“Has she said anything?” Thomas’ voice flittered from the outside.
“No, My Lord,” the nasal voice of the traitorous Mrs. Briddle replied. “She has not said a word. I do not think she can with all the medicine I have given her. She is blank as paper, My Lord. She barely does anything but mumble, or stares out blankly.”
Katharine smirked in victory that she had bettered the old hag once again. Every morning, when the woman gave her a cup of tea, Katharine had drunk it but soon after everything around her dulled. She could barely smell anything and her vision was blurry. Lifting her arms felt like she was moving a mountain and getting out of bed was nearly impossible.
It was in the middle of the night hours, when some of her senses came back to her, that Katharine realized she was being drugged. That very night—three nights ago—she had made her decision to stop being fooled.
Whenever Mrs. Briddle gave her that dratted tea, Katharine had dumped that cup into her chamber pot before using it to mask the smell of the drug. The first day the constant fog in her mind had begun to lift, and now, three days later, her mind, free from the numbing effects of the drug, was getting much clearer. With her new freedom, Katharine was trying to draw her scattered memories into one line.
“Good,” Thomas said. “Is she up today?”
“She’s a little under the weather today, My Lord, but I think she’s well enough for a visit,” Mrs. Briddle added.
“Did you give her laudanum this morning?”
“Yes, My Lord,” Mrs. Briddle added. “Right after her breakfast. Um, pardon me asking if it’s not my place, but have you any idea where Miss Emma is?”
“And it is not your place,” Thomas snapped. “My father had given you too many liberties with Emma and my mother, and though you worshiped at his feet, I am not him. I am not nearly as relenting as he was. You will have to earn my respect and for God’s sake, know your place!”
“Yes, My Lord,” Mrs. Briddle cowered. “I apologize.”
Serves her right.
With her eyes closed, Katharine tried to chase after the images that haunted her almost every night, however, she could never hold onto them. Images that, when they sprung up, also brought pain and agony with them. They were always fuzzy and sometimes the images shifted from one person to another but she was mostly sure one of them was her son, Thomas.
The faint memory of the MacNair’s dining table surged up and she remembered the wide variety of meats being offered. She remembered, rather fuzzily, how Peter had been grumbling how obstinate Emma was and that she—Katharine—had been too lax on her. How Emma did not know a woman’s place, and how much of a bluestocking she was.
That she remembered clearly.
She remembered looking up at a loud clatter of plates and cups and seeing… seeing… Katharine concentrated so hard her mind began to hurt…. seeing a hand drop something in her husband’s cup. She gasped in both horror and delight.
She had seen how it was done! She remembered! Glorious! But who? Who had done such a thing? Who had been so heinous to poison her husband?
With her eyes closed, Katharine forced herself to remember who had been holding the vial. She pressed so hard her mind began to sting. Groaning, she placed a hand to her temple and breathed hard through her nose. It was literally paining her to remember.
She pressed hard and fought hard, seeking the face of the person brazen enough to kill her husband in such an open way. A small noise of pain came from her chest in response to both her physical and mental pain.
“Mother?” A voice asked.
Katharine blinked her tightly scrunched eyes open and instantly cringed from the light that stabbed her tender eyes. When she tried again, she saw the blue eyes of her husband.
“Peter?” she asked shakily while her hand reached up.
The man smiled cruelly before it was gone and he shook his head, “No, Mother, it is I, Thomas.”
Katharine sighed and let her eyes fall, “I am not feeling well, Thomas. My head is fuzzy all the time and I don’t feel any kind of hunger.”
“It’s the shock Mother,” Thomas said placating, “It’s normal to respond to Father’s death.”
No, it is not, Katharine wanted to hiss but did not. You’re doing this… you and that hateful woman Mrs. Briddle. I have figured you out Thomas, but I don’t know why you’re doing this to me.
She let out a sigh, “I loved your Father, Thomas.”
“I know, Mother,” Thomas patted her hand. “I know you’re not feeling well so I’ll leave you to rest.”
“Thomas…” Katharine asked weakly, “Where is Emma? Where is my darling daughter?”
Her eyelids were lowered enough to make her look like she was asleep but she was awake enough to see his reaction. At the doorway, he had gone stiff and his jaw was hard enough to cut glass. “She’s ill, Mother. The death of Father is affecting her, too.”
Are you drugging her like you are drugging me?
“Oh,” she murmured. “Poor Emma… Thomas, be a good boy and help her through it. She’s not nearly as strong as she thinks she is.”
“Man, Mother,” Thomas’ voice was stiff and hard, “I am not a boy anymore, Mother, I am a man and you will respect me as such, all of you will respect me as such.”
His voice had not risen but his words were cutting and Katharine shivered. This was not the Thomas she knew. Where was the sweet boy that had picked her flowers every morning? Where was the tender-hearted child she used to know? He was gone and she knew why. Her husband had been exacting, demanding perfection from a child who was supposed to be allowed to make mistakes. In her foolish way, she had stepped away, allowing Peter to correct, upbraid and even degrade Thomas when he did not perform.
