He heard her indrawn breath at these words, but continued, “So, my other choice would be to force you to stay with me in a legal marriage that you do not want. And that would destroy any happiness between us, for I ken how much you want to leave at the end of our year.”
“Duncan…” she whispered, laying her hand on his back.
“So, spilling my seed outside of your womb is a way to try to avoid conceiving a child while we live together as husband and wife. It seemed the best way to insure that we all end this year in the way we have agreed to.”
“I did not realize your reasons.”
He faced her once more. “And I did not realize your confusion over the practice. I should have explained.”
She lifted the bedcovers for him this time and he climbed back in, sliding down to lay at her side. He waited, suspecting she had other things to say and she did.
“I have not had someone in my life who cared about me since my mother died. And, truly, she cared more about what I could do for the clan than she did about what I needed or wanted. ’Tis difficult to accept such kindness from a stranger when family gave me naught of it.”
Duncan reached out and took her hand in his. Entwining their fingers and bringing them to his lips, he pressed a kiss on hers. “And I have had so much of it in this clan, that I gladly share it with you and Ciara. Mayhap we can find a way through this year and make a choice at the end?”
In that pause, before she could say anything, Duncan found himself offering a prayer to the Almighty for more than just working this out for a year. Even without her truth, his heart wanted her even as much as his body did.
“I would like that, Duncan.”
He pulled her into his arms and sealed their agreement with a kiss. ’Twas only a kiss, a touch of their lips, and then their tongues, but once begun, their passions flared and he soon found himself planted deep within her heat as she moaned out another release. Duncan gave her a full measure of satisfaction before seeking his own and sometime later, after sharing their passion another time in the dark of the night, they fell asleep wrapped around each other.
Chapter Seventeen
Rurik frowned and Connor grimaced, but ’twas Jocelyn’s smile that warned of disaster as Duncan reached out to move his pawn. He had no other choice that would not sacrifice his king or queen. Studying the board for several more minutes brought him no other choice but to move the rook…directly into Marian’s grasp. Two additional moves and she swept the rest of his pieces into her collection.
“A fine game,” Rurik exclaimed, clapping him on the back and nodding at her. “Once he lost both his bishop and his rook, the game was done. Well done, lady.”
“When exactly did you become such an expert on how to win against her, Rurik?” he asked, pushing back from the table and the site of his defeat.
Only Connor remained undefeated in this nightly ritual that began with Marian’s request to learn the game anew. From her unbroken record of defeating everyone willing to compete, she had not needed to learn much. He also had the distinct feeling that she could have won their earlier games, if she’d had a mind to.
“I ken my limits, Duncan,” Rurik answered. “I will gladly keep my wins on the battlefield or in the practice yard and let your wife have hers on the board.”
Those in the hall watching, and the gathering grew larger with each match, laughed then. Marian said nothing, for she never gloated over her victories and always seemed more interested in learning something from each game than in the winning of it.
Of course, none knew of their own practice of the loser granting a boon to the winner of their matches or the long nights of pleasure that seemed to result no matter who won or lost. A man did not mind losing when there was so much to gain from it in the privacy of his bedchamber.
Although most were intrigued by her reputation, none held it against her and she was accepted here as any other person would have been—based on their own worth and the merits of their behavior. Connor would allow no other way in his household or clan. But, she always looked to him before accepting a challenge when another man was involved, and many of the young men seemed eager to do so. Not many were so eager to do it a second time.
Their lives settled into a pattern now, with the harvest completed and the laird’s wife about to give birth. Marian had worked wonders on the garden, reaping much even while preparing it for its sleep until spring. Duncan helped the men in repairing any cottages that needed it before the season’s change was upon them and soon, the village and keep stood ready for the cold, dark winter.
Stores of grain and hay and grass and preserved meats and fowl and fish filled the storage barrels and chambers to overflow. Countless bolts of wool and other fabrics lay waiting in the weavers’ room for the idle times and hands of winter and threads were organized and needles and scissors sharpened for their tasks ahead. All lay ready for the vagaries of weather and fortune of the coming winter.
Though much was right between them, so much was not.
Marian accepted his counsel and guidance in most everything she did, from her work in the gardens to decisions about Ciara to trivial matters about her hair and clothes. They discussed his work for the clan at length and he found her suggestions on ways to improve his skills and enhance his talent for negotiating insightful and worth his consideration.
She was turning out to be the perfect wife for a man such as him—learned, gifted in household skills, articulate and intelligent and loving—but still she held back from him.
One recent night as they joined, as he held himself unmoving inside her, he asked her to stay with him. He was growing to learn what his heart had learned at their first meeting and he wanted her at his side forever. A sadness filled her eyes that made it impossible to continue and he simply left her body. They lay in silence for a long time that night before sleep came.
And he waited also, not yet daring to ask her in the light of day what the passion of the night had drawn from him.
