Chapter Sixteen
Jillian groaned and opened her eyes slowly to pitch blackness.
For a moment, she thought she was blind, but then the sliver of moon peeped out from behind a cloud, allowing for a dim light.
As she gradually became aware of her surroundings, pain jabbed through her abdomen like a sharp knife.
She gasped at the intensity and clutched her stomach. The baby.
She lay perfectly still, wondering how long she had been in the ravine.
It was still night, so maybe she had lost consciousness for only a short time.
The place was eerily quiet. There was no sound of men’s voices or tramping of feet.
Thankfully, there was no sound of animals rustling nearby either.
The jagged edge of a rotted tree branch poked her side.
Gingerly, she shifted a little, and then inhaled sharply, grasping her stomach at the stabbing pain.
An odd heat seared through her hand and she remembered cutting it on the edge of something sharp.
Once she was aware of it, the throbbing began.
Resolutely, she steeled herself to ignore it.
The baby was more important. Had she killed it in her fall?
Dear God. Ian would never forgive her. She grimaced as a contraction began.
She had to get out of here. Very slowly, she moved her ankles and then her legs.
Nothing seemed to be broken, but when she tried to sit, she collapsed back on the ground.
The stomach pain was too intense. Perhaps if she rested for a few minutes, she’d gain enough strength to sit and then stand.
Jillian closed her eyes. Just a few minutes…
She drifted in and out of consciousness, barely cognizant when the sky began to lighten into the first glimpse of dawn.
It seemed to her that an old lady appeared before her, but she wasn’t sure if it was a dream.
When she opened her eyes—or at least she thought she did—no one was there.
Yet when she closed them, the old woman was back.
The ancient picked up Jillian’s hand, and the pain subsided.
“Sleep,” the Crone of the Hills whispered.
“Shane! Shane!” The twelve-year-old twins, Caitlin and Caylan, raced out the front door of the castle the next morning as their brother rode into the courtyard. “Ye are finally home!”
Dismounting, he gathered one twin under each arm, picking them up and swinging them around as though they were sacks of feathers, causing them to squeal before he set them back down.
Bridget shook her head at the girls as she came forward to give Shane a hug. “They were up at the break o’ dawn, waitin’ for ye, cousin. Were the seas kind to ye?”
“Aye. Hardly a swell between Ireland and here,” he answered as they all walked toward the castle entrance.
Bridget rolled her eyes. “What that means is the seas were less than ten meters and the ship still has all her masts.”
Shane smiled indulgently at her. “My ship is well-founded. She enjoys a bit of a wild ride, nae?”
“Just like a good woman,” Duncan said as he came forward to greet Shane with a clap on his shoulder.
“Ye will mind yer mouth,” Bridget snapped at him. “The twins have ears the size of meat platters.”
“’Tis glad I am to be back,” Shane said, changing the subject.
“I brought gifts for the girls and a compass for the fishing boat we keep on Linnhe, but best of all, I bartered for a book on ancient Irish history that I look forward to reading in front of the fire tonight, along with sipping a wee dram.”
“What good does it do a mon to read about what happened before?” Duncan asked. “’Tis what is happening now that is important.”
“If we learn from history, we do not repeat mistakes,” Shane replied.
“We can take care of mistakes with the sword, laddie.”
“Mayhap the sword would nae be needed so much if a mon took to heart the lessons from the past.”
Duncan snorted. “Ye spend too much time with yer nose in books.”
“And ye might do well to read one,” Bridget retorted.
Shane smiled at Bridget’s defense of him, but it was not necessary. That some men did not appreciate history and literature did not bother him, although being thought a scholar of sorts was incentive to keep his sword arm strong.
As if she read his thoughts, Bridget added, “Shane can swing a claymore with one arm, if ye remember, uncle.”
The older man’s face grew red, and Shane knew he was thinking about the time when Shane had done just that—slaying two men who had Duncan’s back to the wall. The man’s pride had been wounded more than his body. Best to change the subject
“Is Ian about?”
“He has gone south to check on the estates,” Bridget informed him as they entered the dining hall where others were breaking their fast.
“I thought Jamie was doing that.”
“Aye, but Jillian’s sister took it into her head to go to London, and Jamie had to follow to protect her.”
Shane raised a quizzical brow. “To protect the lass? Knowing my cousin, she might need protecting from him.”