Katharine had believed that she had been doing right. Was it not the man who would teach the boys? Even when Peter had been overly harsh, she had not stepped in and stopped it. She had willingly turned a blind eye to what she had thought was discipline but now knew was mistreatment. This version of Thomas, a hard, heartless man, was what resulted.
Still, until she knew exactly what he was doing to Emma, she had to play the part of the affected widow. Her words began to slur, mimicking the effect of the laudanum.
“See if sshhhe can visich me someeeeday….” She trailed off and her head slumped to the side to look as she was drifting off to sleep. “Be a good boyyy, Thomas.”
Katharine stayed in her dramatic pose until she heard Thomas curse under his breath and walk out.
“Watch her, Mrs. Briddle,” Thomas ordered. “And if she asks about Emma, tell her she is ill, too ill to come to see her. If she protests, double her dose of laudanum.”
“But My Lord,” Mrs. Briddle gaped, “Double her dose? That might hurt her!”
“What did I tell you about not questioning me?” Thomas overrode her.
“Yes, My Lord,” Mrs. Briddle simpered. “My apologies again, please forgive me.”
“Hmf,” Thomas snorted and left the room with a hard slam of the door.
Katharine grimaced on her bed. I am so sorry, Thomas. I should have done something. I am so sorry.
* * *
Cabin at Galashiels
Surrounded by lush green forest and skies streaked with blood-red lines, Emma watched as the sun began sinking toward the horizon, the creeping indigo crawling into the red. The sunrises and sunsets there were all unique. None of them were alike and with William getting up before dawn, she never failed to see them.
Sometimes the evening sky would change colors in the dawn. The gray quickly grew into light purple and then gave its place to a mélange of blues, hints of rose and orange until the golden rays of the sun took over. Sunsets had their own subtle air of romance and gave the illusion of an idyllic life. Emma allowed herself to think so even when the realities of her circumstances were lingering at the edges of her mind.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” William said and Emma slowly turned around.
“Undeniably,” she s
ighed, “The tub is filled if you want to take a bath and dinner is ready, too. I think I got the pies right.”
While William had gone hunting, Emma had taken his instruction and worked the flour, salt, yeast, and oil into a crust in the square pan. The mixture was too small to fill the pan in but had filled it halfway. The filling was only rabbit seasoned with salt and pepper and carrots but Emma hoped it would be filling enough.
“A cool bath would be bluidy guid,” William sighed in relief. “The sun is getting to be a scorcher.”
Smiling, Emma went to dish out the pie while William stripped. Her head was down but she still blushed as her eyes glimpsed his bare body. Her cheeks puffed out and she let out the trapped breath in a long stream. She should have gotten used to his nakedness by this time but somehow, she still felt self-conscious.
The small whoosh of the water told her that William had sunk into the tub and she dared to look up. William’s head was tilted back and the expression on his face was one of ecstatic relief. His hair had grown longer and was now brushing his collar bones like a dark silky curtain.
Wet or dry, Emma loved to feel his hair brush her skin at night when he moved in his sleep and the ends glided over her neck or arm or even fluttered into her face. The warmth of his body behind her – like almost everything about him – was becoming addictive. Emma did not know if she could sleep without him near anymore and that scared her.
William did not look like he was going to get out of the soothing water anytime soon.
Is he sleeping?
His face was so relaxed that she began to wonder if she made a mistake in taking out the food so quickly. Nibbling on her lip, Emma went to cover them when William’s audible sigh filled the room. She glanced up to see his hands braced on the edge of the tub in preparation for lifting himself up and her eyes darted back down. Emma could not understand why she was fine with them being intimate in the dark but seeing him in the light made her blush.
Curse her prudish English rearing. I bet none of the Scottish women have this trouble.
Her eyes were down and her fingers curled into fists on the table, one of them curled around the knife. She had to get over this quickly if she was serious about getting married to him. What was she going to do in the marriage bedroom? Would her prudish ways get between her and William? God forbid!
“Lass?”
She startled, “Oh, sorry. I was woolgathering.”
William was dressed in a clean set of smallclothes and pants but the evening was too warm for a shirt. His chest was bare and the smattering of dark hair across his chest was wet and smooth instead of springy. There was a line of the same hair, thinner this time, down to the band of his smallclothes where his quiescent manhood bulged.
She blushed and ducked her head again. “Er, dinner is ready.”
He reached out for her and Emma nearly shifted away but she did not. She took a deep breath and got a blast of his cleanly scrubbed skin, smelling of soft, barely decipherable olive oil. Her hand was taken and pressed against his chest.
The soft beat of his heart under her hand was steady, unfailing and constant. “D’ye feel that?”
