Chapter 20
The next morning, before first light, Violet dressed before anyone crossed the upper passageway.
She chose a plain gown of dark wool and a shawl without bright trimming.
Nothing about either garment declared her Lady Moore, which was the point. A woman in fine clothes would raise questions. A woman in plain wool could pass through a village market, buy what she needed, and return before the castle fully woke.
The buckle clicked when she fastened her shoe. She froze and waited for the better part of two minutes. There was no step outside her door, and no maid called out. No guard came to ask why the Laird’s wife was dressed in gray before dawn.
She fastened the other shoe more slowly, then pinned her hair beneath a simple kerchief with hands that refused to stay steady.
“I am going to the village,” she whispered. “Women go to villages. It is hardly treason.”
Her reflection in the small mirror looked unconvinced.
She took her purse, tucked it beneath her shawl, and opened the door. The passageway held the thin chill of early morning, and somewhere below, a servant coughed. Further off, guards changed watch with low voices and the scrape of boots on stone.
Violet went first to the nursery.
Moira slept in the adjoining room, or so Violet hoped. The fire in the grate had burned low, and John lay warm in his cradle, his face turned toward one tiny fist. He slept peacefully, as if no one he loved would ever leave without farewell.
Violet stopped beside him. She did not touch his cheek. If he woke, she might not have the heart to leave. Instead, she drew his blanket higher over his little chest and tucked the edge near his shoulder.
“I’ll be back before ye miss me,” she whispered, the words hurting worse once spoken.
She straightened quickly. She was not leaving him. She was going to find the thing that might let her stay. This was necessary and was the only reason she could make her feet move toward the door.
For some reason, the castle made escaping a bit difficult, which she resented and appreciated in equal measure. At least that meant no one would be able to take John away so easily.
Thank God.
A guard stood near the main stairs, so she took the narrower servants’ passage.
A maid was carrying folded linen across the lower corridor, and Violet waited behind the corner until the woman disappeared.
Near the side entrance, two stable lads were speaking over a bucket, and she slipped out through the kitchen yard while they argued about a lame pony.
The gate should have stopped her.
It did not.
The guard there knew her face but not her clothes, and she chose the moment when another guard called to him from the barbican to slip past with her shawl drawn close. She kept walking until the castle shrank behind her.
The road to the village was damp beneath her shoes as the morning mist sat low over the fields. The air smelled of wet earth and smoke from houses below. She lifted her dress from the mud and walked faster than comfort allowed.
She had walked roads before. She had carried fabrics from village to village, slept in crowded inns, bargained for bread, and spent whole mornings deciding where she would go next without asking any man’s leave.
Her hand tightened around her purse.
Now it was no longer the same. Now, she was a laird’s wife and mother to a baby boy in every way that mattered. As she made her way to the market, ignoring the voice niggling at the back of her head, she felt like the dirtiest liar in the world.
The village had begun to stir by the time she reached the market. Stalls stood in rows along the square, and a baker set warm loaves beneath a cloth. Hens complained from wicker cages while a boy argued over bruised apples and women fingered fabrics and argued down the price.
Near the center, bolts of fabric hung from a rail, blue, russet, brown, and a yellow so cheerful that Violet slowed down despite herself. The seller noticed.
“Fine eye, mistress. Good wool, that.”
“It sits well enough,” Violet said, stepping closer before she remembered why she had come. She touched the fabric and rubbed it once between her forefinger and thumb. “The weave is tight, but the dye will fade if washed too often in hard water.”
The man blinked, then laughed. “Ye’ve handled fabric before.”
“Aye. A little,” she replied.
For a moment, she stood where she knew how to stand. In a market. Among fabric, food, noise, and barter. No one asked whether she had slept in her husband’s bed. No one watched her for weakness.
No one called her me Lady.
A bundle of dried roots at the herb stall sent a bitter smell through the damp air, making her immediately turn. The seller was an older woman with sharp eyes and twine between her teeth. Bundles of rosemary, sage, yarrow, mint, and roots Violet could not name hung from the frame of her stall.