“Mayhap,” Bridget agreed as servants set steaming porridge on the table in front of Shane, “but Ian says the lass has a fiery temper and can hold her own.”
“’Tis an interesting thought,” Shane said as he sat down. “How does Jillian fare?”
“Well enough,” Bridget answered, “although I think she misses Ian more than she lets on.”
“Aye. Jillian is a fine woman. His choice was a good one.” Shane looked around the room. “Does she rise early to break her fast?”
“Nae. The babe is due within a moon so we indulge her by letting her sleep in the morn. Her hands will be full enough once the bairn arrives.”
“True enough,” Shane agreed. “Do ye ken when Ian will return?”
“Verra soon, we hope. He said he’d be back before the snow fills in the passes.”
“He had best be on his way then,” Shane answered. “The boatswain said the glass was falling the whole trip north. ’Tis a bad storm that is brewing.”
“I knew ye did nae have smooth sailing. How bad do ye think it will be?”
“It dinnae bode well. ’Tis early in the year for the glass to dip so sharply.”
“Ian—” Bridget began and was interrupted by Shauna’s approach. Her sister greeted Shane warmly and then turned to Bridget.
“Have ye seen Jillian this morn?”
“Nae. Ye ken she lies abed for a wee bit.”
Shauna’s brow furrowed. “I checked her room. She isna there.”
Bridget frowned. “She isna there?”
Shauna shook her head. “Her bed has nae been slept in.”
Search parties were quickly organized. Shane made sure Bridget, Shauna and Fiona each had two able-bodied guards with them as they set out to look for Jillian.
He also ordered another dozen men on horseback to ride the roads leading away from the castle, although he doubted Jillian would have just ridden off, especially in her condition.
Shane slipped inside the small chapel near the back curtain wall and paused to let the serenity of the place seep through him.
The prerequisite crucifix stood on the altar at the front of the chapel, but that wasn’t what drew him.
Instead, he looked to the eastern wall where a stained glass window depicted an equal-armed cross inside a square inside a circle.
The design was called Rosarium Philosophorum, Latin for “The key to knowledge and the sum of all things.” It had been part of the code of the Knights Templar for nearly six hundred years, and it never failed to move him.
The fact that the order still existed—albeit secretly—proved the truth to the slogan.
If necessary, he would call on his Templar brothers—Ian’s French expatriated neighbors—to aid in the search, but he did not think it would be necessary. Shane’s gaze moved to the tapestry hanging on the wall below the window.
The scene was of a battle, bodies littering the ground while the victor sat astride a huge horse, claymore lifted in one hand while the other held a banner of crimson and yellow—an unlikely tapestry for a chapel, but the man astride the horse was their first chief, Leod, son of Olaf the Black, King of the Isle of Man.
More importantly, he held the Faerie Flag of the MacLeods.
Jillian was now a MacLeod. She carried the bairn of the current laird. The ancestors would come to her aid.
Shane moved a little closer, eyeing the side of the battlefield where a tree stood amid buttercups untouched by the blood and gore. Such was the balance of life.
But he wasn’t there to philosophize. Shane peered into the splash of bright yellow flowers and waited.
Slowly, a faerie emerged, the auburn of her hair forming a stem while golden strands blended in with the petals.
One of the green leaves lifted, gracefully shifting into a slender hand and arm, and she pointed.
Shane bowed and nodded. Then he turned and walked out of the chapel.
The Crone of the Hills would be waiting for him.
“Thank the Lord! You found her!” Bridget exclaimed less than an hour later as Shane carried an unconscious Jillian inside the castle and up the stairs to her chamber.
“Is she alive?” Fiona asked, trailing behind him.
“Of course she is,” Shauna admonished her sister. “She is terribly bruised though. Go tell cook to boil some water and have a maid fetch bandages.”
For once, their sister didn’t argue. Bridget hurriedly turned down the coverlet so Shane could lay Jillian down. She groaned feebly as the maids bustled in with supplies, followed by Mrs. Ferguson, the housekeeper.
“Och, the poor lassie,” she said and set to ordering the maids about.
Bridget felt Jillian’s forehead. “She’s burning with fever.”
“’Tis no wonder. Lyin’ out in the cold all night. She’s caught a chill.”
“More than that, I think,” Shane said as he lifted Jillian’s hand. “’Tis infected.”
