Chapter 14
Normally, All Saints Day meant that Carenza would spend several hours in the chapel, praying. Her father thought they should set a good example for the rest of the clan. Most of her devotions went to Gertrude, Cuthbert, and Modestos, the Saints who loved and protected animals.
But she was admittedly relieved when, shortly after dawn, the physician was called back to Kildunan and she had to take over Hew’s care again. It meant she’d have an excuse to avoid kneeling in the chapel all day. It also meant she could learn more about this secret mission of Hew’s.
As she strode along the corridor to where Hew was sleeping, she promised God she’d pray extra hard for the Saints on the next Sabbath.
The bells of terce tolled in the distance. She quietly entered the chamber, bearing a linen cloth stuffed with oatcakes.
Hew was still dozing.
His bare arms, atop the coverlet, looked less red now. Perhaps they were healing.
Below the coverlet, his chest rose and fell. His breath cut through the silence like a carpenter sawing through wood.
A smile tugged at her lips. She wondered if he always snored like that or if it was only the medicine making him sleep so deeply.
She almost hated to wake him. But it was time for another portion of wine. He should eat something as well. And most important, Carenza needed to find out if she was a suspect in the Kildunan crime.
She placed the bundle of oatcakes on the table. Crossing to the hearth, she stirred the embers to life and placed several more chunks of peat on top.
By the time the fire was blazing cheerily along, Hew had roused.
“Good morn,” she said as she mixed his opium-laced wine.
He grunted.
She could see he was in a foul mood. It would be best to placate him first before diving into the deep waters of interrogation.
“Your arms look better already.” They looked magnificent, if she were being honest, though she wasn’t going to say that. “But ye need to break your fast. Ye haven’t eaten enough to keep a flea alive.” She loosened the knot on the bundle of oatcakes.
He winced. “I need—”
“I know. Ye need your medicine. But ’tis best taken on a full belly.” She offered him an oatcake.
“Nay,” he said, turning his head away. “First I need—”
“Come, be a good lad,” she said, waving the oatcake in front of his face like a taunt. “I promise I’ll give ye the wine as soon as ye—”
“Nay.” He pushed the oatcake aside and threw back the coverlet.
“What are ye doin’?”
He sat up on the edge of the bed and arched a brow at her. “I need to piss.”
Mortified, she bit her lip, lowered her head, and took a meek step backwards.
When she stole a glance at him, he was shaking his head in amusement as he rose to visit the garderobe.
Meanwhile, she threw open the shutters to let in the morning light, then spread honey-butter on an oatcake for herself.
She was mid-bite when he emerged again with a frown.
“You,” he proclaimed, “are a wicked thief.”
She half-choked on the oatcake. Snapping up the cup of wine, she took several gulps to wash down the crumbs.
So Hew did suspect her.
And he wasn’t mincing words.
He’d come straight out with a bold accusation.
Then he shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Pilfering my healing balm to sweeten your oatcakes.” He picked up the bowl of the honey-butter concoction. “Well, I won’t turn you in,” he said with a wink, “as long as you share.”
Somehow she regained her composure. Somehow her heartbeat resumed its normal pace. She even managed to imbue her gaze with a twinkle of amusement she didn’t feel.
Then she rasped out, “O’ course.”
He sat on the edge of the pallet and watched her spoon honey-butter onto an oatcake for him. Ordinarily, it was a task she did with ease. Today, however, she was as nervous as a kitchen lad on his first day.
Now she understood why Peris had been so anxious. It was unnerving to be suspected of a crime one hadn’t committed. Especially by a fierce warrior with a passion for justice and a menacing axe.
She offered him the oatcake.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Was her worry so obvious? “Aye,” she lied. “But ye… How are ye feelin’?”
“My arms are better. But my head…” He grimaced.
“Ye’re probably cravin’ the opium,” she said, reaching for his cup.
When she peered down at the contents, she realized with horror she’d drunk three-quarters of it.
“Och.” It was all she could say, lowering the cup.
When he saw it was mostly gone, he glowered at her with feigned outrage. “Are you stealing my medicine as well?”
Her heart dropped. She was too panicked to even pretend to find humor in his words.
She’d never taken opium before. What would it do to her?
Would she lose her good judgment?
Her carefully constructed control over her emotions?
Would she embarrass her father?
Shame her clan?
Her worry must have show in her face, for Hew’s manner changed at once.
“Oh, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” His voice was tender. Earnest. Full of concern.
