The Laird (12 page)

Duncan praised the saints that he was abed. He knew to his marrow his legs wouldn’t have held him had he been standing, so great were his back spasms.

“Are you okay?”

When he didn’t respond, for he couldn’t just yet, she asked, “Did I cause you much pain?”

He blinked the tears away, thankful his back was to her. “Nay.” He took a deep shuddering breath and managed, “About the odd woman.”

“Ah, yes, the odd woman. Mrs. Wade took great pains to find fault with Kathy from her hair roots to the soles of her feet. Between the woman’s constant badgering and Kathy’s inability to read like her peers, Kathy had many headaches.” Beth stopped to dry his back. “One day when Kathy complained about another headache Mrs. Wade snuck up behind Kathy, lifted Kathy’s pony tail--her long hair had been tied with a band at the top of her head—-and cut it off. At the scalp.”

“Ack, the poor lass had lice.”

“No. Just headaches and now no hair.”

“Humph.” Many a lass’s only beauty lay in her hair. No wonder Lady Beth’s voice cracked.

A moment later Beth warned, “I’m sorry, but this will sting.”

His ladywife did not lie. The salt-infused packing stung, but not nearly as horribly as the removal of the first. After a moment he felt compelled to ask, “Why doth the odd woman bear such ill will toward Kathy?”

“I don’t know. In any event, she told Kathy, ‘Now, you’ll have no more headaches.’”

“Do the headaches vanish?”

“Eventually, but not until Kathy turns eighteen and escapes the woman.”

Silent now, Beth wrapped a fresh strip of sheeting around his shoulder with gentle hands. As he lifted his left arm to accommodate her, he murmured, “Ye tell a sad tale, wife.”

“Not so sad. Kathy grew into womanhood, tougher than most. She worked hard and became a respected lady.”

He frowned as Beth helped him roll onto his back. “Doth ye knowest this Lady Kathy?”

She nibbled at her bottom lip. “I’m afraid so.”

Before he could ask if Lady Kathy married and lived happily ever after, someone knocked.

Seeing his solicitor, Duncan smiled. “Ah, Isaac. Come in.”

A
fter Beth excused herself, Isaac asked, “How fare ye,
mon ami
?”

“I live. Something I hear ‘twas in serious question not long past.”

“Aye. Ye look better. Have ye much pain?”

“Nay, though I feel as brawn a newborn bairn.”

“‘Tis good to hear for I bring troubling news.”

“The Bruce?”

“Mayhap. ’Tis regarding yer good ladywife.”

Brow furrowing, Duncan growled, “Out with it, man.”

“I’m verra sorry to say this, but I believe ye wife isna the woman sent by Albany.”

Duncan guffawed. “Ye’re as wode as I first thought Lady Beth, Isaac.”

“Nay, something is verra wrong. I questioned the lass myself, as has Rachael. Lady Beth claims never to have lived in France and never to have married. Her tale remains unchanged with each telling.”

“But she wears my ring.”

“Aye, but Lady Beth has no memory of how it came into her possession. She claims you must have placed it on her hand after she fainted.”

Duncan looked incredulous. “Nay! She had it on when I lifted her from the carriage. She must be the one.”

“
Mon ami
, I’m just relaying my concerns. Ye are married to a woman we know little or nothing about, who claims her Christian name to be Katherine Elizabeth MacDougall Pudding. ‘Tis not the name of the woman ye contracted to marry. Lady Beth may well be the right bride, but is so delus...
insense’
she does not know who she is. Or she could be another, entirely.”

Isaac started to pace. Lady Beth had not hesitated to answer when asked about her past. Only one truly crazed--or intent on appearing so--would respond in such a manner. More troubling was her denying being Catholic. “We must discover the truth before Albany hears of this. If he believes you deliberately defied him by marrying a woman not of his choosing, or worse, if she is his niece and he hears ye refused to consummate because she’s crazed, he’ll not hesitate to strip ye of all ye have.”

“Aye.” Duncan scowled out the window in thought. “Lady Beth must be Albany’s niece. Why else would the Bruce have tried to kill her? ‘Tis no other possibility.”

Isaac wasn’t so sure. They had a boy king, James I, trapped in the Tower of London and the lad’s ambitious regent uncle held sway over all in Scotland. While Albany--in no hurry to pay Henry IV the lad’s ransom--played God, half of Scotland’s chieftains were either plotting, raiding, or at each other’s throats.

