Chapter 14 #3
“You will see,” she said sagely. “It only lasts about a month. In a few weeks, you’ll not be moved to come to my bed anymore.
” She looked away to master the pressure behind her eyes.
“And that’s fine, my lord. It’s only what I deserve for doing such a thing.
I am sorry. I should not have . . . but I was so sure you wouldn’t marry me. Can you forgive me?”
“I have no choice. I’m under your spell.”
She glared at him. “You jape at me, and I like it not. I said I was sorry.”
His hand cupped her cheek, turning her to face him when she tried to move away again. He no longer seemed on the verge of hysterical laughter, which was a relief.
“Perhaps there is something to what you say.”
Gillian’s heart sank. “You know it’s true, don’t you? I saw it on your face once . . . you looked confused, as if you couldn’t understand why you wanted to touch me.”
“Do you know, I’ve never lain in bed with a woman all morning, talking and laughing? It must be powerful magic that makes me want to waste the day in sloth with you.”
“Aye, it is.” She sighed. “And I fear, my lord, the philter has deranged you. You never laugh.”
That made him smile. “Then I should thank you for bringing laughter and sloth into my life.”
“Oh, Nicholas.” Gillian turned into his arms and pressed her face against his warm chest. He held her to him, his cheek lying against her hair.
“Ah, I’m Nicholas again.” His hand stroked her hair from her head down to her bottom. “You should have drunk the philter, too, to be fair. Why should I follow you about like a mooncalf and you feel nothing?”
Gillian’s arms tightened around him. No more lies. “I don’t need the philter to . . . feel that way about you.”
He rolled her onto her back again, arms braced on either side of her face. He traced her brows and nose with his thumb, following the trail with his gaze. His face was grave now. He seemed pensive, not speaking, just touching her reverently.
“How much longer until it fades?” he asked softly.
Gillian wanted to weep. He believed. She liked it better when he thought her a fool—at least then he thought what he felt for her was real.
“A few weeks.” Her voice wavered.
“Then let me love you as long as I may.”
Eventually Nicholas did have to leave. After he was gone Gillian dressed slowly, her body still languorous from a day of lovemaking. She had never been so happy. It was a very good love philter Old Hazel had made for her.
Earie brought her dinner, and she ate alone in her chambers. The sun faded, and still Nicholas had not returned. Gillian wandered down to the great hall to find it milling with people again. Torches lined the wall, and ale had been brought out so the people waiting could refresh themselves.
Gillian hung back in the entryway, uncertain she wanted anyone to see her.
She did not want to be announced again. She skirted unobtrusively along the wall until she could see the dais.
Nicholas sat behind the table listening intently to a man in a filthy plaid who stood before him, wringing his hands.
He was so handsome, sitting tall and straight, his dark brow creased with concentration.
She smiled and sighed, content just to gaze upon him.
As if sensing the weight of her stare, Nicholas’s eyes moved to her.
Though he didn’t smile, his gaze warmed.
He held up a hand to the man talking, then gestured over his shoulder.
Gillian noticed Sir Evan for the first time, standing behind Nicholas’s chair, arms crossed over his chest. The knight bent his head near, and Nicholas said something to him.
Sir Evan’s gaze immediately went to Gillian, and he nodded.
Gillian panicked, sweat breaking out on her scalp as she waited for the herald to announce her. To her relief it never happened. Nicholas returned to his petitioner, and Sir Evan joined Gillian against the wall.
“You’ve eaten?” he asked.
“Aye,” Gillian said, tearing her eyes from her husband to acknowledge the knight.
“Good. My lord asked me to show you the gardens.”
He led her out of the hall through a north door. The cool, foggy night wrapped around her. She shivered and hugged her arms to her body. Torches on the castle walls were glowing orbs in the mist. They followed a cobblestone path a short distance to a wrought iron gate. Sir Evan pushed it open.
“They didn’t wait long to descend upon him,” Gillian observed, feeling slightly offended for her overworked husband. Though Sir Evan had held court the day after they’d arrived at Kincreag, he’d not done it since.
“Aye, they see him pass through the village and follow, like the piper with his rats.” He glanced back at her with the closest thing to a smile he’d ever given her, a slight curling of one corner of his hard mouth. “They much prefer for him to hear their grievances.”
