The Draig's Wife

by Lisa Dawn Wadler

  The men sat silent for only a moment. “She will say what we wish,” Declan said. “Her loyalty to the clan is supreme. With a bit of silver to line her pockets, she will do whatever is necessary to keep you safe. Even if that means spreading false news.”

  “She is one of the few who doesn’t gossip at the well,” Emma reminded him as she paced the chamber.

  “Hence the silver,” Declan said. He knew Gilda well enough to know she could subtly spread the news without being too obvious.

  Cortland agreed, and Emma snorted her lack of approval. He didn’t blame her; it would leave her trapped in their chamber for days, presumably recovering. In the morning, after Cortland’s delivery, he would send for Meggie and have her fetch Gilda. News would spread quickly of the midwife’s arrival; that alone would have tongues wagging. When bloodied sheets were delivered to the laundry, whispers would fill the day.

  Declan could see where it all went wrong, how Emma had come to be a target. From the moment she agreed to marry me, I have behaved like the besotted fool I am. If I were a wiser man, I would have kept my emotions in check outside of our bedchamber; the laird in me should have kept his love a secret kenning that my heart could easily create my downfall. If Emma had been seen as a lass to meet the edict, none would have paid her any attention. Yet he had known Emma would have believed his lack of affection in public as proof he only wed her for his lands, regardless of whatever he whispered at night. She had no grasp of falsehoods and rouses. I hate that I can use her weakness to my advantage.

  “Then what do we do?” Cortland asked. His gaze saw the wheels turning in his head, and Declan withheld the rest of his true thoughts that bordered on madness.

  “You will be called to see your daughter and be present when Gilda arrives. If needed, you will keep Meggie away as I deal with negotiating with Gilda. Meggie will never hold her tongue as needed.”

  Cortland nodded. “I assumed as much. I ask about later in the day. Your face tells me there is more.”

  Declan blew out a soft chuckle. Cortland knew him too well. “I will behave as a laird who has learned his wife will likely nay bear him a needed heir.”

  The sounds of Emma’s bare feet stomping on the fur rugs ceased. “I don’t like the sound of that.” Declan turned his neck to see her hostile gaze. You will hate me, Emma, for what will need to be done.

  “I will stay with you until the evening meal, as any decent husband should. Then I will drink heavily as would be expected. Glenn would be furious if his wife had failed to deliver a child. He will look for the same with me.”

  “Then what?” Cortland asked with a chill in his tone. The old man misses nothing.

  “Then I will cease to favor my wife in public,” Declan answered, feeling the despair that would fill his days to come. “Mayhap that will lessen the guards who watch her and allow you to spirit her away.”

  “I. Am. Not. Leaving,” Emma roared behind him. “How long do you think you will be safe with no one watching out for you?”

  “There is a whole clan of warriors to watch my back,” Declan answered. Though he knew none would ever see as much as Cortland or his wife. “And you will leave to protect the child you may be carrying.”

  “This is bullshit,” Emma snarled, stomping to stand in front of him. “First of all, we don’t know if there is a child. Second, I will never leave Mary, and third . . .”

  “You will take Mary,” Declan interrupted.

  Emma stepped to stand in front of Cortland. “This is a stupid plan.”

  Cortland laughed and agreed. “Let us call it an idea. Plan is too great a word. There is much here I dinna care for. On the morrow, we will talk again when our heads are clear. I find my fear for your safety currently clouds my judgment.”

  Her head whipped back to him. “See. You are being stupid.”

  “You should leave, old man. Your daughter is safe. I swear it on my life,” Declan said as he stared at a furious Emma.

  “He’s right about that much, Da,” Emma growled from behind clenched teeth. “We are about to have one hell of an argument.”

  Keeping Emma’s gaze, Declan rose from his chair. Giving her a wink, he walked to the door and opened it for Cortland.

  “Emma is still upset about the wine, though she masks it with anger. Mayhap I should remain until calm once again fills the chamber,” Cortland offered as he reached his side.

  “I’m still in the room, so stop talking about me,” Emma grumbled as she stalked to the window. “Go to bed, Da.”

  Declan nodded. “Get some rest. The morrow will be a long day.”

  Bolting the door after Cortland left, Declan crossed the chamber and stood behind Emma. As on their wedding night, he wrapped his arms around her rigid body. He rested a hand on her flat stomach with hope alive in his soul. Floral scents filled his greedy nose, and her body finally leaned back against his chest.

  “I don’t like any of this,” Emma began.

  “Nor do I,” Declan reassured her. “But hear me, wife. I will do whatever is necessary to keep you safe. ‘Tis my duty as your husband, as your laird, and as the man who loves you.” At his declaration, a chill ran up and down the length of his spine. He knew that some vows held too great a meaning. I will do whatever is necessary to save you, even if it kills my soul.

  Emma turned in his arms and glared at him. “You are in for one heck of a fight.”

  Cupping her face in his hands, Declan shook his head. “Nay, sweet wife.” Before she could speak, he kissed her hard, effectively cutting of any comment she wished to make. While she refused to return the kiss, he held tight to her soft cheeks and held his lips against her pursed mouth until she softened and leaned into him.

