Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The sentries took one look at Tearloch’s countenance and scurried out of his way. He slowed not at all before putting a boot to the door and sending it crashing.
On a chair sat a sack half-packed with clothes. To his surprise, the woman was a huddled mass on the bed, clutching her stomach and moaning into a pillow. She lifted her face only enough to shout, “Get out!”
He shuffled his feet, not knowing whether to go to her or retreat, not knowing yet if he wished to strangle her or comfort her. But for either of those, he would have to draw near. When he sat down on the bed, she moaned like he had increased her pain.
Her face was wet with real tears. She was playing at nothing.
He shouted at the sentry standing outside the doorway. “Fetch the healer!”
The woman moaned again. “Fetch a witch, or run me through. I care not.”
He suspected his guts twisted as painfully as hers while they waited, but he wasn’t fool enough to say it aloud. Nor could he shout and rail without upsetting her all the more. The strangling would have to wait.
“There’s nothin’ a mon can do to help in a woman’s time,” said Mrs. Beattie when she finally blew into the room like a feather on the wind. “Best ye leave her to the women, and she’ll be right as rain come the mornin’.”
Tearloch tucked his rage aside and nodded. But he had to know. He had to know now!
He crouched beside the bed so he could look directly into her eyes, then patted her cheek to gain her attention. “I shall leave ye in peace if ye answer a question, lass. Do ye understand?”
She hissed in a breath between her teeth. “What is it that cannot wait?”
“What is yer name?”
A cannon exploded somewhere. It must have. The silence that followed the question was deafening. He no longer believed she was Kenna Carlisle? Why?
She would be leaving him, so why would her name matter? Why not make him doubt everything that had happened between them—as she now did?
“Fia,” she whispered. “Fia Carlisle. Now get out.”
Much to her surprise, Tearloch reached out and stroked her face. His eyes were moist as he blessed her with one last crooked smile…then left her.
Outside the chamber, Duncan waited. When he saw the look on Tearloch’s face, he knew what the man had asked and that he had not liked the answer.
“Duncan,” he pleaded and looked away.
Duncan reached out and grabbed his young leader by the arms to steady him. “Come. We need a drink.”
Mrs. Allistair, his chatelain, came down the hall just then. She nodded to Duncan and said, “We’ll be needin’ some o’ yer strongest spirits as weel.”
He nodded to Jamie, waiting at the end of the hall. The lad hustled away. Then Duncan turned Tearloch toward the other end of the keep, toward his own meager chambers. His laird need not face the clan until he had his wits back again. And judging by the king’s missive, it might take a wee while.
Jamie sat on the floor with his back in the corner of Duncan’s bedchamber. For the first time in a sennight, he witnessed Duncan refuse a drink even while he fairly poured it down their commander’s throat.
He read the missive again, hoping he’d misread, knowing that he hadn’t.
My Dear Friend,
I regret that I never received your first message, but
all is well. You will be surprised to learn, however, that the
woman we sought is at this moment here under the protection
of my own roof. I expect you will find her as beautiful as I do.
Apparently, the woman you found was but a decoy,
sent to appease Gowry. My sister told me that the woman had
died in the skirmish, but she must have been misinformed.
Gair Balloch, who first told us of her existence, recovered
her from her aunt. And since he is the one to have met her those
ten years ago, he recognized her and delivered her to me.
I have my sister back!
Needless to say, in the spirit of celebration, I demand you
join us immediately to meet and marry your betrothed as you vowed
to do.
Alas, do not treat this decoy harshly. She only played her part
in order to spare my sister. For that, she has our thanks.
His Royal Majesty
Malcolm III King of Scotland
Tearloch lay sprawled on the small bed, his long limbs reaching each of the four corners. Every now and then, he would rouse and mumble.
“She spoke one truth. She said her maid would report she had been killed in the siege.”
Duncan patted his arm. “She’s a good lass.”
“She was too comfortable doing servant’s work.”
“Aye, she was that.” He tipped more drink into Tearloch’s cup, but the man was beyond needing it.
“Everyone believes I dishonored her, but I did not.”
“Dinnae fash about Fia. I will marry the lass.”
Tearloch fought his way up to sit on the edge of the bed and grasped the arm of Duncan’s chair. “Ye’ll do no such thing. She’s mine!”
“She will be no man’s whore!”
Jamie and Tearloch were both surprised at Duncan’s passion. Had he been drinking as well?
Tearloch found his scowl again. “She has stayed willingly—"
“That’s because she had hopes of marryin’ ye.
” Duncan stood and ran his fingers through his hair, then walked stiffly to the window and looked out, unseeing.
“She’ll not wish to stay to watch ye take another to wife, so I can at least offer to ease her shame.
I must take her to the Keiths. If we stayed here, I would end up murdering ye when I find ye in my bed. ”
“Duncan!” Tearloch roared to his feet, then thought better of it and sat again. “Ye cannae have her. She’s mine. At this point I…I am certain I cannae live without her.”
“Only ten days since Gowry’s.”
“It matters not.”
“Aye, it does.”
“Nay.” Tearloch argued weakly.
Moments later, Tearloch lay on his side with Duncan snoring on the bed behind him. And when Jamie toed quietly out the door, he wondered if it might do everyone a service if he locked them both in.