By God's Grace (21 page)
Authors: Felicia Rogers
“Are ye all right?”
Arbella nodded, for speech was unattainable.
“Are ye certain?”
She nodded again. Bruises were developing on her already-tender body. Duncan's concern because of her inability to converse with words was evident upon his frowning visage. But she just couldn't until more breath entered her body. Dirt might have to be dug out of her nose before much talking was done.
****
Duncan heard the villager yell. When he turned and saw Arbella standing there, his heart fell to his feet. The lass wasn't moving out of the way! He ran, jumping over half-cut logs, barreling straight into her, knocking her out of the path and to the other side. The problem was he landed on top of her. As quickly as possible he rolled over; they both lay there panting as the runaway cart sped past.
His arms reached out to pick up his wife, but she pushed them away. Admittedly, when he left earlier, he'd been angry, but not at her. Perhaps she regretted marrying him? An agitated hand ran through his mused hair, a sigh escaping parted lips. How was it a man who was confident in every part of his life could be so unconfident when it came to a mere woman?
Arbella's hand rested under her as she attempted to push herself off the ground. Again Duncan reached out to help but was pushed away, this time with a silent plea of, “Nay.”
Duncan couldn't stand it; he had to apologize. “Arbella, I'm sorry. I wasn't angry at ye earlier. And just now when, well, when I pushed ye out of the way, I didn't mean to hurt ye. I would never hurt ye intentionally.”
“Aye, I know,” she croaked out in a whisper.
“Why do ye keep pushing me away?”
Her lily white throat moved up and down as she took a deep gulp of air. In a hoarse voice, she said, “I'm sore. Touching me would only make it worse.”
Duncan understood.
They sat there for a while, and then Arbella asked, “Who is she?”
Confused, he asked, “Who?”
“The beautiful young lady you're staring at?”
“I'm not starin' at a young lady. I'm lookin' at the wood pile.”
“Now why would you be looking at a wood pile when there is a girl there in front of you?”
“The hut belongs to my father's sister. She's a widow. All her sons are unmarried and left with Grant to take Lyall to the Burns's keep. Since I have been otherwise occupied for the last couple of days, the chores have been piling up.”
“The girl, she is your cousin?”
“Aye.”
“Oh,” said Arbella, relief flooding her voice.
At this moment the cart owner ran to Duncan and Arbella, tripping over himself in apology. “I am sorry, my laird, the cart lost control. I-I did yell, but the young lass stared as if stupid.”
The man was upset, and Duncan sensed he was attempting to pass blame. Pulling himself up to his full height, he towered over the trembling man. “The young stupefied lass is my wife, and ye will do well to show more respect.”
“I meant no disrespect, my laird,” the man said as he dropped to his knees in a groveling motion. “My laird, I have a family. Please be lenient.”
Duncan frowned. He didn't know the man personally. He must have come from another keep. It was obvious the villager expected fierce punishment or reprisal for his part in the incident. “Arise and go retrieve yer cart. Make sure ye are more careful in the future.”
“Thank ye, thank ye, my laird,” said the villager as he left, walking backward while leaning over in a way that seemed like he was trying to kiss Duncan's feet.
By the time Duncan was finished, Arbella had struggled to a standing position. “You can continue with your chores, and I'll go back to our rooms and lie down for a while.”
Duncan wasn't about to accept those terms. Arbella limped toward the keep, holding her side with her hand to keep it as steady as possible. The lass probably bruised a few ribs when he pushed her to the ground. A whistle left his lips. One of the keep's men arrived, and Duncan gave them an order to chop his aunt's wood; then he grabbed his shirt from a nearby pole, pulled it over his head, and went running to catch up with his wife.
He reached her side. “Can I carry ye now?”
“Aye,” she said in a voice laced with pain.
With deliberate care she was lifted into his arms and carried. Once in their room, Duncan helped her remove the restrictive female bindings and laid her on their soft mattress. She sighed with relief as all the bindings fell away. Duncan did a visual search for bruises and broken bones. Dark areas dotted her upper arms where he'd grabbed her. Scratches covered her back where she'd hit the hard ground. The shift fell down, reaching its full length, covering her from toe to neck.
“Why are ye laughing?”
“This seems to be my favorite position when I'm in your presence.”
“Indeed,” he said, a sultry look in his eyes.
“Oh, I didn't mean that. Think back. I swooned after the day of tournament activities, and I was put in bed with covers to my neck. Then I'm locked in an old cellar, and I was put in the bed with covers to my neck. Then the escapade in the mud. And now this. You are going to believe I'm danger prone.”
“Aren't ye?” Duncan said, a smile lighting his face.
“I never was in the past. Must be your influence.”
Duncan snorted. “Maybe ye are correct.”
Arbella was silent. Peering up from under long lashes, she asked, “Are you mad at my father?”
Duncan didn't want to answer. True to tell he was mad at Jameson. But he was also angry at himself. When Arbella's father passed, he'd been twenty years old and a grown man in everyone's eyes. When they hadn't shown for their regular visit that next year, he should have found out why. He could easily have made an inquiry into why they hadn't come. Then the question became, if he'd discovered Arbella was alone but with a fellow Kincade, would he have gone to retrieve her?
Duncan's mother would have been happy to have Arbella back in the Sinclair keep, but still he asked himself, would he have gone and brought the lass home if he knew she was with a Kincade? Probably the assumption would have been that she was where she needed to be.
In a forced whisper, Duncan answered, “Aye.”
“But why?”
Duncan walked to the window and stood. Would Arbella understand? “He took ye away.”