  Emma seemed to pour her soul into their heated kiss, channeling anger and fear into her passion. Her lips sought his while her hands clenched the sides of his shirt.

  Pulling away enough to speak, Declan said, “There is little to say this night. For now, we are safe. On the morrow, we will do what we need.”

  “We need to talk about this.” Her eyes pleaded with him, and a large piece of him wished to find another path. The laird took over his thoughts, and the man could have wept for what would be.

  “We are all we need, wife,” Declan whispered right before his lips took hers again. He growled into her mouth as he stalked to the bed.

  In the three short steps to the bed, he saw his future dim. He knew Emma would never be able to handle the distance he needed to place between them. She would eventually listen to the whispers of how he no longer had any affection for her due to the lack of a future heir, even if one grew in her belly. His late nights drinking in the hall would be to dull the ache in his heart, not as a game, but in truth. While she would never leave the side of her loving husband, she would leave the side of the bastard who used her to secure his lands and whispered sweet words to take her willing flesh into his bed, only to ignore her heart’s needs later.

  Even as they fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs seeking to shed their layers of clothing, the need for skin on skin too great to bear, he feared she would even doubt the heat they had shared in the days to come. Emma, for all her strength and wisdom, would begin to believe the whispers if they held enough truth. Should foul statements leave the lips that currently worshipped her skin, he knew Emma would believe them.

  Declan forced the dark thoughts from his mind as their clothing hit the floor. He knew how to make her hate him and despised himself for it. Yet, if it kept her alive, no price was too large to pay.

  Pale blue eyes stared up at him with the brutal combination of want, anger, and fear. “We need to talk,” Emma began.

  “Shhh, wife,” Declan whispered, settling within her limbs and placing a soft kiss to the lips that righteously wanted to argue. “Later,” he offered, knowing that by the time he
was finished worshipping her body she would fall asleep in his arms.

  Kissing a path down the neck that arched for him, over the small breasts that craved his touch, and down her flat stomach, he stopped. Resting his forehead against the flat womb, hope sparked in his soul. On the day they had wed, he had promised her wee ones. Mayhap I will keep one vow to her.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  None knew, yet there was a chance. Instead of answering her, he kissed the skin and licked a trail down the side of her hip, reveling in the way her body greedily accepted his. Using all his skill, his lips and tongue silenced her concerns.

  Chapter 21

  Emma blinked away the lingering mental fog in the dark chamber as she attempted to find her last solid memory. It took her far too long to recall that Gilda had come and agreed to spread the lies Declan had spun regarding her inability to carry a child. Then he had left, and she couldn’t remember seeing him since. She had no idea how long it had been.

  She recalled Meggie bringing her a meal as the sky darkened that first night. Cortland had been with her, shared her meal, and then instructed her to keep up the rouse by staining the linens with blood from the bucket kept under the bed. The copper scent had filled the air. She had repeated the ritual to her disgust to fool Meggie, who always returned with fresh linens and warm soapy water to clean away the repulsive sensation of animal blood on her skin.

  How much time has passed, she wondered as her head turned to the cup on the bedside table. Picking up the cup, she caught the scent of something besides milk, and an unwelcomed clarity blossomed. Meggie had been drugging her, or at least keeping her asleep. It did make sense given the insistence that sleep would quicken my healing. But all it did was steal what has to be days from my memory.

  Her hand reached out to touch the other side of the bed; it was cold and empty. She had no recollection of seeing Declan at any point in the last few blurry days or nights. Attempting to focus on finding him in her memory led to whispers she wished she could ignore, but now, as the fog lifted, rational thought reared its brutal head.

  To avoid the thoughts, she reached down and felt only clean, dry skin. Though at daybreak, a hot bath would wash away any remnants of blood. She sighed in relief. No more blood would cover her skin, she decided. It had to have been long enough to satisfy the rumor mill that always seemed to center on her actions.

  Rumors, hints, and allegations flooded her mind, and she inhaled the rain-tinted air to hopefully banish them to the realm of drug-induced dreams. Cortland had told her he was leaving to intercept messengers. She couldn’t remember when he was due back. A hollow ache filled her chest knowing he was gone. Then the ache became a stabbing sensation as bits and pieces of the days past flooded her mind.

  At some point, Mary had come to tell her stories, not quite understanding why Emma was in bed. The sweet child had snuggled against her, kissed her forehead to check for fever, declared her cool, and created stories from her vivid imagination. Before she had left to go to bed, she had asked a question. “Are you cold, Emma?”

  Emma had laughed at the question. The day, what little of it she had seen from the window, had been pleasantly warm and sunny. A fire had burned in the hearth, keeping the room from becoming cool and damp. “No, Sunshine, why do you ask?” she had answered the child.

  “When I went into the hall to bid da a good night, Enid was on his lap. He said she was there to warm him, so I wondered if you were cold, too.” The child explained it as if it were the most innocent of all possibilities.

  Emma frowned as she recalled Meggie’s insistence she drink her milk and rest while she put Mary to bed. She had no idea exactly when that had happened or if it were real. Whatever Meggie was slipping me has blurred dreams and reality. Or so I am attempting to tell myself.

