Chapter 3
“Oh, good. You’re awake. Thank the Lord for that.”
It was a woman’s voice, who seemed to be standing over Charity. Her English carried the same thick accent Charity had heard in the woods, though she spoke more carefully.
Charity tried to sit up, patting around to make sense of things. It was the second time now that she was waking up in a strange place, not knowing anything about it.
“No,” the woman said quickly, putting a firm hand on Charity’s shoulder. “You should not be doing that yet; you’ll only make yourself sick again. Just breathe, and let your head settle.”
Charity’s heart began to hammer anyway, and she pushed weakly at the woman’s hand.
“Where am I?” Charity demanded.
The woman’s expression softened, but she didn’t look frightened, only patient, as if she had expected this exact reaction.
“You’re in Blackford Castle,” she said, speaking slowly, as though Charity might not understand. “And I’m Mrs. Sinclair. I’m the housekeeper.”
“Blackford,” she repeated, and the word felt so strange in her mouth. “Castle.”
There was a brief recollection of her hearing those words right before she had blacked out, and the memory of it was slowly returning to her.
“Yes, you were found in the woods, and you were unwell, and the duke brought you here so you wouldn’t freeze where you lay.”
Charity’s stomach rolled again, and she pressed a hand to her abdomen.
“The duke,” she repeated. “The man… Duncan.”
Even though her memory was hazy, she could not forget meeting that man.
He had left a strong impression on her, and now it made sense that he was a duke.
His disposition certainly seemed to suggest that he was someone of great importance, though that was not what had struck her.
What had struck out was just how much of a visceral reaction that he had managed to elicit from her.
It had never happened before, and a part of her was curious to know if it would happen again, if she was to see him.
“Aye. His Grace.”
“I must return to my sisters,” Charity said, feeling the sense return to her slowly.
Mrs. Sinclair held up her hands slightly, ready to ward off any attempts at an escape.
“I know you’re frightened, and you’re right to be frightened, because you don’t know what’s happened to you. But you are safe in this room, and no one is going to hurt you while you’re here.”
It was meant to be reassuring, but she did not feel that way. Her gaze flicked past her, taking in more of the room in quick, anxious fragments.
Then she saw Malcolm. That was his name, correct? She thought a bit harder and then confirmed to herself that it was indeed Malcolm.
He stood a bit farther back, near the door, as if he’d been placed there to guard it. His bow was gone, but his posture was alert.
“You were there!” Charity pointed to him instantly, as though she had just discovered some vital piece of information.
Malcolm shifted uncomfortably.
“You shot an arrow into a tree beside my head, and you frightened me half to death.”
Malcolm grimaced, and Mrs. Sinclair leaned in slightly, “Your throat will be sore if you keep raising your voice, and you’ll make yourself dizzy again. Please, drink some water.”
Charity wanted to refuse on principle, but her mouth was dry, and she could taste bile at the back of her throat. So, she ended up accepting the cup Mrs. Sinclair offered, took a careful sip, and immediately felt a small relief.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly. She realized that this might be the strangest day that she has ever had in all of her years of living.
Before she could speak again, the door opened. A plump, middle-aged woman entered with a bowl of soup in both hands, moving carefully. Her cheeks were rosy from the kitchen heat, and her expression bright with interest.
“Well, so she’s awake, is she?” the woman said, and her accent was Scottish too.
Mrs. Sinclair turned her head.
“Rowan, mind yourself,” she said, and there was warning in her voice.
Rowan did not look chastened. She took two more steps into the room and held the bowl up slightly.
“I’ve brought soup,” she announced, “Proper soup. None of that thin water they call broth, and I am certain that this’ll put strength back in you.”
Charity’s stomach clenched at the smell of it, which was rich with meat and fragrant herbs.
She felt ravenous so suddenly it shocked her, but she didn’t reach for the bowl.
It dawned on her only a moment later that she had a small audience, all three people were staring at her with great interest as she fought with her own hunger with the soup.
“Why are you all staring at me like that?” Charity demanded, finding the whole thing bizarre.
Rowan blinked, then laughed as if Charity had said something strange. “Well, because we’ve never had an English lady wake up in one of our beds. It’s not every day, is it?”
