Chapter 13 #3
The room was dark except for the hour candle beside her bed.
He removed his mantle and hung it on a peg by the door.
He said she was fine. But his heart still beat unnaturally hard, and his step was fearful as he approached the bed.
He’d ridden all night to get here, fool that he was, thinking of naught but lying with her.
Now he wished he’d ridden harder or left sooner.
She slept on her side, legs curled beneath the velvet blankets.
Thick sable hair spread over the pillow behind her and fell over her shoulders to tuck under her chin.
Her mouth was open slightly. There were no marks on her skin, and when he gently peeled back the bedclothes, he saw no bandages.
She wore a velvet dressing gown over her nightshift, secured to her throat.
The fist squeezing his heart eased. He thought he should leave, go back to Evan and get the rest of the story, but he didn’t move.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, his thoughts circling.
Someone was trying to kill her. Why? He could not understand it.
She was no one. A chieftain’s daughter. She brought little to their marriage, and besides, it was his if she died. Who could possibly want her dead?
He’d accomplished the purpose of his little expedition, though it had done him no good.
He’d found Scott MacGregor. Unfortunately the buzzards had found him first. He’d been dead for days.
Nicholas had then gone to the Gregors, but they’d been no help.
They’d not seen Scott in a fortnight and had no idea who he might have been working for.
All that paled in significance to what had happened at Kincreag in his absence.
First Scott MacGregor, and now the lad swinging from his gates.
Nicholas did not know the lad’s name, but he’d seen him in the village.
He’d brought fish to the castle with his father once a week.
Whoever was responsible surely planned another attempt.
Nicholas’s gloved hand curled into a fist and pressed hard against his thigh, his other hand on his dirk, clenching the hilt.
He tried to relax, but the thought of someone trying to kill her made him sick with fury and the need for action.
He started to back away quietly, when she stirred.
He stopped, waiting for her to still before he took his leave.
Her lashes rose, eyes hazy with sleep. Her gaze fixed on him, and after blinking several times, her eyes widened in fear.
She drew in a breath as if to scream, huddling deeper into the bedclothes.
Nicholas was struck dumb with dismay and confusion. She scrambled across the bed as if to escape him. He crawled after her, catching her wrists and pushing her back on the bed.
Her eyes were wide and terror stricken, and she kicked at him, struggling wildly, babbling about a dark man on the cliff. He straddled her body to keep her from hurting herself or him.
“Gillian!” He said her name loudly several times, finally grabbing her shoulders and shaking her.
She lay still, her brow marred with sudden confusion, gazing up at him, so close he could see her eyes.
They were unfocused, the gray iris a narrow band, circling an enormous black pupil. She blinked dazedly at him.
Opium dreams. Damn Gilchrist. He administered that poison as if it were as harmless as honey.
“Nicholas?” she whispered.
“Aye.” He relaxed his grip on her and moved beside her on the bed. “You were dreaming. What did Gilchrist give you?”
She covered her face, rubbing at her eyes. “Theriac, but that was”—she craned her neck to see the hour clock—“hours ago.”
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head and lowered her hands. Her eyelids were red, and her long lashes tangled from scrubbing her eyes. She looked so sweet and trusting as she gazed up at him that he planted a kiss on the smooth skin between her dark brows.
“Where did it hit you?”
She put her hand on her back, just below her neck. He removed his gloves and turned her away from him, moving her hair aside. She loosened her dressing gown so he could see her back. Smooth as alabaster, without a mark on it.
“Evan must be mistaken. It couldn’t have hit you.”
She turned back toward him, her eyes already clearer, though she looked fatigued. “He must have.” She was not good at hiding her thoughts or feelings, and he saw that she did not believe the knight had been mistaken.
Though her eyes remained open and her gaze on him, he could tell by the heavy way she lay on the pillow that she was exhausted. He smoothed the backs of his fingers over her forehead and the tender curve of her cheek.
“Go back to sleep. I’ll see you later.” He started to ease off the bed.
She caught his hand, gripping it with surprising strength. “Don’t leave.”
He hesitated. “I’m filthy— I’ve been riding all night.”
Her grip loosened, and she slid her hand up his arm. “Then you must be tired. Lay with me.”
