Chapter 22
A gust of air swished past her cheek and the claymore dropped with an ungodly clang to the floor.
“Ah, Christ’s blood, Beth.”
Slowly she raised her face to look into Duncan’s eyes. Not seeing death staring back, she released her breath. He kicked the broadsword away and settled on his haunches before her as she dashed her tears away with the heels of her hands. He reached for her, but then pulled back.
“Be ye alright?” His face was still flushed and dotted by sweat. “The cut, lass.” He pointed to the spot where his blade had pierced her chest. She looked not at her wound but to the sword. “Yes.”
Heart still thudding, she reluctantly shifted her gaze from the gleaming harbinger of death now lying impotent on the floor to her bloodied bodice. The once white crewelwork was now a rusty burgundy and probably ruined beyond all hope. Rachael had told her it had taken a master tailor and his three apprentice six months to make the gown. “Did you spare me so Rachael could now take my head?”
“Ack, lass.” To her surprise, he reached out tentatively, first to brush the hair from her cheek and then to trace the path of her tears to her jaw. He examined his fingers. “‘Tis soot. Did yer unholy light burn ye?”
Soot? She’d only felt a bone-fracturing cold when she started to disappear and still felt chilled. She hadn’t felt any heat, no burning. She sniffed and hiccuped again as she examined his fingertips more closely. Suddenly she wanted to laugh, and would have, had she had the energy. Her homemade mascara had cascaded south with her tears. It was too much to hope that she only had raccoon eyes. More likely she resembled a chimney sweep. Could she do nothing right in this world?
“Duncan, I wasn’t burned. It’s just lamp black—-lamp sable.”
Obviously confused, he frowned but only said, “Ah.”
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I wanted to be pretty, so I used the soot…” She heaved a sigh. “Hell, you wouldn’t understand.”
While she struggled to her feet, surprised she wasn’t nauseous from fright, he sheathed his short blade to his calf. Not looking at her but toward the window, he quietly asked, “Will ye be leaving?”
She shrugged.
Yes, she wanted to return to her old life where threatening steel meant only a racing taxi, where she could speak normally and be understood, where she had friends, coffee and real make-up. But then again, no. For home would also be bereft of hope, for love or for children. She’d have her ghost but not the real Duncan. She took a deep breath and confessed, “Not right now, unless you want me to go.”
Not wanting to watch as he made his decision, she walked to the window. Her head and heart continued to ache as she studied the movement along the battlements in the light of oil torches whipping like horsetails in the errant wind.
The burning in her throat defeated her effort to sound matter of fact as she confided, “I never expected to wear a wedding ring, much less be married to a man such as you. To discover the ring—-something I’d hoped would hold such promise—could terrify me so…”
She heard him come to his feet. “I dinna suppose any woman should expect it.”
“Three wives wore this ring before me. Have you ever been in love?” Why had she asked? What difference could his ability or willingness to love her matter now?
She placed a hand on her stomach. Did a new life already hide in the deep recesses of her womb? That possibility—not whether he could love her—would have to be the deciding factor in her staying or leaving.
He took a long time in answering. “I grieved for Mary.”
Yes, he had written of his guilt, that he hadn’t loved her, but had he lied to himself about loving her? Why else would he be so obsessed with the chapel?
And what, if anything, would he write of her, Beth, should she decide to slip the ring off for good? Would he grieve? And for what? The loss of a potential heir, a good meal, or just an efficiently run keep? One or all of the above? In any event, it certainly wouldn’t be for her. He’d never mentioned the word love. And knowing that certainly shouldn’t cause the burning at the back of her eyes and throat, much less the fissures now spreading across her heart. She was, after all, plain-as- pudding Pudding.
When she’d sent her silent plea to God for an honest answer, Duncan had been so close to cleaving her head from her shoulders she’d seen her life pass before her. What staid his hand she might never know, but she thanked God all the same. At twenty-four, she tearfully acknowledged, she’d yet to earn the right to die.
Duncan studied his wife’s straight back as she stared into the night and tried to gather his wits.
He’d never been so unnerved in his life. Aye, her turning specter before his very eyes had nearly stopped his heart, but that dinna compare to the last.