The men he’d sent east to uncover the truth of what had happened to Marian had not yet returned and that could mean only one thing—they had discovered something and were following its path to the source. He’d instructed that nothing be committed to writing, for he wanted nothing to fall into the wrong hands before he heard it himself. Only upon their return, or upon Marian’s trusting him, would he learn if she was a danger to his clan.
Then when the darkest days of the season lay heavy over the Highlands, Jocelyn was brought to the childbed with her third bairn. Duncan feared Marian attending the birth, since she had never borne a babe, but with a surprise disclosure that she had attended several births, nothing kept her from Jocelyn’s side when she was needed.
He and Rurik and Hamish waited in the hall for word of the birth that night. Connor, having been through this before, would not leave Jocelyn’s side regardless of the arguments against his presence. Jocelyn labored through the day and into the night before Connor called out the news as he entered the hall.
“My wife has given me another lovely lass,” Connor yelled out. “Come, drink with me to their health!”
Everyone present filled their cups and offered their good wishes to their friend and laird on the birth of his second daughter. If Connor wanted a different outcome than the one he’d received, nothing in his words or manner gave it away.
Connor turned to them and smiled. “She is a comely lass, too, with her mother’s eyes.”
“Felicitations, Connor,” he offered.
“I hope,” he said, placing a hand on Duncan’s shoulder, “that you soon ken the joys of holding your own bairn in your hands for the first time.”
Duncan met Rurik’s gaze and saw a strange glint there. “You ken what I speak of, Rurik. Tell Duncan of the joy of it.”
Connor seemed almost drunk though he kenned no wine had passed his lips since Jocelyn made known that her labor pains were upon her. It must be the joy of which he spoke.
Like a dagger’s sharp b
lade being twisted in his heart, Duncan felt the sharp pain of knowing it would not happen with Marian. Months had passed and though he never mistreated her and always made her certain of her welcome here, she held herself apart from him.
Marian and Margriet entered the hall and walked toward them. They both looked tired, their hair matted with sweat and their sleeves pushed up and their gowns stained from their work, but the smiles they wore spoke of the success of the laird’s wife to safely deliver a child.
“Connor, Ailsa said you may come back now,” Marian said.
“Jocelyn and the babe are cleaned and one of them is eating happily,” Margriet said. “Your wife and her mother will be down shortly, Hamish.”
Connor nodded, happy at this news, but he looked at Duncan and whispered. “See to her.” He ran off to return to his wife and new babe, leaving Duncan mystified over his words until he looked at Marian.
Margriet walked into Rurik’s arms and he held her tightly. Her own time would be quickly upon them and no doubt ’twas that, and her previous childbirth, that most likely filled her thoughts now.
Marian said nothing and stood watching the other couple. Her expression was troubled, he could see fear and something else written in her eyes. But mostly he noticed the dark bruising below them telling of her exhaustion from the long day and night.
“Come, there is a fire waiting for you in our chambers,” Duncan said, putting his arm around her shoulders and leading her to their rooms. Instead she drew out of his embrace and stepped away.
“I need to go outside, Duncan. I will not be long,” she said, already walking away from him.
She did this whenever she was troubled by something. Instead of seeking out others as he did, she sought space and air no matter the time of day or night or the weather outside. And she sought solitude.
“Marian, wait, let me get your cloak,” he called out, but she did not stop nor even hesitate in her path toward the main doors of the keep.
Torn between the need to see her safe and the knowledge that trying to cage her inside would make matters worse, Duncan stood there for a moment or two. Then, he called out some orders to one of the servants and, grabbing someone’s cloak from a peg next to the door, he followed her outside.
The cold air had settled over their mountains and valley this last week and the ground crunched beneath his feet as he searched for her. Torches were impossible to keep lit in the brisk winds that carried a hint of snow over the walls and through the yard. Luckily, one of the guards on the wall pointed off in one direction and he guessed Marian’s destination.
The small chapel sat near the entrance to the kitchens, but could be reached from the yard. Duncan walked past the stables and to the stone building. Father Micheil kept an oil lamp burning on the altar there at all times, and though it flickered from the wind when he opened the wooden door, its light showed him the figure of his wife kneeling there.
He said nothing, only walked to her side, knelt on the cold, hard floor with her and spread the cloak over her shoulders. Duncan fought against the biting cold as he waited with her while she prayed. Soon, his teeth were chattering.
“I will return soon,” she whispered. “Go.”
“Can you not pray in our chambers, Marian?” he asked. “Surely the Almighty would understand you being there instead of here?”
She faced him then and the desolate expression in her eyes chilled his soul more than the icy winds did his skin. “She nearly died tonight, Duncan. Jocelyn nearly died.”
“What happened?” he asked, standing and drawing her to her feet.
“The bairn was stuck and Ailsa did not think she could save her.” Tears poured from her eyes now. “They both nearly died.”
Duncan knew that Marian had grown close to Jocelyn during her time here, but somehow he also knew that this was about more than just Jocelyn and her babe. All he could do was offer her sympathy and a strong shoulder until she was ready to reveal the rest of it.
“She said…” Marian gasped trying to say the words. “…to save the bairn and not her own life.”