Violet forced her hands to stay still as she approached.
“Have ye angelica root?” she asked.
The woman looked up from tying a bundle. “For flavoring or physic?”
Violet’s fingers closed around her purse. “Physic.”
“Old weakness or new?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters if ye want some wisdom with the purchase.”
Violet lifted her chin. “It helped before.”
The seller studied her face. “Angelica does ease some symptoms, but it is mainly used for seasoning. It isnae a saint in leaf and root. If the cause is wrong, the cure will be wrong too.”
Violet coughed and cleared her throat as low as she could. Are ye going to sell me the herb or nae?
“I understand.”
“If something has turned bad in the stomach, or if a body has taken what it shouldnae, angelica cannae fix it.”
Violet barely heard the last part. Old weakness. New weakness. The words took her back to morning in the sickroom, Hannah’s hand on her brow and a cup of bitter tea pressed to her lips.
“It helped before,” she said again.
The seller’s expression softened by a fraction. “Then I hope it helps again.”
She turned and grabbed a small bundle tied with blue thread. Violet reached into her purse. Her thumb brushed against a coin, and it dropped to the stall with a dull tap.
The seller pretended to look away as she tried to gather the coins. Then the bundle was pressed into her hand, dry stems and roots wrapped tight. The smell rose through the cloth and filled her nostrils.
At that moment, a woman with a baby passed behind her. The child gave a thin, fussy cry.
John.
Violet turned around too quickly.
The market tilted, and the fabric stall stretched out of place then snapped back. Voices faded and rushed close again. Her stomach dropped, and her fingers immediately went cold around the angelica.
Nay.
She reached for the stall post and caught it, the rough wood biting into her palm. The herb seller said something, but Violet could not hear the words. Instead, she locked her knees and gripped the post harder.
She would not faint in a public market.
She would not.
Not even now, as the square began to slide out from under her.
Connor rode into the village with the signed treaty packet tucked under his coat and mud on his boots.
The meeting with MacAdair had been briefer than he had expected. MacAdair had read the terms twice, asked a few careful questions, and signed with the face of a man grateful to close one difficulty before another opened.
Connor had no reason to sit at another man’s table once peace had been set down in ink. He had more matters to deal with at home.
He had sent one rider ahead to Moore Castle with word that the treaty was secured. The other man rode behind him with the horses, slowed by a loose shoe that would need the blacksmith before they climbed back toward the castle.
Connor should have gone straight home. John’s christening awaited, and Lachlan was still there. Violet would either be relieved by his return or annoyed by it, and both possibilities had carried him through the last mile with more interest than any treaty had earned.
He had stopped by the market to buy a gift for the baby. Something he could use at the christening. That was when he spotted the woman at the herb stall. He recognized the set of her shoulders despite her plain shawl.
Violet?
He immediately drew the horse up hard. Violet stood alone, dressed like a villager, one hand wrapped around a stall post. Her head was bowed, and her other hand was clutching a bundle tied with blue thread. The herb seller leaned toward her with worry on her sharp face.
Violet swayed.
Connor was off the horse before the stirrup settled. Someone called out to him from behind, and a boy stumbled backward. The bread seller snatched a basket out of his path.
He reached Violet just as her knees gave way.
His hands caught her at the waist and arm, pulling her back against him before she could hit the ground. She weighed too little. She tried to straighten as soon as he held her, stubborn even when her face had gone pale enough to make his throat tighten.
“What the hell are ye doing here alone, wife?” he snapped.
Her eyes lifted to his. For a moment, she only stared at him.
“Connor?” she asked. “What are ye doing here?”
“Coming home.”
“But the treaty…”
“Signed. The meeting went well. I had no reason to stay longer.”
He looked over her face again. A faint sheen of sweat marked her upper lip. Her fingers gripped the herb bundle so hard that the stems cracked under the wrapping.
