by Aileen Adams
He had, and it had served her well. It continued to do so.
Yet she would have given anything, even the skills he’d taught her, to have him back. Nothing had ever mattered as much as him. As them, together.
At least she could remember him through her work. That much she could do.
What would he think of Clyde?
Her eyes opened slightly, allowing her to gaze out through the clouded window which did not appear as if it had been washed in years. There was little more than a wall to admire beyond it, and ground in between. The walls which surrounded the convent stretched up to the highest floors, leaving those inside utterly separated from the rest of the world.
Perhaps that was why she felt at home here. Away from the rest of the world and its evils, its threats. Its dangers.
Though she had once welcomed danger. Thrilled at it, in fact.
“What did I know then?” she whispered, reaching out, touching her fingers to the grimy window. She’d understood nothing of what the world could do, what the men living in it could do. She’d not known loss, grief, true pain.
All she had known before that was the world in which her parents had brought her up. Tutors and dancing masters and lessons at the harpsichord. The girl with the mark on her throat who would never find a suitable husband without the aid of her father’s wealth and the teachings her mother had insisted upon, all to shape her into a great lady.
Yes, she’d known hurt as a girl. What it was like to be a wallflower. What it meant to watch pain and disappointment come into her mother’s eyes when it was clear she would be overlooked once again.
Which was why, upon meeting a dashing gentleman in London who’d taken interest in her—the first ever to do so—she had jumped at the chance to get to know him better.
Unbeknownst to her at the time, she’d fallen in love with a Scottish officer who had made her acquaintance not by chance but by design. One who’d known she had a mother of Scottish ancestry and who had hoped to learn of allegiance to Bonnie Prince Charlie.
There had been none in her mother’s heart, for she’d denounced her Scottish family long since.
Ailsa, on the other hand, felt no great loyalty to her father’s people or to anyone in her household. What had she ever been to them but a nuisance, something to be gotten rid of at the earliest opportunity? They’d treated her as some hideous creature, all because she’d been born with a mark on her throat.
She’d done nothing to earn their ire, but she’d suffered under it just the same.
When Thomas had approached her with the notion of spying for him—for Scotland—she’d jumped at that chance just as surely as she’d jumped when he’d shown her attention. For by then he had come to care for her, as well, though she had certainly taken her time at forgiving his deception.
That was the first true pain, learning of his lies.
She recalled accepting his suggestion that she learn to work on behalf of Scotland on the condition that he never lie to her again, and that they never mention their brief, ill-fated involvement.
After all, she still had her pride.
But she had also still been in love with him, in spite of every protestation she made to herself. No matter how she fought to turn her heart away, there had been no escaping the pull of his emerald eyes or the music that was his voice.
“And when you told me you loved me, you reminded me of your pledge never to lie to me again,” she whispered, smiling in spite of the tears now flowing freely down her cheeks. “That was how I could know you were telling the truth. But it was your kiss that spoke loudest. No one could kiss me the way you did without meaning it.”
She closed her eyes again, making fresh tears spill over, and leaned against the cold, silent stone. It was not Thomas. Nothing and no one would ever understand her as he had or love her as he had in spite of her flaws.
No one would ever accept her as she was, and she did not believe she would ever find another man with whom she could entrust her heart. There had only ever been one of him, and he was long gone.
She allowed herself the luxury of tears for a while longer, until footsteps drew near the half-open door. Cursing herself for not having closed the thing, she straightened and wiped her cheeks. Foolish thing, weeping openly in a common room rather than waiting until she reached the solitude of her chambers. Did she not know better by now?
At least the room’s dimness, unlit by candle or fire, hid her swollen eyes and red cheeks as she turned to find Mary leaning in to see if anyone were inside. When she found Ailsa by the window, she startled.
“It is only I.” Ailsa smiled. “No need to worry yourself.”
“We were looking for you,” Mary informed her, a bit breathless still from the surprise. “It seems the box of potatoes delivered two days ago have begun to rot.”
She swore under her breath. “I shall send word. Thank you for alerting me. I’m certain we shall receive a new supply soon.”
How were they to survive without better care taken to provide them with decent food? If she were in charge of everything, nothing would fall by the wayside. But it was more than likely a bunch of men overseeing the arrangements, and she’d never trusted them with much.
Mary made no move as if to leave. “Forgive me, but are you well?” she asked. “It is not like you to linger about in the rooms after we have used them for the day.”
“You are observant,” Ailsa mused aloud. “That will serve you well in the times to come. He always did praise my powers of observation.”
“Who did?”
“My husband.” It was the first time she’d spoken of him outside of informing the girls that she’d been widowed. They’d seemed curious as to why she had no husband, no children to tend. A woman of her age normally had these things, after all, along with a home.
Mary gulped, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Did…did he… Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but I have so wondered how you learned…”
Ailsa offered a weak smile. “He taught me what I know, and what I now teach you. That is how we first came to know each other.”
