird’s wound isna infected; I am confident he will survive.”
Gillian wished she could be as convinced as Gizela.
“Go, lass,” Gizela urged. “Eat something first. I will sit with the laird while you are gone. When you return, you can rest on the cot Alice has made up in the comer.”
“You will call me if there is a change in his condition?”
“Aye, I will send word if the laird awakens.”
Reluctantly Gillian left the chamber. As she descended the stairs to the hall, angry voices drifted up to her. She had no idea what the argument was about until she walked into the chamber. Absolute silence reigned as everyone turned to stare at her.
“The laird...” Gordo began, barely above a whisper.
“He lives,” Gillian said.
“No thanks to you,” Seana spat. “The laird lies near death because of you and your kinsmen. Everyone kens your part in the attack upon Ross.”
Lack of sleep had taken its toll upon Gillian, making her wonder if she had heard right. “What are you saying? How could you hold me responsible for something of which I had no knowledge? When Ross awakens, he will tell you the truth.”
“We know the truth,” an angry voice called out. Others in the hall voiced their agreement.
“You have betrayed the MacKennas,” Seana snarled. “The laird’s death rests upon your head.”
“Ross willna die!” Gillian cried. “Gizela has said so.”
“That old hag kens naught,” Seana scoffed. “Gillian should be sent back to Braebum, where she belongs. When Niall becomes laird, he will seek revenge for Ross’s death.”
“Why do you keep insisting that Ross will die?” Gillian demanded. “My husband is very much alive.”
“He hasna stirred in four days,” Niall reminded her. “Many believe our laird willna awaken.”
“ ’Tis true,” Seana affirmed. “The old witch who claims to possess healing powers canna be trusted. She is crazy in the head.”
“You can argue about this all you like,” Gillian replied, her voice rising. “But I refuse to believe Ross will die.”
“Leave the lass alone,” Gordo ordered. “She is distraught and worried about her husband.”
Nodding her thanks to Gordo, Gillian turned abruptly and headed for the kitchen, leaving the anger and dissention behind, though she could still hear Seana raging against her. What made Seana think she had harmed Ross? Why did Ross’s people believe it was her kinsmen who’d tried to kill him? She had to admit the unprovoked attack was mystifying, but she hoped the mystery would be resolved once Ross awakened. She didn’t for one moment believe her father capable of such treachery.
Hanna gave Gillian a narrow-eyed glance when Gillian entered the kitchen. “Do you ken what they are saying about you?”
“Do you believe what they are saying, Hanna? Your opinion means a great deal to me.”
“Did you conspire to harm our laird?”
“Nay, I didna; nor are my kinsmen responsible. Da wouldna break the truce in such a cowardly manner.”
Hanna searched Gillian’s face and nodded, obviously satisfied with her answer. “Alice swore you were innocent, but Seana has roused everyone’s anger to a fever pitch. She has Laird Ross already in his grave and Niall proclaimed the new laird. She insisted you werena satisfied in your marriage and wished the laird ill so you could wed Angus Sinclair.”
Gillian dropped into a chair, exhaustion etching her features. “I was nowhere near Ross when he was attacked. And I wouldna have Angus on a silver platter. They blame me unjustly”
“Seana said you sent a message to Braeburn, informing your clan about Laird Ross’s travel plans so they could attack him upon the road.”
“Did Seana produce the messenger or confirm that a message had been sent by me?”
“She said she’d spoken to the lad who carried the message to Braeburn. He was from the village, but Donald couldna find him when he went to investigate Seana’s claim.”
“Seana lies,” Gillian said tiredly. “I canna think about this now. I promised Gizela I would eat something before I returned to Ross’s bedside.”
“Then eat you shall,” Hanna said. “I made a tasty venison stew for the evening meal, and you can be the first to sample it.”
She filled a bowl with the savory concoction and placed it before Gillian with a slab of bread, thickly spread with butter. Gillian ate mechanically, tasting little of what went into her mouth. Her mind wandered back to the name Ross had spoken before falling unconscious. What did it mean? Had he given her the name of the man who had attacked him? Though her mind was whirling with possibilities, she had no right to point a finger without proof. No one but Ross could accuse his attacker.
Gillian finished her meal, thanked Hanna, and rose. “I must return to Ross,” she said.
“Doona let the rabble in the hall rattle you, lass,” Hanna advised. “Seana is a tr
oublemaker. I pray Niall has the good sense not to listen to her.”
Her head held high, Gillian returned to the hall and headed for the staircase.
“There she is!” Seana cried, pointing a finger at Gillian. “Doona let her return to the laird’s bedside. Mayhap she and the old witch are planning to hasten Ross’s death.”
“How dare you!” Gillian gasped, whipping around. “You have no reason to accuse me or Gizela of treachery. The fact that Ross is alive is due to Gizela’s skill.”
“The MacKay lassie is right,” Gordo argued. “Say what you want about Gizela’s strange mumblings, but never accuse her of wishing my nephew harm.”
“Send the MacKay wench to Braeburn!” Seana shouted.
“Aye, return her to her father,” others chimed in.
“Seana, you are being too harsh,” Gordo protested. “We have no proof of Gillian’s guilt. Ross will tell us the truth of it when he awakens.”
“If he awakens,” Seana charged. She turned to Niall. “As acting laird, you have the power to send Gillian away.”
“As long as Ross lives, I have no power to banish his wife,” Niall objected. “I have faith Ross will awaken soon and name his enemy.”
Niall didn’t see the look Seana sent him, but Gillian did. If looks could kill, Niall would be dead. Gillian shuddered and turned away. Protesting her innocence was a waste of time and energy. Only Ross knew the truth, and until he could speak, it would remain a mystery.
Ross was still unconscious when Gillian returned to his bedside. Gizela was bending over him, inspecting his wound. “Has it festered?” Gillian asked fearfully. “Is he feverish?”
“The wound is red and raw and he is a mite warm, but I doona think his fever will spike. You should rest. Alice put fresh linens on the cot while you supped.”
“Gizela, tell me true. Do Ross’s kinsmen hold me responsible for the attack upon him? Do they hold my clan responsible?”
“I didna want to tell you, for I knew it would upset you,” the old woman said.“ ’Tis the McHamish wench’s doing. Did I nae warn you about her? She had a scheme in mind when she handfasted with Niall.”
