Chapter 33
Clara woke occasionally during that long ride, but the world was gray and wet whenever she opened her eyes, and her body ached more rather than less. Finally the horse plodded over gravel, and she opened her eyes. The sun was rising in the east, over the loch. The sky was pink, and the castle seemed to have sprung out of a fairy tale.
“There’s no spire,”
she told Caelan.
“What did you say?”
He sounded weary.
“There should be a spire with a flag. A thin flag.”
He got down, keeping a hand on her waist. “You are worn out.”
“My eyelids hurt.”
He plucked her off the horse and started for the front door.
“Cobbledick, I’m afraid that my lady has had an exhausting night.”
The butler’s broad, whiskered face swam in front of Clara’s eyes. “If you’ll allow me, my lady?”
“I’m too tired to welcome you, but I will.”
A large hand wrapped around her forehead, deliciously chilled—and disappeared. “Fever. You’d best bring her upstairs, laird.”
Caelan started up the stairs. “You have a fever, Clara.”
His voice was strained and low.
“Don’t worry about it,”
she said. “It’s not like Isla’s fever. I’m sturdy. Horribly sturdy. You should have heard my mother on the subject of my hips.”
His grip tightened, and if she hadn’t been so fuzzy with exhaustion, she might have thought he growled deep in his throat.
“My daughter won’t be back until midmorning, since she’ll be coming through the woods. She’s not the best rider,”
Mr. Cobbledick said.
“I’m so glad you’re here, my friend,”
Clara said, reaching out blindly. Her head hurt more every time she opened her eyes.
A big, cool hand encircled hers. “You’ve got the laird in a fine state, lass.”
“I like your brass buttons,”
she told him dreamily.
“I can see from your husband’s face that it’s lucky I’m an old man,”
the butler said, chuckling. “I’ll set the grooms to heating water on the roof if you’d like a bath, laird. We finally have the piping sorted out.”
“Not fair,”
Clara managed. “I wanted the first bath in the new bathtub.”
The bedchamber door closed with a snap that made her startle.
Then Caelan was gathering her up again, his lips cool against her forehead. “Would you like a bath now, darling?”
he asked, and asked again, because she couldn’t seem to understand.
“Too tired,”
Clara said, and then in a fit of generosity, “You go first. It’s your bathtub, after all.” Something important was swimming through her head and finally surfaced. “Don’t tell Mrs. Gillan that I’m ill,” she whispered, somewhat surprised to find that her voice was hoarse. “The fever will terrify her. I know you think she is possessed by grief for Isla, but she’s like you, coming alive again, and she’s been very kind.”
“Both of us . . .”
he began, saying something, but Clara’s mind drifted. He was talking about the bathtub, their bathtub apparently.
Sometime later Elsbeth appeared, washing her face and binding up her palm. Then her maid was gone, but Caelan was lying beside her in the bed, her head nestled into the dip of his shoulder. She felt a twinge of happiness, but he was too hot, so she pushed him away.
Then she was standing upright, her legs trembling, while Caelan changed the sheets. She began to giggle, thinking of her first night in the castle. He turned around and lifted her back onto the bed, shaking his head when she kept hoarsely giggling.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re making the bed.”
“You sweated through the sheets.”
His hand curled around her forehead again.
“Were you sleeping with your hand on my face last night?”
she asked, thinking about it.
“Only part of the night.”
Later that day she thought Mrs. Gillan was offering her calf’s-foot jelly. “You don’t know how to make it. And I don’t like it anyway.”
Mrs. Gillan was sniffling into Caelan’s shoulder. He hadn’t obeyed her when she said not to tell his former mother-in-law. Perhaps she forgot to say it.
She fell asleep thinking about it. Caelan wouldn’t want to be planting flowers on her grave as well.
The thought stuck with her, and the next time she woke, when he offered her water, she said, “Don’t plant flowers on my grave.”
“You are not going to die,”
he said, his voice deep.
“If I do, I don’t want flowers.”
“Why not?”
He wrung out a cloth and draped it over her forehead. Water trickled into her hair.
“No one would sit there,”
she explained. “My mother wouldn’t care, would she? I don’t mind that now, but after I’m dead? Maybe no stone, either.”
He was frowning at her so hard that his brows almost met. “What are you talking about, Clara?”
She fell asleep. He asked her again when she woke up, but the thought was gone. “I’m not very flowery,”
she rasped, trying to remember. “Perhaps some moss? I like the moss in the woods.”
“You are not dying,”
he stated.
“Of course I’m not! That was your idea, not mine.”
She wasn’t quite as sleepy now, but she closed her eyes anyway, because he seemed so fierce.
Clara woke with a start in the middle of the night. An oil lamp had been turned low on a side table that must have been made by Auld Magnus, because the legs had a gentle curve. Caelan was lying on his stomach beside her, his hand wrapped around her right wrist. She needed to use the privy desperately.
When she tried to ease away, his grip tightened, but he didn’t wake.
She reached down to uncurl his fingers, which woke him up. “I’m sorry,”
she whispered. “I have to use the privy.”
Caelan sat up, blinking. “Clara?”
“Yes, it’s Clara,”
she said, thinking that she was lucky he didn’t mutter Isla’s name in his sleep. Or worse, during an intimate moment.
“You seem—”
He dropped her wrist and put his hand on her forehead. “Your fever has broken.”
“If you’ll excuse me,”
Clara said, sliding to the edge of the bed, “I’ll go over into that room. By myself.” A faint memory lurked of him carrying her into the privy, and she didn’t want to ever repeat that experience.
“Oh my God.”
It was a groan, and he fell back onto the pillows.