Isaac ran a hand through his thinning hair. He’d be bald before this ended. “Wode or sane, if ye believe Lady Beth be the one sent, ye canna give the Bruce reason to cry foul to Albany.”

“‘Tis decided,” Duncan grumbled. “Sane or wode, I will tup the woman as soon as I am able. Consummation binds the marriage. Since the woman is a widow and willna bleed, ye must act as witness.”

Isaac shuddered at the prospect. “Ask the priest. He has no love for ye. And John the Bruce will not be able to claim that we--being friends--ye lied about bedding the lady and I swore to it in an effort to defeat him. The priest bearing witness would be safer.”

After a moment’s thought Duncan nodded. “Aye, then should I learn Lady Beth deliberately deceived me, I’ll deal with her.”

It was the sanest plan given the circumstances and Isaac nodded. “Shall I send her to ye?”

Trepidation climbed Isaac’s spine as Duncan growled, “Oh, aye, Isaac, send my lady in.”

~#~

“Ah, she returns.” Duncan’s gaze traveled down the length of his wife’s lithe form. “Wife, come ye closer.”

At his side, she asked, “Are you in pain? Did Isaac say something to upset you?”

“Nay.” He pointed to her feet. “What, pray tell, are those ye wear?”

She looked down and waggled a foot. “Sneakers.” She smiled as if they were the most natural things in the world for a ladywife to don. “I can run three miles in thirty minutes and not feel a thing in these.”

“You lie, lass.” He waved toward the small window and the mountains beyond. “My horse can barely run that distance in that time.”

She grinned. “Where I live the ground is flat. I run along the paths in Central Park.” When he continued to just scowl she added, “In New York, where I once worked. Remember? I told you about it when I arrived.”

She’d said much--most of it confusing babble--that first day. Now, being more accustomed to her speech, he prayed he’d have less trouble garnering the truth. His future depended on it. As she started to unbraid his hair, he said, “Tell me of this new York.”

“New York has very tall buildings, some with over one hundred floors, levels. We call them skyscrapers.”

He craned his neck to stare at her in disbelief.

She nodded and turned his head back around.  “As I was saying, New York is our financial capital and has the best food in the world. You should taste Junior’s cheesecake.”

She sighed a bit too wistfully for his liking and he wondered what this junior meant to her.

“We have theaters and universities—-you might call them colleges.”

“And your home in the new York?”

“My home was nothing special, a small apartment. Before I got transported here, I had been thinking about staying at my castle permanently.”

Ah huh!
Now he was getting somewhere. “Tell me of this castle.”

“I recently inherited it from my mother’s people. It looks exactly like this one. But I have indoor plumbing, cranky as it is.”

“Plum ink?” He kenned this not but heard the note of pride in her voice.

“Plum-ming. Running water inside the keep. I even have a contraption to heat the water. Just turn a faucet—-tap—-and voila, hot water any time you want it.” She ran her fingers through his hair then picked up the brush. “Most of the time, anyway.”

Her imagination had to be the grandest he’d ever witnessed for her world to be filled with
sky scrapes
and
plum minks
.

“I want to turn the castle into a bed and breakfast—-a place for travelers to stay overnight--but I guess that will be delayed.”

“How many be in yer hostiel?”

“I live alone.”

He knew her to be a widow, so she must have misunderstood his question. “Aye, but how many suggits, guards?”

“None. As I said, I live alone. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to convert the castle into a bed and breakfast. So I’d have company, occasionally.”

God’s teeth! He spun and found her smiling like a bairn on Michaelmas Eve. ‘Twas no wonder Albany wanted her wed.

No woman in her right mind would invite strangers to her hearth without armed protection. She would have endangered herself and the holding. Dumbfounded, he shook his head in utter disbelief.

Before he could ask another question, a scullery lass arrived with fresh water. “Out!” He wasna allowing his softheaded wife to change his dressing again quite yet. His stomach still shook from the last change.

“Duncan, your hair needs to be washed.” Beth wrinkled her nose.

“Oh.” He nodded to the girl. “My apologies, lass. Do as my lady wife lustes.”

Beth ordered him flat on his back. After the girl left, Beth tapped the container in her hands. “What do you call this?

