Chapter 25
The road back to Moore Castle should have given Violet time to become sensible again. It did no such thing.
She rode with Connor close at her side, the morning air cool on her face and the tea from the previous night still bitter at the back of her tongue.
The tavern stood behind them, along with the bath, the locked door, the bed, and the memory of waking against Connor’s chest with her hand curled into his shirt. She did not know whether she had said anything in her sleep.
The thought worried her enough that she kept her eyes on the road.
Connor noticed. He noticed everything now.
“Do ye need to stop?” he asked.
“Nay.” Her answer came too quickly.
His gaze moved over her face, then down to the way she held the reins. He said nothing, which was worse. Silence from Connor had never meant ignorance.
Violet straightened in the saddle and pretended the movement did not cost her.
The castle came into view above the road, hard gray stone against the pale morning. Moore Castle meant John, Moira, christening clothes, ordinary tasks, and enough movement to hide inside.
She could be useful there. She could ask after John, wash, change, and perhaps have one hour without Connor looking at her as if she were a locked door he meant to break open.
They reached the courtyard before she had decided whether to speak first, and Moira came out almost at a run.
The sight drove every thought out of her mind.
Moira’s cap sat crooked, and one sleeve had been rolled higher than the other. Her face had the strained pallor of a woman holding herself together by habit.
“Me Lady,” Moira called. “Thank God ye are back.”
Violet’s hand tightened on the reins. “Moira?”
“It is John.” Moira stopped near the horse, panting. “He willnae take his milk.”
Violet was out of the saddle before Connor reached for her. Her legs protested when her feet hit the ground, but she ignored them.
“Since when?”
“This morning. He fussed at first, then cried, then turned from it.” Moira’s hands twisted in her apron. “I thought perhaps he was only restless, but he is warm. Too warm.”
Violet was already moving.
The courtyard blurred at the edges as she crossed it too fast. Connor followed, his boots hard on the stone behind her, but she did not turn.
The stairs to the nursery seemed longer than usual. She gripped the rail once, only long enough to steady herself, then climbed up. John’s cries met her before she reached the door.
They were weaker than his usual indignant wails, and that ratcheted up her fear. The untouched milk sat near the cradle. Moira had left it covered with a cloth, careful even in fear.
John lay wrapped too tightly, his small face red and his mouth working as if he wanted to complain and had lost the strength to do it properly.
Violet went to him at once. She touched his forehead first, then the back of his neck.
Too warm.
His little hands were hot when she freed them from the blanket. She slipped two fingers beneath the cloth at his belly and checked the heat there, then looked at his mouth.
“How long since he nursed?” she asked.
Moira stood close, wringing one cloth between both hands. “Since before dawn. He nursed a little then. Hardly enough.”
“Has he wet his nappy?”
“Aye, but less than usual.”
Violet lifted John carefully. He whimpered, then turned his face into her bodice. The weak little motion struck her harder than his cries.
“Send for the healer,” Violet ordered.
A maid near the door stared at her.
“Now,” Violet snapped.
The maid jolted and scurried away.
John writhed against her, his skin too hot through the thin linen of his shift. Violet loosened the blanket and kept her voice low.
“I ken, little one. I ken. I would be cross too if everyone stood about making poor decisions before breakfast.”
Moira made a soft sound that might have been a laugh if fear had allowed it. Her fingers kept folding and refolding the same cloth.
Violet looked at her. “Moira, please get some warm water. Nae hot, but warm. Clean cloths as well.”
“Aye.” Moira moved, then stopped, her eyes shining. “I should have ken sooner.”
“Ye did ken,” Violet said. She shifted John higher and held his hot cheek against her. “Thank ye for noticing when ye did.”
Moira nodded once, sharp and quick, then hurried out of the room. Soon enough, two maids returned with a small basin and water. One stepped forward with both hands ready.
“Me Lady, I can take him while ye sit.”
“Nay.”
The maid stopped, and Violet softened her voice without loosening her hold. “He needs to feel safe. He kens me. I will hold him.”
None of them said anything else, and she was partly grateful for that. For now, everything that had happened from the previous day up till this very moment faded away, and all she could think about was John and how to make sure he didn’t die.