After those words, she collapsed against his chest, sobbing again. Now he did not delay. She needed to get inside, out of this body-numbing cold, and into dry clothes. He lifted her into his arms and carried her back to the keep. He’d arranged for Ciara to stay with the other children in the nursery this night, so he did not have to worry about waking the lass.
Something in one of the other births she’d attended must have gone wrong and cost the mother her life. ’Twas the only explanation he could come up with for her hysteria. He pushed open the door to their rooms and carried her to their bedchamber. As he had called for, a tub of steaming water sat there waiting for her use. Several other buckets stood by the hearth, in which a blazing fire now roared.
He stripped her of the cloak and her own soaked and soiled gown and tunic. Duncan sat her on the bed and took off her stockings and shoes. Then, lifting her once more in his arms, he carried her to the tub and sat her gently into its soothing heat. Using the empty bucket left on the floor, he washed and rinsed her hair and then her body, from head to toes. He hoped that the heat seeping into her flesh would warm her enough to calm her spirits as well as her exhaustion.
In a short while, they lay in their bed, and she’d still not said another word and he had not the heart to press her for more of an explanation. He could discover what had happened from Connor on the morrow.
He held her as she slept, but her sleep was filled with fits and starts. She called out names and, from the sound of it, suffered from night terrors. Some of the names he recognized and others he did not, but he heard the fear in her voice as she spoke with someone in her past.
Someone who’d died giving birth.
It could only be one person and it was something she would never speak about to him—Ciara’s mother.
Duncan turned ideas and suspicions over and over in his thoughts throughout the night, but had nothing substantial by morning. Marian looked no more rested when she rose than when he put her in bed the night before.
The same occurrences happened every night for more than a week and he worried for her health. Others noticed, of course, and a few, thinking he had something to do with it, even warned him against ill-treatment of her. Thinking on the times in his life when things he’d dealt with or witnessed ate at his soul, Duncan knew that the only thing that helped him was to talk the matter out with a trusted friend. Connor had been his rock in the dark times of the soul.
Mayhap Jocelyn could serve as Marian’s rock if she could not bring herself to trust in him? When another sleepless night found her ghostly pale and he could not risk her withering away before his eyes, he made the suggestion.
“Marian,” he said as she pushed away the bowl of porridge. “We must speak about your condition.”
“I am well, Duncan,” she lied with her words and her eyes.
“Marian, ’tis clear that something has been bothering you since the night of Jocelyn’s labor.” A slight movement, nervous and furtive, then a blank stare. “Did Ciara’s mother die that way?” Sometimes bluntness was the only way. “Have Jocelyn’s difficulties made you think on Ciara’s birth?”
“Please do not do this, Duncan. I beg you.” She stared at him now in desperation. “I cannot speak of it.”
He took her by the shoulders and pulled her close. “You must. Look at you! Whatever is stopped up inside you is killing you trying to escape!”
“I cannot.” Her voice was faint now and she looked away from him.
“If you will not trust me with the truth, think about speaking with someone you can trust. It is killing you.” He softened his voice then. “Jocelyn can be trusted. I would trust her with my life. Be at ease and speak to her.”
Duncan remembered the night that he and Jocelyn bore witness to the horrible truth about Connor’s first wife’s death. Words about it would never pass his lips in this life for they’d both sworn never to speak of it as Connor’
s life hung in the balance. And he believed Jocelyn’s oath.
She did not respond, so Duncan decided to take matters into his own hands. Picking her up, he carried her out of their rooms and to the tower where Connor and Jocelyn’s chambers were. Climbing the steps, he stood before their door and knocked. Connor, carrying the new babe, opened it. The joyful expression turned to a frown when he saw Marian’s condition and that Duncan was carrying her.
“Come inside,” he said, backing into the chambers. “Jocelyn, Marian needs you.” Duncan sat Marian in one of the large chairs Connor had and backed away. Jocelyn climbed out of the bed, pulled a shawl over her shoulders and sat down next to Marian.
“Connor, why do you not take the bairn down to the hall and announce the name we have chosen for her?”
Neatly dismissed, Connor nodded for Duncan to follow him. He closed the door behind them praying that Jocelyn could get to the bottom of this.
Chapter Eighteen
Jocelyn sat for a moment wondering how to approach this situation. Then she walked to the table, dropped some dried herbs into the pot of steaming water there and waited for them to steep.
“Sheena,” she said aloud. “We are calling her Sheena, which means ‘God is gracious.’ Appropriate, do you not think, considering how close we came to losing her?”
She dribbled a small amount of honey into two cups, added a sleeping herb into one and poured the brew into both. The smell of the herbs and the honey melting together was delicious. Carrying both over to where Marian sat, she handed her one and then sat down, with a great deal of care and not an insignificant amount of pain.
“You were a great help to me, Marian. There are parts I have no memory of—” Marian met her gaze then before turning away “—but Connor told me how you helped.”
“Jocelyn, do not do this.”
Possessed by the Highlander Page 19