“Aye.” Bridget agreed as she began bathing the dirt off Jillian’s face. “Shauna, go fetch Brodie’s whisky. We need to cleanse the wound.”
“Have the cook mash some garlic as well,” Shane added. “’Twill help with the infection.”
“I will do it,” Fiona said as she hurried off after Shauna.
“And we will thank ye to get yerself hence,” Mrs. Ferguson said to Shane, but she smiled to soften the words. “We need to remove the lady’s clothes.”
Once Shane had gone, the housekeeper made short work of removing the filthy clothing. “Och!” she exclaimed as she saw the bruises running along Jillian’s ribs. “’Tis a wonder if nothing is broken.”
“Do you think she will lose the bairn?” Bridget asked worriedly.
The housekeeper placed a hand on Jillian’s abdomen. “I canna feel any movement.”
Bridget bit back a reply as Jillian slowly opened her eyes. They were bright with fever, but the pupils weren’t dilated. She grimaced as she tried to speak.
“Shhh. Ye rest,” Mrs. Ferguson said and looked at Bridget who shook her head slightly. “Ye had a bad bump to yer head.”
“The bairn…is he all right?” Jillian asked.
Mrs. Ferguson looked at Bridget again. “’Tis too soon to tell, child. Ye need to rest.”
Jillian closed her eyes then opened them again. “Who found me?”
“Shane did,” Bridget answered. “He came home this morning.”
“Thank God. Tell Shane—”
“Do nae strain yerself talking,” Mrs. Ferguson said again.
“I have to tell Shane something. Brodie too.”
“It can wait,” Bridget said as Shauna and Fiona returned bringing the whisky and garlic.
Bridget insisted Jillian take a healthy swig before she helped Mrs. Ferguson cleanse the festering wound with some of the liquor and pack it with garlic.
She poured another dram and handed it to Jillian. “This will make ye sleep.”
“But I have to tell—”
“Not now,” Bridget said and turned to her sister. “Shauna. I want ye and Fiona to take turns sitting with Jillian. Keep dabbing her with a cool cloth. I must find Shane.”
The sisters both nodded as Mrs. Ferguson instructed the maids to tidy up. Bridget hurried off.
She found Shane in the dining hall with Duncan and Broc.
“How is she?” Shane asked.
“Time will tell,” Bridget answered. “I dinnae think she has a concussion, but the infection is bad, and I dinnae ken if the bairn lives.”
“I have already sent to Glenfinnan for the physician,” Shane said.
“Thank ye. Where did ye find her?”
“In a ravine near the cairn. I have nae idea why she would wander there.”
Duncan and Broc exchanged a look, but neither said anything.
“I dinnae either,” Bridget replied, “but she is sleeping now, so it will have to wait.”
The physician arrived just as Fiona came bounding down the stairs. “Come quick,” she said. “There is blood everywhere.”
The doctor ordered all of them out of the room, allowing only Mrs. Ferguson to remain. “Family gets in the way,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. Shane gave Bridget an inquiring look, but she shook her head slightly. There was no need to rile the doctor. Jillian needed tending.
They all waited nervously for what seemed an eternity. The sun was sinking low when the doctor finally came down to the library where they were gathered. Blood stained his shirt.
“Is she…?” Shauna asked softly.
“She lives. I managed to stop the bleeding.”
Bridget forced the next words. “And the bairn?”
“I dinnae ken. For now, she holds him inside. ’Tis the infection that worries me. The cut looks to be made from something sharp and probably rusty. It had a long time to fester.” The physician looked at the group. “Is the MacLeod about?”
“Nae. He is in England. Probably London by now.”
“He should be sent for,” the doctor said gravely. “I dinnae ken if the lady will survive.”
“Her sister should be here too,” Fiona said.
Shane stood. “I have a ship in Edinburgh getting ready to sail for Calais. I will sail her to London instead.”
“Would it not be quicker to ride?” Shauna asked.
“Nae with the storm coming,” Shane answered. “Even if I could get through before it arrives, the passes will be blocked on return. ’Tis quicker to sail the schooner.” He turned toward the door. “Call for the fastest horse to be saddled. I will leave as soon as I pack a bag.”
It wasn’t until much later, after Shane had gone and Bridget was sitting beside Jillian’s bed watching her fretful sleep, that she remembered Jillian had wanted to tell Shane something.
Well, it would have to wait.