Make sure he doesnae die.
No. She couldn’t deal with the memories threatening her mind right now. All she would do for now was sit and try to soothe the baby.
Connor appeared in the doorway, broad-shouldered and silent, one hand braced against the doorframe. For once, he looked like a man brought to a battlefield with no weapon that suited the fight.
“Move the chair nearer the fire,” she said.
He obeyed at once.
The small bath took shape quickly. John cried when the warm water touched his feet, a thin complaint that made Violet’s throat close up. She kept her hands steady and cupped water over his legs, then his belly, murmuring nonsense about proud young gentlemen and their opinions.
“A cloth,” she said, holding out one hand.
Connor turned around, grabbed a cloth, and offered it.
Violet shook her head. “The softer one, Connor.”
He paused and narrowed his eyes. Then he grabbed another cloth. “This one?”
“Nay. The one folded beside Moira.”
“There are four folded beside Moira.”
“Then grab the softest one.”
Moira reached blindly, gave him the softest cloth, and he passed it over without another word.
Violet bathed John slowly, watching his face with each movement. His cries weakened into fretful whimpers, and eventually, when he had cooled enough, she lifted him out and wrapped him in the softest blanket. He clutched at the front of her gown with one warm little fist.
She sat in the chair Connor had placed by the fire and settled him against her chest. One hand covered his back, rubbing it in small circles. His breathing hitched twice, then evened out. The room stayed quiet because she kept her own voice quiet.
“There now,” she whispered. “There, me sweet lad.”
Connor drew closer only when John’s eyes closed.
“What do ye need?” he asked.
Violet did not look away from the baby. “Let him rest.”
“That is all?”
“That is everything.”
John finally slept against her chest.
For one fragile moment, with John’s small fist curled in her bodice and Connor standing guard beside the chair, Violet let herself believe that her love was enough to keep him safe. Only her love. Not any special kind of tea or some herb she would have to make because nothing worked.
Connor stood beside the chair and watched his wife become something else entirely.
John lay against her chest, his fever-red cheek pressed to her gown, his small fist caught in the fabric as if he knew exactly who had made the world steady for him.
Violet kept one hand moving over his back in a slow rhythm.
Her face was too pale, and the shadows beneath her eyes had deepened since the ride from the tavern.
Still, her voice stayed low whenever John stirred.
She noticed every small change before anyone else did.
A hitch in the baby’s breath made her adjust him, and a fretful whimper made her bend her head and murmur into his ear. When Moira reached for another cloth with hands that would not quite stop shaking, Violet asked for it gently and used it without making Moira feel useless.
Connor had married her because John needed a mother. But now, standing there, with the smell of warm water and fever in the air, he understood that John had already chosen one.
Violet had fought him from the first day because she had seen what he had missed. The baby did not need a woman assigned to him by law. He needed the woman whose voice quelled his cries.
Connor stepped closer, his boots quiet on the floorboards. The maids had begun whispering near the washstand, their frightened eyes darting from John to Violet and back again.
“Tell me what to do,” Connor said quietly.
Violet looked up briefly. Her eyes were tired, too dark in her pale face. “Keep the room calm.”
“That isnae a task.”
“Well, everyone looks frightened, and ye are the Laird. Find a way.” She lowered her gaze to John again.
Connor felt the rebuke in her voice. A sickroom had rules he did not know, and it was clear that steel would do nothing here and that threats would not cool a fever.
He turned at once, because standing idle irritated him more than taking orders from her.
“Ye two,” he said to the maids, keeping his voice low. “Out, unless Lady Moore calls for ye. Move softly, and daenae run in the passage. We daenae want everyone worried.”
The maids curtsied and slipped out.
Moira stayed. Connor watched her fold one damp cloth, then unfold it, then fold it again without looking at her hands. Her lips had thinned.
“Moira,” he said.
She started.
“Stand by the fire. Lady Moore will need ye close.”
Moira swallowed, then obeyed. The task steadied her shoulders a little.
Violet did not look up, yet her hand slowed on John’s back for half a beat. Connor saw it. She knew what he had done and approved.
