Chapter 19
Connor’s leaving Moore Castle should have improved the day.
In fact, Violet hoped that it did. Desperately.
The man filled the passageways as if he had been built too wide.
He gave orders before breakfast, found weaknesses in harmless sentences, looked at Violet until her thoughts scattered, and had somehow entered the library that morning without taking over the room, which made him more troublesome than if he had marched in like a conqueror.
Now he had gone to MacAdair Castle to sign the treaty.
Violet should have breathed easier.
Footsteps sounded in the passage outside the nursery, and she looked up from John’s cradle before she could stop herself and watched as the guard passed without slowing.
She frowned at the door and returned to folding the little blanket in her hands. A moment later, a door closed somewhere below the stairs.
She turned again, expecting Connor’s voice to follow, sharp and low, telling someone they had done something badly and must now do it properly. But no voice came.
“Ridiculous,” she whispered.
John blinked up at her from the cradle and kicked once, as if agreeing with the insult, if not the target.
“Aye, thank ye,” she murmured. “At least one gentleman in this castle understands me.”
The nursery had become the only place in the castle where she knew exactly what to do. John needed warmth, clean cloth, sleep, and someone willing to admire every kick as though he had performed a feat of Highland bravery.
Violet could manage those things. She could manage cloths and lists. She could manage preparations for the christening. But she could not manage hearing “me Laird” in the corridor and turning as though Connor had returned before his horse could have crossed half the distance to MacAdair land.
A maid passed by the open nursery door and poked her head inside. “The Laird’s orders were sent to the yard, me Lady.”
Violet turned too fast. “Oh.”
The maid looked confused. “Me Lady?”
“Nothing.” Violet smoothed John’s blanket, then smoothed it again. “Thank ye.”
When the maid left, Violet lifted John into her arms.
“Yer uncle has made a nuisance of himself by absence alone. That is a rare talent.”
Moira entered with a small garment folded over her arm. “Are ye speaking ill of the Laird to the bairn?”
“I am educating him.”
“Then I hope ye are using kind words.”
“Kindness isnae me prerogative. I am being accurate, though.”
Moira smiled and set the garment on the table near the window.
The little gown for the christening had been washed, dried, and pressed with care.
Beside it lay a soft cloth, a warmer blanket for after the ceremony, a small cap, and a strip of pale fabric Violet had chosen because Jane would have liked the softness of it.
“Has the priest been informed?” Violet asked.
“Aye, me Lady.”
“And what about John’s smaller cap?”
Moira paused. “The one ye asked about twice?”
Violet looked down at John. “He has a troublesome head. It invites concern.”
John made a small sound against her bodice.
Moira’s smile softened. “The christening willnae fail because one blanket is folded wrong, me Lady.”
“I wasnae worried about failure.”
Moira looked at the table, then at the cloth in Violet’s hand. It made Violet set it down.
“I was being thorough.”
“Aye,” Moira said gently. “Very thorough.”
Violet moved to the table and touched the pale fabric. “The chapel will be ready?”
“The basin is set aside. The candle is ready. The Laird instructed that the chapel and the passages leading to the nursery are to be watched.”
Of course he had. He did tell her he would double the shifts of the guards.
Violet adjusted the christening gown’s sleeve. “And Lachlan?”
Moira’s hands slowed. “What of him?”
“He should be there, should he nae?”
“If the Laird allows it.”
Violet looked down at John’s little face, his mouth slack now that he was drifting off to sleep. “He is John’s father.”
Moira folded another blanket. “Blood can be a strange claim, can it nae?”
Before Violet could answer, a voice came from the doorway. “That it can.”
Lachlan stood there, one shoulder leaning against the frame. He had made an effort with his clothes, though the effort did not hide the wear at the cuffs or the faint tremor in his fingers before he tucked one hand behind his back. His face brightened when his gaze found John.
“I didnae mean to intrude,” he said.
Moira glanced at Violet, then excused herself to fetch more linen from the adjoining room. Violet shifted John higher against her shoulder.
“Ye may come in,” she allowed.
Lachlan took two steps into the nursery. He looked at the baby’s blanket and reached toward it, then stopped with his hand hanging midair. “May I?”
“Carefully.”
His mouth curved. “I am trying to make that a habit.”
He touched the edge of the blanket with two fingers. John opened his eyes and caught Lachlan’s finger in his small fist. Lachlan went still.
Violet watched his face change. The charm thinned, and grief cut through it. His fingers trembled again, and this time she did not think he noticed.