And he had learned to look past what others had not been able to overlook. The wine-colored splash on her throat, so unseemly against her otherwise creamy skin. So evident in the scandalously low-cut gowns fashionable at court in those days.
She turned back to the window, lost in thought now. Recalling the many methods her mother had employed in an attempt to whiten the skin.
Something struck her, and she looked back over her shoulder to find Mary waiting. “Has he always had this?” she asked, drawing a line down the side of her face with one finger. No need to use his name, for there was only one man whose acquaintance they shared. The only man about the place.
Mary’s brow furrowed, then she chuckled. “I ought not laugh, I know, but I forgot he has a scar. Does that not seem strange?”
“Very strange,” Ailsa murmured. How could anyone forget such a thing? Certainly, no one in her family had ever forgotten her deformity. Would that they had.
Then again, no, for they might have married her off to some fop. She’d been better off with her Thomas, no doubt.
“If memory serves, he earned it in battle. He had just spared the life of one of his fellow men, someone who had fallen from his mount, I believe. Another of the English slashed his face in repayment.”
McTavish’s tale came back at Mary’s words. He had acted out of bravery and had earned a lifelong scar for it. At least he had not given his life, the way Thomas had.
“I see,” she murmured. There had been no mistaking the way Mary’s voice tightened at the mention of the English. What would she say if she knew English blood flowed through Ailsa’s veins? That she had grown up among the brightest of England’s high society?
That if she had not been born with a stain on her skin, she might have married a duke or an earl and lived out her days on a sprawling estate? Wearing silks and diamonds as opposed to rough, scratchy homespun
which threatened to give at the elbows?
She glanced over her shoulder again. “That will be all, Mary. You might return to the kitchen. I am well.” She attempted a smile to prove the truth of this, but suspected she only made things worse. One skill she’d never mastered was pretending to be well when the truth was another matter entirely.
12
“Right here, if you please.” Ailsa pointed to the spot in question, one of many which she had already plotted out. “This is where we will plant the foxglove, and over here is where the belladonna will grow.”
Clyde brought the cart full of dung to a stop, then stretched with both hands pressed against his lower back. “I was not of the understanding that ye intended to use me for hard labor,” he grunted. While there was still a chill in the air, especially in the shade of the convent’s outer walls, his tunic had long since been covered in great sweaty patches.
Ailsa did not appear to find the humor in this, but he would never have expected her to. She wrapped the woolen shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “All of the girls are helping prepare the garden.” She sniffed. “In case you had not noticed.”
“Och, I noticed.” How could he not, with Ailsa shouting orders morning, noon, and night? “Ye need your garden to grow, so ye might concoct poisons.”
“And sleeping tonics,” she was quick to correct.
“Aye, sleeping tonics as well,” he grumbled, taking a seat on the ground to rest himself.
“And tinctures and ointments and…”
“Enough, enough.” He closed his eyes, tilting his head back so that his face might be touched by sunlight. “Ye know what I meant verra well.”
“Why did you not say what you meant, then?” she challenged in a low, sweet voice. She’d done her best to sound sweet of late, he noted. As though she strained to keep from fighting whenever possible.
He’d thought more than once of informing her that no matter how sweetly she spoke, if her words were fractious or insulting there was hardly a difference.
“All right.” He looked squarely at her, unblinking. “Ye need this garden so that ye might concoct potions to fight in your woman’s way. Without weapons, without fists. This is your way of fighting, and preparing the garden is taking time away from what I came here to do.”
She stared at him, silent for a long, tense moment. None of the other six noticed. They were talking among themselves, offering assistance as they pulled years of weeds and cleared rotting leaves and other such debris so that the garden might be planted.
He had said too much, but truly the woman had been testing the limits of his patience. Simply because he was the only man about the place, she behaved as though he had nothing better to do but lift and carry.
As though he were little more than hired help. While he would hardly consider them partners in this venture, he was no servant. And it was time she remembered this.
Even if that meant he had to remind her.
Though he had not made a scene, and had kept his voice low enough so that only she would hear. She could not accuse him of undermining her this time, if she was the only one who heard him.
And now it was up to her. Would she lose her temper? Would she bring to the attention of the others the argument he had started?
When a spark of light touched her eyes, and a slow smile began to form, he knew he would rather she began screaming. For there was no telling what was on her mind now.
Until she spoke, that was. “Womanly. What a very interesting word you chose.” Her smile grew ever wider, and somehow more threatening.
“Well?” he challenged, nonetheless. He would not back down now and pretend he had not meant what he said. “Is this not your preferred way of fighting? Certainly, the instruction I provide will only be used in case your teachings fail. If your sleeping potion does not take effect, for instance. Then I would imagine the girls would need to fight.”
She nodded. “No doubt. Yet you do not find these means to be as worthwhile as the skills you teach. Is that not so?”
