Chapter 7 #2
Strong hands were on her, and a moment later she was pressed into the warmth of Kincreag’s chest, his arms tight around her. As he carried her through the castle, she felt better by increments. He laid her gently on her bed, and she squinted up at him. He had turned away already to face Rose.
“What the bloody hell is wrong with her?” There was a strange edge to his voice she didn’t understand.
The door closed, and Rose said, her voice low, “We believe a curse has been placed on her.”
The silence drew out, thick and heavy. Finally Kincreag swore violently. “I’ll send for my own physician.” He strode away, then turned back to point a finger at Rose. “Do nothing to her while I’m gone.”
“What?” Rose said indignantly, hands on hips. “That charlatan you call a healer will not touch my sister.”
He returned to the bed. “She is my wife, and you will not touch her while babbling about curses.”
“She’s not your wife yet.”
Gillian craned her neck gingerly to watch Rose and Kincreag glare at each other. He turned decisively and scooped Gillian up into his arms, wrenching a muffled gasp from her as her head bumped against his chest.
He murmured an apology as he continued across the room, stopping at the door. “Move, Sir Philip.”
Gillian turned her head, wincing at the pain that gripped her from the slight movement. Isobel’s husband blocked the door, arms folded over his plaid-covered chest.
“Peace, my lord,” Sir Philip said, his voice soothing. “Rose means her no harm. She’s a fine healer and would never hurt her own sister, you must know that. You’re distraught.”
“Move. Now.” Kincreag’s voice was low and threatening.
Gillian curled her fingers into Nicholas’s doublet and forced herself to speak. “My lord, I pray you. Let Rose tend me. I trust no one more.”
He frowned down at her, muscles working in his jaw. After a moment he returned her to the bed. He pulled up a chair and positioned himself on the other side of the bed, staring at Rose challengingly. “Fine. Heal her. I’ll watch.”
“Very well,” Rose said. “First, I’ll give her something to help her rest.” Rose dug about in her wee wooden box.
Gillian’s stomach felt wambly again, so she closed her eyes and leaned her head back, willing it to calm.
“What’s in that?” Nicholas asked when Rose apparently mixed together some concoction for Gillian to take.
“Willow bark and betony to soothe her pain, chamomile and valerian to help her sleep, and a bit of fenugreek to settle her stomach.”
“Very well,” Nicholas said reluctantly. A long silence followed in which Rose brewed the concoction.
“Help me lift her head,” Rose said.
Nicholas’s large, warm hand cupped the back of Gillian’s skull, and she let him raise her slightly, tilting her head so Rose could press the small wooden cup against her bottom lip.
She swallowed the liquid and was gently lowered back to the pillow.
When she opened her eyes, everyone crowded around the bed, watching her expectantly.
With great effort, she forced herself into a sitting position, though it caused her head to ache again. “It’s just a headache. I’m not near death. Someone really should tell Father I’m fine.” She looked pointedly at Isobel and Sir Philip. “Surely Da is waiting to see you.”
When they were gone, only Rose and Nicholas remained.
Rose flipped through her stack of sewn manuscripts, and Nicholas stared down at his hands, clasped loosely between his knees.
A lock of black hair had escaped from the thong at his nape, and it hung down to feather against his jaw. His presence comforted Gillian.
The tight pain in her temples eased as Rose’s medicine took effect, and a warm drowsiness settled over her.
There was a quick knock on the door; then Roderick entered. Broc slipped past his legs, nearly tripping him, and leapt onto the bed. Nicholas was on his feet, holding the dog back when it would have sat on Gillian again.
“What is the matter with him?” Nicholas demanded. He grasped the dog’s snout and stared into its eyes. “Is this the same dog?”
“Aye! It is, I’m sure of it.” Roderick shook his head, glaring at Broc. “I know not what’s wrong with him. I didna even know he followed me up here. I had closed him up with Alan. He must’ve escaped.” He let out an angry breath. “I’ll take him back and tie him up this time.”
“It’s all right,” Gillian said. “Lay down, Broc.”
The dog obeyed immediately, eyeing her with soft, adoring eyes. Gillian smiled and scratched the wiry hair sticking up between his ears.
Roderick appeared upset. “He shouldn’t be in here troubling you when ye’re ill. He’s yer da’s dog.” He made a grab at the dog, but Broc strained away, crawling on his belly until his head lay on Gillian’s thigh.
“It’s fine, Uncle. I want him to stay.”
Roderick’s mouth flattened. He looked as if he wanted to protest further; instead he blew out a breath. “Fine.” He glanced over his shoulder at Rose and asked, “What’s she looking for? Does she ken what ails ye, lass?”
Gillian nodded. “Aye, she does. But we don’t know what to do about it.”
“Well?” he asked, when Gillian was not forthcoming.
Nicholas leaned back in his chair, face leaning on his fist so that his mouth was hidden. His eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts.
Gillian glanced at Rose. Her sister nodded encouragingly.
“We believe I’ve been cursed.”
Her uncle said nothing. His normally ruddy skin paled.
“Uncle Roderick?”
“Cursed?” he sputtered. “Who would do such a thing, and why?”