“Jane would have laughed,” he rasped.
Violet swallowed. “She would have claimed that he had excellent judgment.”
“Even if he was chewing on his own blanket?”
“Especially then.”
Lachlan gave a soft laugh, and for a brief moment, it sounded clean. “Aye, she would.”
A maid entered with a tray and set a cup near the christening clothes. “For ye, me Lady. Moira said ye have hardly eaten.”
“I didnae ask for anything,” Violet said.
“She also mentioned that, me Lady.”
“Drink it,” Lachlan urged lightly. “All the excitement since the wedding would wear down a stronger woman.”
“Everyone keeps telling me I look tired.”
“Then perhaps everyone has eyes.”
Violet shot him a glare that was meant to be both stern and playful.
Lachlan smiled a little longer than the jest required.
Violet took the cup, as refusing would cause more fuss than drinking. She sipped once, then set it beside the folded cap and forgot it there when John stirred.
Lachlan watched her adjust the baby’s blanket. “Has Connor been kind to ye?”
Violet looked up. “That is a difficult question.”
“That sounds like a nay.”
Violet swallowed. Kindness in this situation was relative. Connor had not been cruel to her or tried to imprison her again. He had not touched her either.
Well…
“He is difficult,” she allowed, in a bid to keep her mind quiet before it drifted. “I’ve seen him be strict, arrogant, infuriatingly certain of himself…”
“Cruel?” Lachlan asked, raising an eyebrow.
Violet swallowed.
Well, that’s it, is it nae?
“Nay.” The answer came too quickly, and she lowered her gaze to John’s fist.
Lachlan laughed. It was too light for the question. Too short. He looked away before she could study him properly, and when he spoke again, his voice had roughened.
“Good,” he said. “That would be a change for him.”
Violet frowned. “Lachlan.”
He touched John’s blanket once more. “Jane would be glad he is loved.”
That ended the question neatly. Too neatly, perhaps. But then, John yawned, his mouth opening wide in a way that made Violet smile despite the tightness behind her eyes.
“He needs sleep,” she said.
“As do ye,” Lachlan pointed out.
“I need a bath.”
“And some food and rest. Ye really look pale, Violet. I am worried.”
Violet laughed, waving off whatever concern Lachlan was beginning to dream up. “At this point, if Moore Castle defeats me, it will do so with broth.”
Lachlan smiled again and stepped back. “Rest, Violet.”
She carried John to the cradle and tucked him in with care, his fingers releasing her slowly, one by one. She stood over him until his breathing evened out, then covered him with the soft blanket meant for after the christening.
When she left the nursery, the cup still sat beside the small cap, half-finished and cooling. She should have taken it. But she was not feeling that thirsty or even hungry. The heaviness she felt in her limbs as she started to walk was nothing but utter tiredness.
Ye just need to lie down for a while, that is all.
She made it as far as the passage outside the nursery before her legs gave way.
She had only meant to go to her chamber. A bath would be waiting by now, and after, she might dress again, check the christening clothes one last time, and become a sensible woman who did not go still at every footstep or listen for a husband who was not in the castle.
The passageway suddenly tilted, and she stopped at once.
Oh dear.
One hand went to the wall. The stone scraped her palm, cold and rough, and she gripped it hard enough that her knuckles hurt.
The cold floor underfoot seemed too far away, and every sound from the castle thinned behind her and returned in a rush.
That distance made her stomach drop and her fingers grow numb.
“Nay,” she whispered.
She pressed her other hand against the wall. Her knees had softened under her dress, and she locked them before they could fold.
“That cannae be.” The words came out too quietly to convince anyone, least of all herself.
She knew this. She knew what this was. She knew the sudden emptiness in her limbs and the way her breath stopped obeying before coming back shallow. The cold in her fingertips and the sick drop in her belly before the world narrowed felt familiar. They’d felt familiar since she was a child.
Her mouth suddenly filled with the old bitter taste, though she had swallowed nothing.
Suddenly, memories of her sick days resurfaced, and all she could feel was the warmth of Hannah’s desperate teas and damp linens tucked too close around her.
She could almost feel her sister’s hand against her forehead, then her cheek, then her wrist, measuring heat with a care she had hated because it meant Hannah had stopped sleeping again.
Violet closed her eyes. “Please, God. Nay.”
She had barely finished when her knees gave out. For the briefest of seconds, she tried to imagine how hard the floor would feel against her head.