“What is wrong with ye?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
His hand tightened on her waist. He felt her flinch and loosened his grip. “Try again.”
“I was only buying something.”
“Alone?”
“I have been going to markets alone for years. Daenae say that.”
“Well, nae as me wife.”
Her chin lifted, though she still leaned into him more than she seemed to know. “I didnae become an invalid when I married ye.”
Connor looked at the shawl, the plain gown, the kerchief hiding most of her hair. “Ye did become easier to find.”
“That is yer fault for being Laird.”
“Aye. I will accept blame after ye explain why ye left the castle without a guard, a maid, or literally any form of wisdom.”
Her mouth tightened.
The herb seller had stopped touching her bundles, and a woman near the bread stall watched them openly. Two men beside the apple cart bent their heads as if their conversation had become fascinating.
Connor lowered his voice. “What is in yer hand?”
Violet’s arm moved slightly, bringing the bundle nearer to her dress. Too late.
“Herbs,” she answered.
“I can see that.”
“Then why ask?”
“Can we do this elsewhere?” he asked, his voice low. “Ye ken, preferably somewhere ye arenae dying?”
“I ken what helps me,” she huffed.
That cut through his temper.
He looked at the bundle again. Dry stems, roots, blue thread. He did not know herbs well enough, and that ignorance sharpened his voice.
“Helps ye with what?”
“Connor.”
“With what, Violet?”
She looked past him toward the lane that led out of the village. Her throat moved once, but she did not answer.
The herb seller cleared her throat, then lost her courage when Connor turned his gaze on her. She dropped her eyes to the stall and began arranging sage that needed no arranging.
“Fine,” he bit out. “Daenae tell me here. Ye are coming with me.”
“I can return to the castle.”
“Ye can barely stand.”
“I can walk.”
Conner grunted. “Aye, with me holding ye upright.”
The market had fallen silent in that sly way when people were pretending they were not listening. A child was pulled closer to his mother’s dress, and one of the villagers bowed too quickly when Connor glanced in his direction.
Violet noticed, and her shoulders immediately stiffened. “Do nae make a spectacle.”
Connor shifted his grip, ready to lift her. She saw the movement and went rigid. He stopped, and for one breath, he held himself still. Then he bent his head close enough so that only she could hear him.
“Walk with me, then,” he murmured. “And daenae make me carry ye through the whole market unless ye want every villager discussing it by supper.”
Her eyes narrowed, and color touched her cheeks, faint and angry. Good. Anger meant she was still with him.
“Ye are impossible,” she huffed.
“I have been called worse.”
She drew in a careful breath and felt the wind on her face. Connor kept one hand on her elbow and the other on her back, close enough to catch her, loose enough to let her pretend she had chosen every step.
She did not let go of the herbs as the crowd parted for them. Men dipped their heads, and women looked at Violet and then away, some with curiosity, some with open concern.
Connor guided her across the square toward the tavern, keeping his pace slow.
“Me horse,” he called to the man behind him.
“I have him, me Laird,” the man called back.
The tavern keeper met them at the door, with his wife just behind his shoulder. Her gaze went to Violet’s face first, then to Connor’s hand on her back.
“Me Laird,” he greeted. “Me Lady. Is everything…” Connor looked at him, and the man immediately straightened. “Would ye like a room?”
“Now.”
“Aye, me Laird.”
The keeper’s wife stepped aside at once. “There is one upstairs, warm enough.”
Connor gave a curt nod. “Nay one comes in unless I ask.”
The keeper swallowed. “Aye.”
Violet’s fingers tightened around the herb bundle as Connor guided her up the narrow stairs. She tried to walk without leaning against him. He let her until she missed the edge of a step, then his arm came around her waist.
She said nothing.
In the room above, a small fire burned low. There was a table, two chairs chair, and a bed with a clean blanket.
He led her inside, waited until she put one hand on the back of the chair, then turned and closed the door.
Violet stood with her back straight, her face pale, the tied herbs crushed in her fist.