Gillian shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Roderick sat beside her on the bed and took her hand. “This is terrible tidings. If there is aught I can do to help, pray tell me.”
Gillian squeezed her uncle’s hand in appreciation.
It was unsettling to think she held the key to punishing the person responsible for her mother’s murder but could not recall it without nearly killing herself.
The witch who’d done this to her must be very powerful, for this was no simple spell.
Gillian was not a witch herself, but she remembered her mother performing complex spells and still being skeptical that they would work as she’d hoped.
Lillian MacDonell had counseled that magic was dangerous and should never be dabbled with, for many spells had unintended effects, and even the most conscientious witch couldn’t predict all of them.
That was another very important reason to stay away from the dark arts.
Curses and black spells let loose evil in the world and were just as unpredictable.
Roderick leaned forward, his dark blue eyes intense. “In the hall you said a name—Cinnie. You said you were talking to her. I know of no Cinnie at Lochlaire. Could that have aught to do with the curse?”
Gillian shrugged, her mind shying away from the name. “I-I know not.”
Roderick rubbed his lips thoughtfully. “Rose, is there something you can give her to suppress the pain so she can think of it?”
“No,” Rose said shortly.
Roderick glanced back at Rose. “What are you looking for in those?”
Rose let the manuscript she leafed through flutter shut. “Mother had a grimoire . . . it was also a sort of diary. She left it to me with all the rest, but as she did no healing, I rarely look at it. She worked in charms and spells, so perhaps there’s something in it about breaking curses.”
Roderick mulled this over for several minutes before standing. “I’m not a witch, but if you find a task for me, let me know.” He leaned over to buss Gillian’s cheek. “Rest, love.”
When he was gone, Gillian looked shyly at her betrothed. He’d been very protective of her, as if she already belonged to him. As if he truly cared. It did strange things to her belly.
He still leaned on his fist, but he looked troubled, frowning meditatively at Broc.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking . . . this is the reason so many innocent people burn.” He dropped his fist to his thigh and straightened, turning his hard black gaze on her. “People like your mother.”
Gillian’s brows drew together in confusion. Had Rose’s medicine muddled her head? “What do you mean?”
“Just because we don’t understand something, doesn’t mean it’s witchcraft.”
He didn’t believe. And so he thought this was a bunch of foolishness. A flush stole up Gillian’s throat, from both anger and embarrassment. Rose shook her head condescendingly but remained uncharacteristically quiet.
“How else can you explain what is happening to me?” Gillian demanded. “Surely a real ailment wouldn’t strike only when I think of certain things?”
He nodded slowly. “You’re right—if this were a sickness of the body. But what about a sickness of the mind?”
Gillian wilted against the pillow. Such a thing had not occurred to her, but hearing him say it, as well as the resigned way he looked at her, made her pray it was a curse and that she was not going mad.
“I’m not insane,” she said, but her voice was strained and unsure.
He considered her quietly, then asked, “Without causing yourself any undue pain, do you recall what you thought of—perhaps not the exact thought, but what it was about? Who is Cinnie?”
Gillian’s head ached sharply, but she pursued the thought, fingers rubbing her temples. “The girls I saw . . . they’d not changed at all, not since I was a child . . . Cinnie . . . and Rowena . . . even the flowers . . . but how could that be?”
She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers against her lids, unable to go on. Pain clawed at her, leaving her weak. She slid down the bed so she was lying again, waiting for the knives stabbing her brain to abate. When it had receded enough for her to open her eyes, she looked at the earl, hopeful.
He stared back at her with a disturbed expression. “There were no little girls in the hall. Sir Philip asked if anyone had seen what happened. One of my men was there. He said you were alone.”
“Maybe they ran away when I fainted,” she said desperately. But she knew that was not so. She wanted to think of it but couldn’t, or she would be ill.
“Why would they do that? Would they not go for help?”
Gillian pushed herself up with a burst of strength. “I’m not mad!”
He said nothing.
“They were there.”
“And they caused you to collapse in pain, these children?”
Gillian’s anger dissolved into despair. She was not insane. She wasn’t. “Leave me alone.” She curled into herself on the bed. When he didn’t obey, she said, a note of hysteria in her voice that surely made her sound like a madwoman, “Leave me!”
He straightened, his handsome face grim. “Very well. But my physician will be in to examine you later.”
“Why? To be sure you’re not getting a tainted mare?”
He looked as if he might say more, then sighed heavily and left.
Gillian covered her face, wanting to weep, but afraid to pain her head anymore. Maybe she was insane. She must be delusional, for what she thought she’d seen was impossible. And she was the only one who’d seen it. She must be mad.
“Gillian,” Rose said, excited, gripping Gillian’s wrists and pulling them away from her face. Slanting midnight eyes peered at her mischievously. “You’re not mad.”
“I’m not?”
Rose shook her head, smiling as though she might burst. “And you are a witch, Gilly. Just like Isobel and me.”
Gillian frowned, unable to see the connection. “What do you mean?”
“No one else can see the wee lassies in the hall but you . . . because they’re dead. They’ve been dead some twoscore years.”
Gillian just blinked at her, horrified wonder filling her.
Rose gripped Gillian’s hands tightly. “You’re a necromancer, Gillian. You can speak with the dead.”