He rolled his eyes. “I never said that.”
“You called it womanly, and as far as I know, that is not a compliment. In fact, many men would use it as an insult.”
“How many times do I have to tell ye? I am not many men. I am myself.”
The fact was, he had meant it as an insult, and he ought to have taken more care to choose his words. He did look down upon this, upon most everything Ailsa taught. Yes, the girls needed to know how to speak properly and how to conduct themselves in society. They needed to know how to lie smoothly and how to avoid contradicting their own lies.
But this business of behaving as spies, learning codes and sleeping potions and poisons. He saw little use for this, when the English were more apt to simply use a pistol.
But that was his experience. Perhaps in high society, men did not walk about brandishing weapons on innocent young women. Not as soldiers tended to do when faced with an unarmed woman and her small children.
“Perhaps if you do not see the need for my young women to learn anything but how to use their fists and the weapons they have at hand, you will think nothing of them practicing their other skills more freely.”
He knew she was setting a trap for him. How tiresome it was, dealing with her when nearly everything could be a trap. “What do you have in mind?”
She shrugged, folding her arms. “I cannot say. I am merely supposing. For instance, you might find your supper a bit more…pungent than usual. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it will smell and taste no different than it normally would. Perhaps there might not be anything wrong with it at all.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps you will suddenly find yourself stricken with stomach cramps. Perhaps you shall be praying for death before the evening is over, releasing the contents of your stomach and bowels uncontrollably. Perhaps you will be overtaken by sweats or tremors. Perhaps you might even fall under a deep sleep, and awaken to find every one of your possessions stolen. You might even find yourself completely undressed. Who is to say?”
She was enjoying herself immensely, that much was clear.
But the worst part, as far as he was concerned, was how very serious she sounded even with a note of humor in her voice. “You would never,” he growled.
“Would I not?” She grinned, brows lifting. “I am nothing but a woman, after all, and women are not to be trusted. Especially when it comes to using whatever we have at our disposal to prove a point. And as you have already reminded me, our methods are nothing to worry yourself about.”
“Are you threatening to tamper with my food, then?”
She shook her head, the very picture of innocence. “I would never! But I cannot speak for the others. In fact, I thought I was offering advice which might benefit you well. You might wish to take care the next time you sit down to dine. Perhaps you will see for yourself how dangerous these womanly methods can be.”
She turned away before he could find his voice, giving instruction to several of the girls who worked on marking which area of the garden would be devoted to which herb or plant.
She would certainly not see to it that his food was poisoned.
Would she?
He wished he could say for certain. She seemed learned enough that she’d do nothing but give him an extremely uncomfortable night. She might even make him grievously ill, but nothing which would not pass by morning.
Or she might put him to sleep, as she had also threatened. She might find some way to humiliate him.
Or she might simply be done with him, as it was clear she was as tired of him as he was of her. Perhaps she would decide she had put up with all she was willing to take and would order one of the girls to slip something deadly into his stew.
Or perhaps she was simply having fun with him, doing everything in her power to drive her point home.
He decided that until he knew for certain what she was about, he would take greater care than ever.
HE HAD KNOWN HUNGER BEFORE.
As a c
hild, for one. When his mam had been too tired or too ill or too melancholy to remember that he needed to be fed. Or when his father had lost the shillings with which they would have purchased bread from the market in the village.
He’d known it while with the Guard, as well. Long days and nights with little to eat, doing everything they could to survive until they reached the next village, the next tavern or rooming house. Anywhere they might find a warm fire and a hot bowl of something to put in their stomachs.
Clyde was no stranger to hunger.
Yet that did not make the act of enduring hunger any easier.
Mary looked over his shoulder, standing behind him as he sat at the dining table. He normally took his meals alone, choosing to keep to himself as was his way. “You have touched nothing!” she observed, surprise in her voice. “Are you not well?”
He could hardly believe it, and would have called any man daft for suggesting it before now, but he eyed her with no small bit of suspicion. While they had smoothed over any bad feelings between them after the unfortunate incident when he’d try to free her, he suspected she still might find amusement or justice in punishing him. Especially if Ailsa suggested it.
She would do anything for Ailsa. They all would. The very knowing of it sent a cold sweat rolling down the back of his neck.
Or perhaps it might happen without her being aware. He supposed that was entirely possible, as well. Someone might sprinkle a powder over his potatoes or drip a tonic into his soup. There was no telling.
His stomach rumbled, empty and angry and all the worse thanks to the enticing aroma of the black pudding before him. Truly, anything would have made his mouth water after an entire day without eating.
“I am well enough. Simply not hungry at the moment.” He stood, pushing away from the table and averting his eyes. It was easier not to see the food.
She was unconvinced. “I am beginning to worry about you. You have not eaten since you broke your fast yesterday. Perhaps I can ask Ailsa to create a tonic for you?”
