Bride of Dunloch (Highland Loyalties) (7 page)

Unexpectedly, her lullaby seemed to do the man some good—he appeared to be a bit more peaceful under the spell of her voice. His restless fidgeting, fuelled by his delirium, subsided. For his benefit, she continued to sing. If this was all she could do for him in the end, she would do it to the best of her abilities.

And so she sang until the dying Scot had passed into a state of deep slumber.

A long and restless night ensued. Jane, lying on her own quilt which, for good measure, she’d spread the distance of the hearth away from the man, found she could not sleep but for an hour or two at a time. It was just as well, for that was how often she needed to administer the infusion of thyme and to force him to drink water.

Even as she slept, she was mindful of the night sky, vigilant in monitoring the changing indigo canvass. She would need to return to the castle when it was still dark if she hoped to slip past the sentries that kept guard on the wall walk again.

By the time she had to leave, the Scot was sleeping much more peacefully. The fire flickered low in the hearth, and though it was probably not the wisest idea to leave it burning unattended, she thought it unlikely that the flames would flare up and burn the rotting hut down.

Besides, she was not the man’s keeper, she reminded herself. She could not be entirely responsible for his life. He had been the one who had gone charging into battle, attacking a castle that no longer belonged to his chieftain and his clan. He had been the one who had gotten himself into the condition he was presently suffering in. Her help did not oblige her to become his guardian.

She
told
herself these things—and yet they did little to alleviate her worry as she stood to leave the hut.

Squatting over the man’s sleeping form Jane pressed the back of her hand to his forehead to check his fever. It was still burning intensely, but not quite as intensely as it had been. The thyme infusion must have been doing him some good.

Without thinking, she allowed her hand to travel down his temple to caress his smooth cheek, which still retained a measure of boyishness in his youth. His face was serene now, much different from the face she had seen contorted with pain, distress and fever. A curious ache settled into her belly and tugged at her breast as she watched the man sleep so peacefully.

“I shall return,” she promised, and then stood to exit the hut.

What she did not see as she left was a pair of clear, green eyes flicker open momentarily. Disoriented and groggy, the Scot gazed upon the source of the song heard in disjointed fragments through dying moments. To him, it was the voice of an angel come to take him to heaven, away from the burning pain of his wound. And of his soul.

Chapter 5

Through the pre-dawn darkness, Jane made her way along the banks of the forest brook and hurried across the open lands surrounding the castle. The sky was just beginning to show promise of lightening into day by the time she reached the curtain wall. Undetected, she slipped through the castle to her bedchamber where she hurriedly changed from her dress to her shift. Grateful for the softness of her bed, she slipped under the covers for a few more hours of sleep.

The moment she laid her head on the pillow, there was a rough shaking at her shoulder.

“My Lady,” Ruth’s voice said with urgency.

What was it? Had she been spotted? Did Lord Reginald know she’d left the castle?

“My Lady, wake up,” Ruth prodded, shaking more insistently. “You’ve slept late.”

Angry words of admonishment formed in Jane’s head towards Ruth for having wakened her before dawn. But when she opened her eyes, she was surprised to see that the light outside her window was the mottled grey of a morning well underway. Bleary-eyed, she pushed herself into a sitting position and looked about herself in confusion.

“Come now, my Lady. Out of bed,” Ruth repeated. “The morning meal is about to be served, and I doubt very highly your lord husband will not mind his new bride’s absence.”

“Yes, I agree,” Jane answered, her voice thick and gravelly from her interrupted slumber.

She rose from the bed and staggered to the vanity where she allowed Ruth to bind her hair.

“I do say, I dislike having to wear a kirtle all the time now,” she grumbled, scratching at the delicate cap. “It itches.”

“We could bind it in a net if you’d prefer,” Ruth suggested.

“Nay, the pins pull my hair.”

“Well, you know very well you cannot wear it loose now that you’re wed, so I’m afraid you’ll simply have to suffer through it.”

Once Ruth had finished with her hair and had dressed her, Jane made her way down to the great hall where the servants were already bustling about dishing out the meal. She took her place at Lord Reginald’s side, and when her trencher was filled by an attentive servant, she ate her pottage mechanically. It may have been delicious—from the way the other diners ate, it probably was. But she was too tired to taste anything, and with each lift of her soaked chunk of bread to her mouth, she fought against a series of yawns.

“Look at what you’ve done, Reg. You’ve worn the poor girl out,” quipped one of the castle’s visiting English nobles as he passed the head table.

Jane blushed furiously at the remark; Lord Reginald, on the other hand, chuckled appreciatively.

“I reckon I’ve got another twenty years left in me if I’m lucky,” he jested in return.

The noble barked a laugh at his response; neither man seemed particularly sympathetic to Jane’s obvious discomfort. When the noble had gone, Lord Reginald turned to his bride in concern.

“Truly, my dear, you do look terribly tired,” he noted tenderly. “Are you alright?”

Jane forced an overly bright smile onto her face and nodded energetically. “Oh, yes. I am very well, my Lord, thank you. It’s just that I am unaccustomed to this castle—it is so new to me. I do not sleep very well in unfamiliar places. It is nothing to worry over.”

“Dunloch is your home now,” he responded, patting her knee reassuringly. “You must make yourself comfortable here.”

“Indeed, my Lord. I am trying, and I do think I shall be quite comfortable in time.”

“I had hoped to take you to the village,” he continued, “and introduce you to some of the local craftsmen and prominent inhabitants to help you blend in to your new surroundings. But I fear that journey shall have to be postponed.”

“I understand, my Lord,” she answered, hiding her pleasure behind a mask of disappointment. “You must have so much to do in such a grand place as Dunloch.”