Though the fog hung thick, the garden still charmed Gillian. It was lovely, full of exotic flowers she’d never seen before. Sir Evan walked beside her, pointing out various species of flora and explaining where Nicholas had acquired it. The path ended with a barred wooden door.
“Where does this lead?”
“To the cliff path I told you about.”
She desperately wanted to know if Catriona’s spirit haunted the cliff, but she couldn’t risk collapsing on a cliff path. The consequences could be disastrous. Besides, Nicholas had forbid her from seeking out ghosts. She sighed and turned away from the door, wandering back up the path.
Sir Evan followed her. “I saw the ghost once.”
Gillian whirled around to face the knight. “What?”
He shrugged sheepishly and glanced around, as if to be certain they were alone. “It was probably nothing, just the fog playing tricks on my eyes. But the time was right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those that see her only do so on foggy nights and always at the same time—the stroke of midnight. The witching hour. Though no one knows what time she fell, it’s believed that it must have been at midnight. Why else would she appear only then?”
It was so strange to be standing in the murky garden talking about ghosts with the stalwart knight. He seemed to agree, because he started walking again, a guiding hand at her elbow. “Foolishness and superstition, I’m sure. My lord would not like you going out there alone.”
“No, of course not.” But the idea had taken root. She knew where and when the late countess haunted the cliffs. The only thing left was how she would manage it without collapsing.
The gate creaked. Gillian peered into the fog. A second later, a massive gray streak launched itself at her. Gillian screamed and tried to duck away.
Broc bounced up and down, pawing at her skirts, licking and sniffing at her enthusiastically. Gillian laughed, trying to hold the dog back. Sir Evan came forward to help, but Broc growled at him, hair bristling on his nape.
Sir Evan backed away, hand on sword hilt.
Gillian frowned at Broc, rubbing his ears vigorously. “Bad dog! Sir Evan is our friend.”
Broc whined, tail between his legs.
Nicholas appeared out of the fog. He dismissed Sir Evan with a nod of his head, then stood over Gillian and Broc, watching the reunion with a faint smile.
“He’s most fond of you,” Nicholas commented, a strange note of amusement in his voice.
“Aye.” Gillian sat on a nearby stone bench. She had to repeatedly shove the amorous dog off her lap. “When did he arrive?”
“Just before dark the wagons came with all your luggage. He seemed to know just where you were. He raced around the hall, barking at everything until I followed. He led me right to you.” He sat on the bench beside Gillian and scratched the dog between the ears.
“Ever since your uncle gave this dog to Alan he just lay around like a miserable rug. Then one day he seemed to wake up from a deep sleep and fall in love with you.”
“Odd, isn’t it?”
“Most odd.”
She gave her husband a narrow look. He seemed to have some deeply amusing secret lurking in his eyes.
He was probably still thinking about the love philter.
Since she didn’t want him to start laughing at her again, she said, “Have you tried the old woman from the village yet? The one accused of witchcraft?”
“Bradana?”
Gillian nodded.
Nicholas’s brows lowered as he grew serious. “No . . . it was kind of you to grant her comfortable quarters. Evan told me of that. She was old and sick . . . she died in her sleep last night.”
Gillian sighed, then asked, “What would you have done had she lived?”
He looked down at his hands. “I would have listened to the accusations and her defense. Then I would have ruled.”
“How would you have ruled?”
“Fairly.”
She looked at him curiously, wondering what that meant. She wanted to hear that he would have released her, found her innocent, but he seemed unwilling to admit that.
“Would you have burned her?”
“No.”
Gillian let out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding.
“But sometimes fair is a relative term.”
“Relative to what?”
“Crop failure, years of famine. The like.” When she just frowned at him, he leaned a hand on the bench behind her and said, “When I was fifteen, my father was placed in such a situation. I don’t think he believed the witch was guilty, but it had been a bad year and even the earl’s table was wanting.
My father knew his people needed something, a scapegoat to blame and punish, to give them hope life would soon improve. ”
Gillian let out a horrified breath. “But that’s not fair! It’s not right!”
“Fair. Right. Again, relative terms.” He sighed at her deeply troubled expression. “Fash not, he didn’t burn her. He gave her a minor punishment, and she worked in his kitchens the rest of her days. To keep her out of trouble and out of the villagers’ sight.”
“Would you do the same?”