He started to protest again, but she gazed at him with such a winsome and hopeful expression that he couldn’t refuse her. He lay beside her and gathered her against his chest. She shuddered in his arms, then sighed deep and contentedly, her hands curled into his doublet.
There was an odd tightness in his throat, and he was having trouble swallowing, but soon her contentment transferred to him and he slept, despite the dirk hilt digging painfully into his side.
* * *
Elsewhere in the castle Bradana slept, warm beneath her thick wool blanket, her belly full of hearty stew and ale—all thanks to the new countess.
The countess was good and kind and would save Bradana from the stake.
She was certain of it. The jangle of keys woke her from her dreams of fire.
She sat up on her narrow cot, peering into the darkness.
The door opened and there was light. A beautiful woman entered, bearing a candle and a cup. Golden hair gleamed in the candlelight. She wore it loose, like a maiden, flowing down her back. The woman was hardly a maiden, though. At least in her thirties, but still as breathtaking as an angel.
She smiled at Bradana. “Hello, my friend. I’ve been wanting to see you again.” The door shut behind her.
Bradana studied the woman closer but did not recognize her. “I don’t know you.”
The woman set the candle on the table beside Bradana’s cot.
“We haven’t actually met, but a very good friend of mine has told me all about you.
” The woman sat on the cot beside Bradana, still smiling.
She had all of her teeth, and they were straight and white.
“I brought you something.” The woman offered Bradana the cup.
She accepted the cup and sniffed the dark contents. “Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of the countess. She sent me to see to your comfort.”
Bradana smiled back, liking this woman. She was no servant.
Her clothes were well made and of fine materials, her skin soft and smooth except for faint lines beside her eyes and mouth, well kept and unaccustomed to the harshness of nature.
She must be a guest of the countess. Any friend of the countess was a friend of Bradana’s.
Bradana sipped the brew and was pleased to find it thick and rich, mulled spirits. She’d never been served such fine fare as she’d had during her brief imprisonment in Kincreag Castle. Except for being confined, she rather enjoyed it. And now she had a visitor.
They talked of Bradana. The woman wanted to know if she had children, and Bradana told her about her daughter and her two grandchildren.
By the time Bradana finished the cup of spirits, she wasn’t feeling so well.
There was a strange taste in her mouth, as if she’d been sucking on a penny, and she couldn’t seem to swallow.
The woman gently removed the cup from her fingers and set it aside. “You’d better lay down, my friend.”
Bradana did as she bid, her throat working to swallow the excessive amount of spit in her mouth. The woman pulled the blankets up over her and sat by her side, watching her.
“What’s wrong with me?” Bradana asked as pain streaked through her abdomen. She pulled her knees up to her belly, groaning. “What did you give me?”
“I had to. You saw me.”
Bradana shook her head, confused. “I dinna . . . understand you.” She gasped as her belly gripped. Something shredded her from the inside. “I’ve . . . never seen you . . . afore tonight.”
The woman sighed, a long, sensuous sound. She lifted the covers and slid beneath them next to Bradana. Bradana wanted to fight, to force this frightening woman out of her bed, but she was old and frail and in so much pain. Sweat soaked her thin shift. Her body shook.
The woman put her arms around Bradana, her embrace firm. She put her mouth near Bradana’s ear. “On the cliff. You saw me.”
Bradana did fight then. She was the ghost!
It had been wearing a cloak before, the hood dark.
Bradana had not seen its face, but it had come for her.
She struggled, arms flailing, legs kicking, but the ghost subdued her quickly.
Pain wrenched Bradana again, worse this time, bowing her back and sending tears of terror streaming down her face.
“No, no, no, no . . .,” Bradana chanted, writhing and shuddering.
The ghost cooed at her and dried her face. “It’ll be over soon. Fash not, you won’t die alone. I’ll stay with you and hold you until the end.” Its voice trembled with excitement, its body pressing closer.
Bradana was past speech, her mind filled only with pain and terror. She shook her head over and over again and finally managed to gasp, “Why?”
The ghost smoothed the hair away from Bradana’s face and whispered, “The earl can only have one countess, and I’m not finished with him yet.”