“The least of which is finding MacGillivray,” he agreed. “We think he may have gone south into the Grampians, but there is no word of him in any of the towns or villages beyond Invercleugh. We fear there is a possibility that he’s hanging around, waiting to attack again.”

Jane blanched at his assessment. Was it possible that the fearsome MacGillivray chief was running loose through the mountains at the same time that she was sneaking off from the castle? What if she were to encounter him on her way to the abandoned hut—would he know who she was to Dunloch? To Lord Reginald?

“But ... but he has no force,” she countered. “How can he hope to attack the castle when it is so well defended?”

“There is no telling what the man is capable of,” Lord Reginald answered enigmatically. “He knows Dunloch very well, and I’ve no doubt that were he of a mind to, he could easily slip past our guards and pick our unsuspecting nobles off one by one. Perhaps our women and children, too, for he is a beastly one.”

“That is a frightening prospect,” she answered, considering the likelihood that she might encounter the man.

“Not to worry,” he assured her when he registered her pale visage. “My men and I shall seek him out before it comes to that. He shall not harm a hair on your head, I promise you that. By the way,” he added, changing the subject, “I have spoken with my lady mother. She likes you a great deal, I daresay. How did you find her?”

“I liked her very much,” she answered truthfully. “Now that I know her better, I am sorry she could not attend her son’s wedding.”

“My Lord, the horses are ready,” announced Dunloch’s horsemaster as he approached the dais.

“You’ll excuse me, my dear,” Lord Reginald said in Jane’s direction.

He stood from the wooden trestle table and held his hand out to her. With a smile, Jane placed her own hand in his, and he kissed it affectionately.

Watching him as he stepped down off the dais and departed the great hall with several of his nobles in tow, she decided that perhaps the match was not a bad one after all—it certainly could have been worse. She harboured no illusions that Lord Reginald was in love with her, but perhaps that was just as well. So far he had been kind, and seemed genuinely concerned for her safety and well-being. Perhaps that was all she needed to be happy ... right?

She did not have long to consider the matter, however. As soon as the baron was out of sight, she sopped the remainder of her pottage with the last of her bread and stuffed it hastily into her mouth. Still chewing as she stood from the head table, she scurried back to her chamber to don her cloak; within minutes, she was on the main road.

Her stroll along the bank of the forest brook was peaceful. She absorbed the sounds of the spring birds in the trees with reverence, and was comforted by the melody of the rippling water. The scent of the new pine needles was fragrant, and she breathed deeply as she walked, allowing the aroma to fill her soul and soothe her.

When the hut came into view, her first thought was that she was relieved it had not burned down in the hours she’d been gone. A thin column of smoke rose from the short chimney, indicating that the fire had not died completely.

She pushed the reed door open and entered the small hut. Indeed the fire had not died. The embers did burn quite low, but with a bit of attention they could be revived. Next to the fireplace, exactly where she’d left him, was the Scot. Initially, she was afraid that he had expired after all—he had not moved even minutely from the position in which she’d left him. But as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she detected that his chest was rising and falling with his shallow but regular breaths. She moved closer and bent to check his forehead again. His fever still persisted, and he would need another dose of thyme infusion.

Immediately she set to work. She gathered fresh wood and kindling from the forest outside to revive the fire, and fresh water from the stream. Once the stones underneath the burning logs were hot enough, she placed one in the cooking pot to heat the water. And finally she crushed fresh thyme leaves in the bottom of the cup to prepare more of the infusion.

While she waited for the water to boil, she checked the Scot’s wound. The honey had largely been absorbed into the gash, and the poultice was due to be changed. It was not urgent, however. It could wait until he was awake.

Her lack of sleep soon took a toll on her, and despite the work she still had ahead of her, she was forced to lay her head down. She intended only to close her eyes for a brief moment, but so strong was her fatigue that she soon fell asleep.

Jane awoke several hours later, groggy and thick-mouthed. The first thing she noticed as she ground the sleep from her eyes was that the water was not steaming like it should be. Peering into her cooking pot she dipped a forefinger in to test the temperature. Cool; the stone had boiled the water and then lost its heat in the time she’d been asleep.

With an annoyed sigh, she fished another stone from the fire and replaced the one in the pot. Then, clenching her eyes shut and giving her head a firm shake to revive her senses, she glanced towards the Scot where he lay a short distance from her.

A pair of wide, green eyes gazed back at her, curious and amused.

“Oh,” she cried, startled.

The eyes continued to stare, unmoving but for a blink or two.

“S-sir, I, um ...” she searched for words to say, unnerved by the Scot’s silence. Finally managing to gather her wits she asked, “How are you feeling?”

“I feel like I’m burning wi’ fever from the gash in my side,” the Scot answered. His voice was raspy and weak, but there was a note of humour in it that brought a smile to Jane’s lips.

“I daresay you are,” she agreed. “You were very close to death when first we met. I cannot say you are clear of danger now, but you do look much improved.”

“That canna be saying much. I feel like I have the hand o’ the reaper on my back right now,” the Scot replied.

“That may be, but rest assured that I shall do my best to prevent him from claiming your life—this time, at any rate.”

She had meant nothing by her off-handed statement, but in response, the Scot held her gaze with a mixture of surprise and confusion. There was a tenderness in the set of his features that provoked a curious flutter in her belly. She lowered her eyes to the floor nervously, suddenly self-conscious.

“Why would ye help me?” she heard him say weakly.

“What do you mean?” she answered, glancing up again. “You were in desperate need of it.”

“Ye’re an English lass.”

“I am, yes.”

“I’m Scottish,” the man persisted, his brows drawing together.