“A posnet.”

“I call it a pan.” She positioned it under his neck then scooped warm water over his head, carefully shielding his eyes as she did it. “Do you understand—-ken--most of what I say?”

“Not all, but most.” He relaxed as her hands gently massaged soap into his hair and scalp. He’d been a wee bairn the last time anyone other than he had washed his hair. How odd—-and kind—-that she should think to do this.

“Duncan, I’m confused by how I got here.” She paused. “Do you know?”

He looked up into her glossy, clear gray eyes, her confusion and distress were quite evident as she bit her bottom lip and blinked away threatening tears.

Taken together--her question, odd ways, and her plans for her castle—-he decided his wife was merely addled. If Isaac is correct, if there was a plot afoot, she had to be only a pawn in a game in which she had no knowledge.

He would bed her as soon as possible, yet he still couldn’t spill his seed within her. He had to discover--for his heir’s sake--if her coddled brain resulted from heredity or from being coshed on the head. Given her odd turn of mind, the task wouldn’t be an easy one.

“Doth it matter how ye came to be here, lass? Ye be here, we be legally wed, and I shall protect ye.”

She snorted as her hands continued their lulling magic on his scalp. “Duncan, it’s not that simple. Doesn’t it bother you that we’re married but have no love for each other? That we don’t even know each other?”

“Nay, ‘tis the way of marriage. We shall grow accustomed to one another in time.”

“I doubt I’ll ever grow accustomed to anything in this time. I don’t even know what’s expected of me.”

He grinned, “Practice patience.” He then had a brilliant thought. “Can ye read, lass?”

“Yes.” She sounded affronted. “I can also calculate percentages in my head, but that’s not going to help.” She started rinsing his hair. “It’s upsetting having someone like Flora looking askance at me because I can’t speak French, and having Rachael dress me. I feel like an idiot here. I want to go home.”

Her voice sounded so plaintive, so bairn-like, he almost smiled. How had this poor addled woman, living in France since her husband’s death, survived? “Wife, I ken the solution to yer woes.”

“You do?” To his disappointment her hands began making quick work of drying his hair. “Truly?”

“Truly. On the morrow, ye shall have the answers ye seek.”

“Bless you, Duncan Angus MacDougall!” To his utter surprise, she gave him a resounding kiss on the lips. And she tasted of mint.

~#~

Beth’s euphoria dissolved like cotton candy in her mouth, gone before she had a chance to fully enjoy it. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as she stared at Duncan’s solution to all her problems—-a book entitled
What The Goodwife Taught Her Daughter
. Knowing she’d likely be reduced to hysterics, she did neither, and opened the leather bound volume under his watchful gaze. She slowly scanned the pages. The author had fixated on table manners, but the book’s main emphasis stressed piety, deference, and of all things, restraint. Just what she needed—-more restraints, as if donning headgear, mountains of velvet, and curtsying constantly weren’t restrictive enough.

She closed the book and turned the ring on her still sensitive fingers. Funny, she’d always thought that if she ever wore such a band it would represent love, commitment, and the promise of common goals. When an annoying burn started at the back of her throat she sniffed and smoothed down the pleats of her bodice.

She had no right to complain. Despite her looks and lack of education, she now owned a castle and had a husband, abrasive and annoying as they both managed to be at times. She should be thanking God for his largess, not wishing for things that apparently weren’t meant to be. She should be content with knowing Duncan would survive. Glancing up and finding her hubby looking inordinately pleased, she murmured, “Thank you.”

“Ye are most welcome. ‘Tis a helpful tome, I’m told.”

“I’m sure it is.” She placed it on the foot of his bed. “I’ll begin reading today.” If nothing else, perhaps she could garner some insight into the elaborate finger movements Rachel, Isaac and Flora employed as they ate. She still couldn’t believe the clan didn’t used forks. “We need to change your dressing now.”

Duncan’s good humor immediately evaporated, leaving him looking like a petulant four-year-old who’d just been told he was getting a haircut. “Ack! Can it not wait?”

“Nay, my lord. If you have any intention of getting out of bed any time soon, we need to change the dressing twice a day, so roll over.”

He huffed but did as she asked. “Finish yer tale.”

She sprinkled salt into the warm water at his bedside. “Which tale?”