Footsteps came fast in the passage before he could say anything, though. Lachlan entered first, his breathing ragged, his hair wind-tossed from haste. A woman followed with a leather bag gripped in one hand and a wool shawl slipping from her shoulder.
The healer took in the room with one hard glance, then went straight to Violet.
“I found her near the lower yard,” Lachlan explained. “She came as fast as she could.”
Connor did not answer. His gaze stayed on the healer.
“Let me see the baby,” she demanded.
Violet’s arms tightened once. Connor saw how hard it was for her to loosen them. She did set John down on the folded blanket across her lap, though her fingers remained at his side while the healer bent over him.
John whimpered when the healer touched his brow and belly. Violet murmured at once, soft nonsense that made him turn his face toward her. The healer checked his mouth and his breathing by using a small mirror.
The examination took only minutes, but Connor disliked every one of them.
“He is fevered,” the healer declared at last. “It hasnae gone too deep yet.”
Violet’s shoulders lowered by a fraction.
The healer held up a hand before relief could take hold. “Keep him warm, but daenae bury him in covers. Offer milk often, only a little at a time if that is all he’ll take. If his breathing changes, send for me at once.”
“He will mend?” Violet asked.
“Only if the fever breaks,” the healer said. Her eyes moved over Violet’s face, lingering on the pallor there. “The bairn needs rest, and clearly so do some others in this room.”
Violet looked down at John as if she had not heard the last part.
Connor did. He took one step toward Violet when Lachlan did. The movement was small enough to avoid making a scene and clear enough that Lachlan stopped. His gaze flicked up and then away. Then he reached for the edge of John’s blanket, which lay over the chair. His fingers brushed the fabric.
“Have ye taken any medicine at all?” he asked quietly.
Connor’s attention snapped to him. “Why would she need medicine?”
Violet stiffened in her seat, and John gave a weak whimper at the sudden tension. She soothed him at once, though color had begun to leach from her face.
“It is nothing,” she said.
Lachlan looked troubled. Perhaps more than any other person would have under the circumstances, though Connor could not yet name what soured in him.
He lifted his hands slightly. “Ye were faint yesterday, and now John is fevered…”
Connor stepped fully between Lachlan and Violet. “What are ye talking about?”
“I mean no harm.”
“Nay?”
The healer’s gaze darted between them. Moira had gone still by the fire, the damp cloth held against her apron.
“She looked faint the day before yesterday. Almost fainted outside the nursery” Lachlan revealed.
Connor turned to Violet. “Outside the nursery?”
Violet’s mouth opened, then closed. Her hand spread over John’s back. “It was nothing.”
The lie had less force than usual.
Connor wanted to press her. He also wanted to drag Lachlan out by the throat. But he did neither, because John lay feverish in Violet’s arms and the healer was watching them with old, wary eyes.
“I am better now,” Violet added.
Lachlan lowered his voice, which made it worse. “If she has an illness, should she be so near him? Only until the healer kens more, I mean.”
Connor’s hand clenched. For one hard second, he saw his fist in Lachlan’s face with enough clarity that he had to open his fingers slowly. John was in the room. Violet was listening. That mattered more than satisfying the violence that had risen clean and ready in his blood.
“Enough,” he bit out.
Violet looked down at John, then at her hands where they rested against the child’s back. Something changed in her face so quickly that Connor moved before he had decided to.
“Violet,” he said.
She stood with John in her arms, too carefully. Moira came forward, trembling, and Violet gave the baby to her as if every inch between herself and John had to be completely protected.
“I need to call the priest,” she murmured.
Connor reached for her elbow, but she stepped out of reach.
“We need to prepare for the christening,” she reminded him.
“That can wait until John rests.”
“Nay.” Her gaze went to John once more, and the fear there cut deeper than any accusation. “It cannae.” She backed toward the door.
The healer watched her with concern. Lachlan looked down at the floor, his mouth set in the grimace of a man who regretted only that truth had caused distress.
Connor started after her but stopped when John whimpered in Moira’s arms.
Not once did she stop or turn around. Before he could manage to say or even do anything, she had left.
He remained standing in the middle of the room, unsure of what had just happened and wondering what he could do.
Worse, he couldn't get Lachlan's words out of his mind.