Would it be enough for her to pass out? Was she going to die here? In some random passageway?
A pair of hands caught her by the arms before she struck the wall.
“Violet.” Lachlan’s voice sounded close to her ear.
He held her upright, his grip firm enough for her to feel pressure through her sleeves. The smell of ale clung faintly to him, with something sharper beneath it, perhaps clove to hide the drink.
“Easy now,” he murmured.
She forced her eyes open. His face was too near, pale with concern, his eyebrows drawn together, his mouth set.
“I am fine,” she said.
Lachlan laughed. “And I am the King.”
Violet tried to raise her hand. “Ye really daenae need to worry. I am only tired.”
Lachlan exhaled. “Do ye want me to send word to Connor?”
“Nay.” The answer came so fast that his fingers tightened.
“Yer sister, then?”
“Nay.”
Her voice had sharpened enough that Moira called from inside the nursery, “Me Lady?”
Violet dragged air into her lungs. “John stirred; that is all. He is sleeping again.”
A pause followed. “Do ye need me?”
“Nay. Stay with him.”
She heard movement inside, then the soft creak of Moira’s chair. Violet kept her gaze on Lachlan until he released one arm.
“Perhaps it’s all the excitement,” he said softly. “A wedding, a bairn, a new home. It would make any woman faint.”
“Aye,” Violet uttered too quickly. “That is all.”
His gaze moved over her face, then down to her hands. He looked back into her eyes. For one uncomfortable moment, he seemed to be reading each tremor instead of asking after it.
“Can ye walk?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Violet…”
“If ye call for anyone, I will deny this happened and make ye look dramatic.”
His mouth curved, though his eyes remained too watchful. “Jane used to say ye were stubborn enough to insult death itself.”
“I cannae confirm or deny that.”
The old joke came too easily. Violet used it because she needed him to smile, step back, and let her leave before the tremors grew worse.
Lachlan released her slowly. His fingers lingered on her left arm half a second too long. When he stepped back, Violet curled that arm against her side and pretended the passageway had steadied because she had wanted it to.
“I can escort ye,” he offered.
“Ye can return to breakfast and tell nay one.”
“Connor would want to ken.”
“Good thing he isnae here, is it nae?”
The sentence struck harder aloud than it had in her head.
Lachlan nodded once. “As ye wish.”
She walked away before he could change his mind.
Each step required care. She kept one hand close to the wall until she reached the corner, then forced it to her side in case a servant appeared.
Her maid was waiting in her chamber, sleeves rolled up, the bathwater she had asked for steaming in a tub near the fire.
“Me Lady, shall I help ye undress?”
“Nay,” Violet replied. “Leave it. I only need to rest for a moment.”
The maid looked at her face. “Are ye unwell?”
“Nay. Go and ask Moira if she needs more linen for John.”
The maid hesitated, then curtsied and left.
Violet waited until the door closed before she sat on the edge of the bed. She did not undress or even try to take off her shoes. She bent forward and pressed one hand to her belly, then snatched it away.
John came to her mind first. His small hand around her finger. His little christening gown laid out beside the cap. His mouth opening on that delighted sound Jane would never hear.
If Violet became ill again, who would keep him from turning into another problem juggled between adults?
She lay back against the pillows and stared at the canopy.
Connor came next. His hand on her back after the vows. His mouth in the study. His body steady beside her in the library while John gripped his finger.
She had told herself John was the exception. Connor had become the mistake beside him. Her eyes burned, and she pressed the heel of her hand against her brow.
She had allowed both of them to matter. She couldn’t believe she had been foolish enough to let herself believe she truly had a place at Moore Castle.
If the sickness had returned, avoiding Connor would not keep him safe from grief.
It would only give her fewer memories when the sickbed claimed the hours.
That thought made her sit up.
It was not noble. It was not even brave, but she wanted his hands on her again. She wanted John’s coos. She wanted a bath, a market road, a full life, a husband who irritated her so badly that she forgot to be afraid for minutes at a time.
She wiped her face with both hands.
Angelica.
The name steadied her more than prayer. Hannah had found it once. A bitter, ugly little miracle that had eased the symptoms when nothing else had. Violet remembered the taste, the smell, the way Hannah had cried after the fever broke because she thought Violet slept through it.
She could not write to Hannah or even send for Connor. She could not have the castle looking at her the way Hannah once had.
By nightfall, she had made her plan. She would nip this in the bud before it could become a big thing.
Before anyone knew she might be sick again, she would go out and find angelica root.