She got up and tested her balance. Weak and a little tired, but fine. She used the privy and eyed the new tub, deciding it could wait until after she’d had some tea. Her throat wasn’t sore, but hot tea felt like a necessity. Then she went over to wash her hands, raised her eyes to the glass, and squealed in shock.
Caelan ripped open the door. “What?”
“My hair,”
Clara gasped. “What happened to it?”
His whole body relaxed. “I put it in braids, but they hurt your head. I washed it yesterday, and that happened afterwards.”
Her hair reached out from her head like the nimbus around the moon on a foggy night.
“You bathed me?”
“Aye. You told me that I couldn’t use the tub without you, so we both got in there. You slept through most of it.”
He had dark circles under his eyes, and his chin was shadowed with beard. “Your hair billowed out when I tried to dry it.”
“Thank you for taking such good care of me. Oh dear.”
She patted her hair.
“Have you ever seen a tumbleweed?”
Caelan asked.
She frowned at him. “Please don’t describe one. Would you mind propping me up for a minute? My legs are absurdly weak.”
He was there in a heartbeat, winding his arms around her.
“I have to brush my teeth,”
Clara muttered, trying not to breathe in his direction.
“I’ll do the same with my free hand,”
he said, picking up his toothbrush.
“You are rather unkempt,”
she said, around her toothbrush. “Are you growing a beard? I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I’ll shave it off later,”
he promised.
She spat out her favorite peppermint tooth powder and washed her face, trying to ignore her hair. Then Caelan picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. “Tea!”
she commanded.
“In two minutes. I need to know you’re . . . you’re all right. Please.”
“Has Elsbeth returned from Mrs. Gillan’s? I thought she was here, but maybe not.”
“It’s been five days,”
Caelan said, sitting on the bed and arranging her in his lap so she was tucked against him, head on his shoulder.
“Five days?”
Her voice squeaked. “Impossible.” Memory returned with a rush, and she said, “Your carriage crashed to the bottom of the ravine!” Her cheeks heated at the memory of how stupid she’d been. “On the good side, I slept through five days of gossip about my foolish behavior,” she said, trying to sound amused.
“You could have died of the fever.”
His voice sounded hollow.
“Nonsense! I merely had a cold, and my mother would say I deserved it after throwing myself into freezing mud. Not my finest hour,”
she admitted. “You called me a fool, and you were right.”
He didn’t answer, so after a bit she twisted in his arms. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes . . .
“You’re crying,”
she whispered, brushing a tear away. “Were you—you must have been afraid of losing a second wife. I’m so sorry, Caelan. I would never want to cause you any anxiety.”
“If I had lost you.”
He stopped, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
“I know,”
Clara said, kissing his throat. “You’ve already been through such a heartbreak.”
“No,”
he burst out.
She froze. What on earth was going on? “It must have reminded you of the past,”
she revised, remembering her stout vow to herself that she wouldn’t be jealous of Isla any longer. “We should talk about Isla more often,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I’ve been cowardly, and I regret that. I apologize. She was such an important part of your life, and if you want to speak of her, you should feel free to do so.”
He had buried his face in her hair, holding her tightly. Of course men did not like to be seen crying. Luckily she had enough hair to mop up any amount of tears.
“No more self-pity,”
she told him, because she might as well tell him all the truth. He already knew her deficits.
“I’ve never seen you whine about anything,”
Caelan said.
“I was envious of Isla. Jealous of what you both had.”
He didn’t comment, and she wanted all the truth in the open. He might as well pity her for the whole of it. “You went to your knees, asking for her hand, because you were in love.” It felt unbearable, but since she’d vowed to be truthful, she added, “I wanted that, but I know that’s not . . . Anyway, we have something good too.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I was crying?”
“I don’t need to,”
she told him. “I mean . . . unless you want to talk to me about Isla, and I’m absolutely fine with that! I don’t need a ring, either.”
Caelan picked up her left hand and stared at it. Then he moved Clara so that she was seated opposite him. She tried to brush the cloud of hair behind her shoulder but gave up.
“It’s true that when I asked Isla to marry me, I went on one knee and promised eternal love.”
Clara told herself that she had a lifetime in front of her in which to get used to hearing about Isla. She reached out and took his hand. “We don’t need to have this conversation now. A cup of tea would do both of us good.”
She began to scramble off the bed, but his large hand curled around her knee.
“Clara.”
She stilled. “Yes?”
“I was not in love with her. With Isla.”
Her mouth fell open. “What?”
“I was infatuated when I returned from college. My father was dying, and she was a gorgeous princess who would scarcely allow me to touch her fingers. The afternoon when she said that she loved me was one of the most delightful days of my life.”
“I can imagine.”
Her voice rasped a bit. Maybe she should stop reading books with romantic endings.
“But by the time we married? I felt differently. She said she loved me, but the actual me, a man who sweats and shits and swears every day? A man who would like to make love to his wife every day as well? Even before our wretched wedding night, I knew we were in trouble.”
Clara bit her lip.
“I might have fallen in love with Isla after the ceremony, but we never connected in ways that would make it possible. She used to promise that we’d have sex on Sunday after church or after she had her monthly . . . except we never did, because she couldn’t bring herself to do it. After she explained that it was too distasteful, I stopped asking.”
Clara was so stupefied that she sat there blinking at him for a moment. Then she cleared her throat. “I understand why you were so pleased by my response,”
she said, trying to find the right words. “It wasn’t mature of me to be hurt by the comparison.”
Especially since he wasn’t—he wasn’t in love with Isla?
She could hardly make sense of the words. Everyone was wrong? For a moment she thought perhaps he was trying to make her feel better, but no. Caelan wouldn’t lie to her. He truly hadn’t been in love with his wife.
Astonishing.