But before any more words could be exchanged, the air of the room changed again. This time, it was because the door opened and Duncan entered without hesitation. His gaze went straight to Charity, then swept the room once, taking in everyone gathered around her bed like a crowd.
Everyone spoke at once.
“Your Grace….”
“She’s awake….”
“She’s not touched the soup….”
Duncan’s jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed slightly.
“Out,” he said.
No one dared to argue, and Charity felt the decisive authority that she had associated with him on display again. It was strange, but she found herself a bit impressed by it, rather than annoyed or scared.
Though that was not the right feeling. She pushed it down immediately. Everyone left in a hurry, leaving only Duncan, who stood a few feet from the bed.
“What are you going to do with me?”
Duncan didn’t answer and instead stepped toward the table, picked up the bowl of soup with one hand, and turned back to her. He came to the side of the bed and held the bowl out toward her.
It occurred to her then that there was something rather beast-like about his mannerisms. And how fitting it would be to describe him as such, as he had found her out of nowhere, perhaps even kidnapped her, and now he had her at his mercy at his Castle?
“Eat,” he said, oblivious to her little internal monologue regarding him.
“Is that the only word you know?” Charity blinked.
Duncan’s brows drew together, and Charity reveled at how she might be able to get a reaction from him. But it was of little use, as his expression tightened into one of neutrality once more.
“I don’t trust you,” she continued when he did not answer.
“I don’t care what particular sentiment you might hold regarding me,” he snarled at her, and she almost flinched at the sight. He could well be a terrifying presence if he wished. “But hear this clearly, because I’m only going to say it once: if I wanted you dead, you would already be dead.”
Charity went still, as there was an unignorable truth to the words. Her stomach chose that moment to betray her, giving a low growl.
Duncan’s eyes flicked down briefly, and for a second, she saw something that looked almost amused. But the annoyance returned immediately. “Eat,” he repeated.
Charity was blushing now and shifted carefully, propping herself up against the pillows. Slowly, she reached out and took the bowl with shaking hands.
He was still watching her as Charity took a cautious spoonful.
“Good.”
The warmth hit her tongue and her throat. God. This was the best sensation that she had felt in weeks, it seemed. She swallowed, then took another spoonful, then another, faster. The hunger was embarrassing, and within moments she was eating like someone who hadn’t seen a meal in days.
Duncan watched her in silence, and when she glanced up, still chewing, she saw the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth.
“What are you looking at?” Charity demanded, voice muffled by the mouthful.
“You’re starving,” he said. “That’s all. I just think that you should have taken my advice to eat earlier, and then you would have been less ravenous, faster.”
Charity swallowed hard, annoyed.
“Stop watching me,” was all that she could say. It felt like a child’s plea to a parent, who was going to do whatever they wished.
“Hm,” he sounded, watching her like a specimen almost. She wondered what he must be thinking.
If he was not already plotting for her murder, was he disgusted by how hungry she was?
A sudden self-consciousness appeared over her, and she realized that she did not wish to appear too unsightly in front of him, and then slowed down her eating pace.
When she was finished, Duncan took the empty bowl from her hands and set it back on the table.
“I have done as you asked,” she spoke again, sighing loudly. “Now, you must speak to me. That would be a fair exchange.”
“Who are you?” Duncan turned back to her.
Charity’s stomach tightened again, and it occurred to her that she had not quite given him her name.
“You dragged me here without knowing who I am?” she asked.
“Yes, you would have rather that I left you alone to die in the forest?” his eyebrow shot up. “Who are you?”
“You first tell me why I should answer,” Charity’s eyes narrowed. It seemed that neither of them wished to relent, and that this game could go on for much longer.
“A physician came while you were unconscious,” he said. “He checked your pupils and your pulse. At the end of his assessment, he said you had been drugged.”
Charity’s throat tightened, but she said nothing. Of course, she did not remember any of this, but being under the influence of drugs would explain much about why she could not remember anything.
“Henbane,” he said, even though she had not asked for a name. “It was thankfully not enough to kill you, but enough to make you confused, sick, and… weak.”
Duncan watched her closely, and she felt herself blush slightly at how he had used the word thankfully. Not that it should matter to her, in earnest, what this beastly stranger thought of her living or dying.
“Now I need to know if that was an attack meant for you,” he said, “or if it was a message meant for me.”