He should not have called her ‘sweetheart,’ of course. It was far too familiar a term. But the endearment touched her heart and brought tears to her eyes.
“I’ve ne’er taken…”
“Opium?”
She nodded.
“To be honest, neither have I…until now.”
“What if I make a fool o’ myself?”
“Did I make a fool of myself?” he asked.
She shook her head. He hadn’t. Not exactly. He had, however, grown rather loose-lipped. For him, it was of little consequence. He didn’t have the responsibilities or expectations that she had.
“I won’t let you do anything foolish. I promise,” he assured her. He took the cup from her and set it back on the table. “Do you trust me?”
That was a hard question. She’d known him such a short time. And he’d proved himself a capable liar. But he was aspiring to the church. Her heart and her instincts told her he was worthy of her trust.
“Aye.”
“Then you’ll stay here with me, and I’ll look after you.”
“Ye’d do that?”
“Of course,” he scoffed.
“But how will ye stay awake?”
“I can do without the medicine.”
“But your hand…”
He shrugged. “I’ve been hurt worse in battle.”
“Ye have?” She couldn’t imagine. She’d seen a few men who’d been hurt worse. They’d died shortly afterwards.
“Aye.” Then a glimmer of mischief entered his gaze. “I’d show you the scar. But ’tis in a spot not meant for innocent eyes.”
Her face grew instantly hot, and she looked shyly away. But she couldn’t help wondering exactly where he’d been wounded and if he was still whole.
“Eat another oatcake,” he suggested. “It might dilute the effects of the opium.”
That was a good idea. She would eat another oatcake. Then she would lie down on her pallet. With any luck, she would drift immediately off to sleep.
Under no circumstances would she do what Hew had. Blurt out her secrets. Confess her sins. Share her dreams. Or bare her heart.
Not today, but soon, Hew was going to break his vow of chastity.
He could feel it.
His head throbbed. His hand burned. His forearms sizzled with pain. But the desire flowing through him overpowered all earthly discomforts, like a soothing balm for his heart.
Many made the mistake of thinking Hew was a cuckolding rake, trysting with women for the sport and thrill of it.
But it was never so. Never had he lain with a woman he didn’t love, heart and soul.
Trysting was but the culmination of the fierce and powerful love that came before. A union born of passion and devotion. A heavenly merging of bodies that echoed the merging of spirits. It simply happened more swiftly for Hew than for others.
Even now, his affection for Carenza was growing rapidly out of his control. Every glance, every smile, every touch she bestowed upon him took root in his heart, spreading through his veins like an intoxicating elixir.
How then could he resist her?
And if she felt the same way about him…
He sighed. He’d be lucky to last another sennight.
Carenza swallowed down the last of her oatcake and met his gaze. Realizing he’d been staring at her, he averted his eyes, but not before the image of her licking a drop of honey from her finger was imprinted on his brain.
“I think I should lie down,” she decided.
Hew thought so as well. In this bed. Next to him. Naked.
“That’s probably best,” was what he said.
She tucked herself modestly into her own pallet and pulled the coverlet up to her chin.
Without warning, intense pain pressed down on him like an ocean wave breaking over his head. Pain far worse and demanding than the discomfort of his burns.
It wasn’t from his accident.
It was from the medicine.
He would somehow have to endure the throbbing, because he planned to take no more.
He had no desire to become like a few men he’d known—men who had never found relief from their pain except in greater and greater measures of the poisonous flower. Better he should endure the anguish of his injuries than inflict new wounds where there were none before.
Besides, it was a sacrifice he’d gladly make. There was nothing more rewarding than serving as a guardian angel, watching over the one he loved.
Even as he had that thought, he silently cursed his eager heart. Already he was calling her “the one he loved” when she’d given him no assurance of her affection. None whatsoever. Only gratitude for what he’d done in saving her and her coo.
Her coo.
Thinking about the great beast touched off a memory.
In the wee hours of the morn, when he’d been in the throes of opium, they’d spoken about the night he’d first seen Carenza at Dunlop.
But what had they chatted about? He strained to recall.
Oh aye, she’d asked him why he’d been lurking about the castle.
He’d told her he was following someone from the monastery.
He exhaled on a groan. God’s eyes. Why had he told her that?
Naturally, the curious lass had immediately wished to know why that should interest Hew.
He’d had no choice but to confide in her.
Nay, that wasn’t true. The opium had made it feel like the right thing to do. As if confiding in the lady would be wise and sensible.
Holy hell. Just how much had he shared with her?