She nodded.
“Me body is nothing to be scared of, Emma,” he said, “I have a beating heart like ye, blood running through me veins like ye, and emotions like ye. Not to get me wrong, I love how ye blush like the virgin ye are an’ one day…” he tugged her in and his hot breath slithered over her ear, “… when yer under me, I would like to see how far that blush goes.”
Promptly, every drop of blood became lit with desire and she used her English courage to step forward and pressed her other hand to his chest. William’s hand grasped her hip and he kissed her softly.
Surprisingly, the kiss was not aimed to heighten her desire but soften it. Emma pulled away and smiled at him. The gray of his eyes was liquid silver and though the hue was cool, Emma could see his care and fondness for. Is it only fondness or… can it be love?
“Dinner’s ready,” Emma replied breathily and pulled away to hand him the bowl of pie.
He took it and the utensil and walked back to the bed. Emma did not dare take a bite of hers until William had. She was so very nervous that he would not like the simple pie that her stomach was in knots until William bit in and swallowed.
“It’s wonderful, Emma,” William told her, while forking another bit. “For the few things ye had, this turned out well.”
Her stomach loosened and she dug into her meal. Her mind ran over Bhaltair and if he had gotten the letter delivered to her uncle. Following that train of thought, she wondered about her mother, and then Thomas.
Had he really liaised with the Frenchman to kill my father and sell me off?
Her fork scraped at the bottom of the bowl and she realized that she had finished off her pie. She could not remember the taste of the food, though.
“What are ye mulling over, lass?” William asked.
“Do you think Bhaltair sent the letter to my Uncle?” Emma asked nervously, as William took the bowls away to wash out.
“I never doubted it,” William added. “Bhaltair gave me his word, an’ I trust that he lived up to his word. He might be an outlaw but he’s a Scotsman first an’ foremost. If his blood runs true, he would hae done what he vowed. What I am worried aboot is Goraidh…he should hae sent word by noo.”
“It’s only been a week and three days,” Emma said before she blinked at her words. “Maybe he has not had time to get it all done. Perhaps, he has not found the man even.”
Her words were dismal and cast a pall over the room but even as depressing as they were, they were logical. William’s face went grave and he sighed while scrubbing his rough hands over his face, “I…I have ta’ have some faith in me friend. He kens that this is important an’ he will do what must be done fer us. We cannae live out here fer tha’ rest of oor lives.”
Sitting beside him, Emma reached out and took his hand. She spun it around and ran her fingertips over the calluses there. They were rough and deep, and Emma asked, “These all came from sword fighting?”
“Mostly,” he replied. “Some from archery an’ lancing but aye, mostly from gripping a sword. I did some blacksmithing, too, once and nearly burned me skin off me bones when the furnace nearly exploded in me face.”
Emma giggled. “The worst pain my hands have ever felt was when the point of a needle pricked me. My hands are soft as butter.”
“When ye get into Scots life it’ll change,” William replied. “So ye like needlepoint, eh, what else d’ye like to do?”
“I…” Emma looked a bit hesitant before her face fell and her laugh was despairing. “…. not much. Ladies of my class are not trained to be of more use than planning the weekly menu or making sure our husband’s clothes are intact. We don’t cook and, God forbid, sweat. Our schooling stops at basic math. We must learn French, play a pianoforte to amuse our husbands and children, and…. yes, learn needlepoint. I suppose your Scotswomen are different.”
“Aye,” William added. “Some of oor women can hunt as best as oor men and some can fight with swords, too. It’s needed when tha’ man at home is of ta’ war or half tha country away an’ a stray adder or somethin’ comes along. Hell, some even like hunting more than we do.”
“I realize…that we English ladies are bred to be useless in subjects that really matter,” Emma shook her head. “Even in childrearing, most ladies hand their children over to nurses and a governess for many years. Other than setting the weekly menu, they do not know much about homemaking, like I told you, so…I don’t know how good I can be around children. I’d like probably to ride properly… maybe some archery and I…I would like to know how to swim.” Her last words came out softly. “I never got to learn how.”
“All those can easily be arranged,” William said. “Based on how ye did with tha’ cooking, I can tell ye learn fast about the homemaking. No one is naturally gifted with bairns, lass. Even me Maw learned a few things or two on the way.
As fer swimming, ye’ll probably be swimmin’ the whole loch soon after you get the hang of it.”
“I doubt that,” Emma snorted. “It’s fun to think about but I doubt that. When did you learn?”
“When I was very young, not more than five o’ six. Me Ma taught me every morning when the water was cool but not cold enough to give me a cold.” A warm nostalgic smile curved William’s lips and Emma could see he was bringing up memories of his mother. “Me Ma was fearless as one could be. She could handle a switch as nimbly as a sword an’ wasnae shy to pelt ma behind when I got too impish.”
Disciplined by the Highlander: A Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 19