  The idea that Declan had been absent mixed with Mary’s question. She knew that he was going to treat her differently to protect her, but laps were something else. Emma sat up and decided she needed answers before her mind wove dreams into nightmares. Her thoughts were drifting to places she didn’t want to be. Maybe Declan is still downstairs and I can find him.

  She gasped at the sound of a log hitting the fire. In the dim light, she saw Declan’s profile seated in the chair. Relief flooded through her, and she relaxed. Nodding to herself, she knew a quick conversation with him and the world would be right again.

  Her bare feet hit the fur rug without a sound. Feeling the cool damp air on her bare skin, she decided the conversation might not even happen, or get finished. If one of them was naked, talking usually took a back seat.

  Padding to crouch before the chair, Emma glanced up at her husband, though his eyes didn’t look at her. All she needed was a single smile to put the world to right. One smile and one gentle touch would banish the fear and dread that had crept into her heart. He sat still as stone with her dagger in his hands, fixated on the pattern of the dragon with a head on each end.

  “Hi,” she whispered into the still chamber. Her brow creased when she received no reply.

  Reaching out to place her hand on his leather-clad thigh, she pulled it back when his leg shifted away from her touch. “What’s wrong?” she asked as her heartbeat raced in her chest.

  Declan sat and said nothing, his gaze locked on the dagger.

  “How about you put down the knife and come to bed. I’ve missed you.” That she referred to the dagger as a knife should have sparked something in him. Please take the bait.

  Not quite sure if she should be worried or angry, Emma asked, “Is there a reason you aren’t speaking. I mean, I can smell the wine on you, but you look awake.”

  He sighed and turned the dagger in his hands.

  Blinking back the moisture that threatened, Emma said, “I know I’ve been out of it for the last few days thanks to Meggie, but I don’t like what I’ve been hearing.” She launched into the story of what Mary had supposedly said and the recalled whispers of the lasses who came to bring fresh linens—whispers that spoke of how sorry they were for her and how husbands could be foul creatures at times.

  “Would you please tell me what’s going on?” Then she demanded, for all the good it did. All she received was another heavy sigh.

  “What in the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled.

  Nothing.

  “I knew you were going to be cold in public, but why here?”

  Declan sighed. “Go back to bed, Emma.”

  Her name had never sounded like an insult before. It seemed to Emma that the man who called her wife was gone; it was supposed to be an endearment that spoke of love, or so he had claimed. In his place sat a statue with cold eyes that didn’t even have the courtesy to look at her.

  She lost it. Emma railed at him, demanding answers that never came. When she begged and pleaded for anything, he said nothing. Realizing she was on her feet and waving her arms in her mad rant, the tears she had held in check finally streamed down her face. Shame filled her that she was doing all of it naked.

  Her hand did little to mask the sob that tore from her lips as she stumbled to her chest of clothing. Silks flew through the air as she rummaged for her old tattered robe. The fabric had barely covered her before she fumbled with the lock at the door.

  “Emma,” Declan called to her back that heaved with tears that couldn’t fall fast enough.

  Like a fool she turned her head to see his back as he lifted a cup to his lips and drained it. Without facing her, one hand shot up straight into the air with the dagger held up. “Take your dagger.”

  Choking on the mockery of what the cursed piece of metal had supposedly represented, she turned her head and opened the door. “Fuck you and your stupid knife.”

  The guard on duty glanced only briefly at her before turning away. Emma flushed and realized he had heard every word. Knowing all the cham
bers were full, she ran to Mary’s room, collapsed in the chair before the fire, tried to remember how to breathe, and prayed it was all a hallucination brought on by the herbs.

  ~ ~ ~

  Emma blinked into the dim light of dawn, not quite sure what had woken her. She smiled softly at the sight of Mary nestled into her pillow as she forced her body to sit straight in the chair. Glancing around the chamber, she tensed. Declan stood at the foot of Mary’s bed, staring at her with the laird’s unwavering gaze.

  “What?” she asked, finding a more comfortable position and bunching her robe closed. There would be no floorshow in the light of day.

  He placed the dagger at the foot of the bed and turned to walk away. “Keep it bound to your side,” his voice a soft but commanding whisper. The laird had spoken.

  Emma glared at the offering. She knew what it was supposed to be: a pledge and promise between them. The dagger was the symbol of their love and marriage. In the early light of the day, it appeared to be only a cold piece of sharp metal.

  “I don’t want it,” Emma whispered harshly, not wanting to wake Mary.

  “Keep it bound to your side.” Declan ignored her refusal to take the blade and stalked to the door.

  “Go to hell and take your stupid knife with you,” she snarled at his back.

  Declan’s laughter was bitter as he opened the door. “You have no idea what hell truly is, Emma.”

  Before she could reply, he was gone.

  Chapter 22

  Soft rain fell as Emma walked back to the keep in the fading light of day. No blood had been found on the sheets, freeing her from her prison. But even a trip to the village had done nothing to quiet her pain. She hadn’t even been able to really talk to Aalish.