The verra worst occurred when—kenning his fear and possible intent—she’d pleaded not for God’s mercy nor for his, but had used what could have been her last breath to demand an explanation from God for what she truly believed to be His betrayal.
No faint heart, his lady.
He’d seen many a brave man die and never before had heard such. Ack! His skin still pebbled like a plucked fowl just thinking on her temerity in calling God to task. ‘Twas also at that very moment—-when she keened her demand—-that he kenned fully that she had spoken nothing less than the truth from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her.
He had no need to fear his enemies. He would be the undoing of himself.
And he couldna blame her if she decided to disappear for all eternity. Nay, given all the angst he’d caused her, he could only expect it.
Why the thought caused a dreadful tightening around his chest he’d not dwell on. He had yet to tell her a painful truth and he owed her that much before she left him.
He stepped forward to stand at her back. “Beth, I do believe all ye have said.” He heard her sharp intake of breath. “Aye, I ken ye are not wode but from another time and place.” He studied the stars as he gathered courage to say what must be said.
“‘Tis been difficult for me to accept yer tales. For if I believed in sky scrapes and plum mink, then I had to believe I willna be laid to rest when my time comes, but will haunt these halls for all eternity.” He took a deep breath. “’Twas far easier to believe ye coddled in some fashion than to admit I am doomed for what I have done, for the lives I have taken.”
Beth spun and found him rigid, his gaze glassy with unshed tears as he stared blindly over her head into the night.
Oh dear God!
She placed her hands on his chest and felt furious beating beneath vibrating muscle. He was terrified—not of her—but of the future.
She hadn’t thought him a religious man, but given the time and the Church’s influence on their everyday lives—-the in-house priest, the daily vespers so many attended—she should have seen this coming. Should have understood the impact her words would have on him.
“I’m so sorry. I never meant…”
He slowly, gently, brought his powerful arms around her while his eyes remained on the stars. “Nay, Beth. Ye’ve not done anythin’ to be sorrowful for. Ye told only the truth.” He then looked at her, a small grin playing at one corner of his mouth. “‘Tis by my own doing—-my own hand—-that I shall have no peace.”
“But it makes no sense. You’re honest, a man of character. Surely, there must be more to this—”
“Sweet Beth.” He kissed her forehead. “Ye wish to ease my mind, but why? I am nay digne of ye forgiveness.” His tears escaped the confines of his thick lashes. “I nearly smote ye with my sword.”
“You were upset. Fear of the unknown can—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Too, I’m a widower thrice and carry that blame. And lest we forget, I’ve killed in battle more men than we—-together—have digits.”
She hadn’t meant for her eyes to grow wide in shock but they did, and he murmured, “Aye, lass. At last count the number is close to sixty.”
“Oh.” It came out as a squeak. What more could she say? That isn’t so great a number? Or he really shouldn’t worry because he’ll be a relatively pleasant ghost, who only has a tantrum now and then and has much more mourning yet to do? Oh God.
“My lady?”
“What?” She’d been woolgathering.
“I asked if I had issue. Did I at least leave an heir?”
Matters were definitely going from bad to worse.
She ran a tentative finger along his finely crafted lips then caught a tear as it trailed down his smooth well-chiseled cheek. He’d kept his face shaved only because she preferred it.
Please, God, let what I’m about to tell him be so.
Aloud she whispered, “I suspect that very problem is the cause for my being here.”
His moan escaped before he could collect himself. He then nodded resignedly and threw back his shoulders. It was an admirable job of sucking up, but defeat still lurked deep within his eyes as one corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. “So be it.”
She took his right hand in hers and examined his long, well-shaped fingers and heavy calluses. With it he had brought her to the heights of ecstasy and the pits of despair. Whether she chose to stay or not, he had forever changed her view of life.
“Duncan, I honestly believe everything happens for a reason. I could have drowned in my time, but didn’t. I could have died in that coach, but was spared.” She didn’t add he could have severed her head just moments ago, too. He had, after all, apologized and was upset enough.
She took a deep breath. “I believe I’m here to give you an heir.”