With a swift change in direction, Duncan came and sat beside her on the bed before speaking again. “Ye were so young, and we were the only family ye knew. Ye begged me to keep ye. Ye didn't want to leave, but there was nothing I could do. I begged Father to kidnap ye, to do anything necessary so ye wouldn't have to leave. He explained I was young, and later I would understand why ye had to leave, but I never understood.”
Tears coursed down her cheeks as he continued, “When ye were born here and yer mother passed, I already had one whiny sister, and I didn't feel I needed another.” His eyes shone with remembrance. “But ye weren't whiny. Ye were cute with yer little dimples. Then ye started talking and walking. Alison was constantly pestering me and taking my things, but ye were the opposite. Affectionate, always trying to hug me, and calling me âUncan'. Pretty soon Alison picked up on it, and she started imitating ye. Ye two were like twins running around the keep. I know ye kept Alison from getting into trouble.”
Duncan used his finger to place her hair behind her ear. “But really, I am as mad at myself as I am yer father.”
“But why, Duncan? As you said, you were young. What could you have possibly done?”
Duncan's smile displayed sadness. “True enough, I couldn't do anything when ye left, but I could have done plenty later on. To hide my hurt that ye didn't come back to visit me, I pretended ye didn't exist.” Longing for understanding, he gazed into her eyes. “Can ye forgive me?”
Arbella wrapped her arms around her husband and whispered, “I will always forgive you. And, 'Uncan, I love you.”
Duncan grinned and gave her a light squeeze. Lying down on the bed beside his wife, his arms wrapped around to offer solace, they both fell into a deep sleep.
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A few days passed before Grant made the journey to town and paid a messenger to deliver the missives: one to the Cameron keep and one to the Sinclairs. After posting the letters, he halfheartedly returned to the Burns's land. It wasn't the happiest place to be.
Lyall stayed in a closed room most of the day, staring into space. The regular inhabitants were ready for her to leave, but Grant feared traveling with the frail mistress across rugged terrain.
While the populace fretted over Lyall's leaving, they also speculated about the babe. At night the crazed mistress would sneak from her room, head to the family graveyard, and wail in a loud anguished voice. “Where's my babe? Where's my babe?” Then before the night was over, she would return to bed, falling back asleep as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
At the same time as this maddening event, the mystery of Rab Burns's murder continued. Alan believed the murderer to be Lyall. Grant couldn't blame the lad for his suspicions. However, the new laird couldn't accuse Lyall without some kind of proof. If this happened, Grant would be liable. And he wouldn't upset Duncan without having good reason.
When the keep door was reached, Grant went straight to check on Lyall. Bryce stood guard outside the door. His hand rubbed a large protruding blue and purple circle.
Grant knitted his brow and asked, “What happened to ye?”
Bryce wrinkled his nose. “What?”
“Why have ye got a knot on yer head?”
“Chamber pot.”
“Now lad, don't ye know a chamber pot is for yer opposite end?” Grant said, laughing.
Bryce grabbed his head. “Oh, don't laugh. The noise hurts my head something fierce.”
Grant stopped. “What really happened to ye?”
Bryce sighed. “I went in to take Lyall some food, and she threw the chamber pot at my head! I didn't wish to drop her food. So the pot crashed into me.”
Grant snickered. “Was it empty?”
“Aye, thankfully.”
If Lyall was throwing chamber pots at people for bringing her food, she must be getting worse. With a deep breath of preparation, he placed his hand on Lyall's door and gave a slight shove, just as the door was jerked open.
Lyall stood on the opposite side, facing their shocked expressions. Composed, she said, “Well, good afternoon, gentlemen. Can ye tell me when they serve the afternoon meal?”
Grant stared at Bryce in awe. The mistress was up and dressed and asking about dinner? Was this a good sign or a bad sign? They were uncertain.
Bryce answered, “They should be serving now, Mistress Lyall.”
“Oh, thank ye, Bryce. Sorry I hit ye earlier,” she said in passing while sauntering down the hallway.
She rounded the corner, her head bobbing back and forth while she whistled a happy tune. They took a long moment, staring at one another, astonishment lighting their faces.
Grant shuddered. “I believe we should follow her.”
Bryce nodded. Grant took the first step. Behind him, Bryce followed obediently. The young man fidgeted, then blurted, “Grant, I wish to go home.”
Grant stopped mid-stride in the abandoned hallway and shifted to face the younger man. “I wish to go home as well, but we must wait until Lyall is well enough to travel. If we are out on the road, and she runs off, then it might take us longer.”
Bryce's head shook. “Nay, Grant, ye don't understand. I don't want to return to the Sinclair keep.”
“Ye don't?”
“Nay. I wish to return to Cameron lands. I want to go home to the fields and me sheep. Ye and I both know I will never be a Highland warrior.”
“Mayhap with more training. Ye know we haven't had much time toâ” Grant trailed on, but Bryce interrupted him.
“Grant, I don't wish to disappoint ye, ye being the future Cameron Laird and all, but we both know I will never be a warrior of the quality ye need.”
“But, Bryce, ye are built like a giant!”
A tinge of red ran across Bryce's cheeks as he laughed. “Aye, God made me big, but meek. Half the time I'm afraid of my own shadow.”
“Is this why ye like Crissy?”
Bryce's face took on a brighter red. “Aye, for what the lass lacks in physical strength, she more than makes up for with her whip of a tongue.”
Both men guffawed while remembering what a spitfire Crissy was.
Grant clasped a hand on Bryce's arm. “As much as I will miss yer presence, I understand yer longing to get back to Cameron lands. I am feeling a draw toward them myself.”
“Come with me.”
“Nay, Bryce, not yet. I must return Lyall to Duncan. Then find Duncan a suitable replacement for his guard before I can leave. I owe Cainneach that much.”
Bryce added wistfully, “Then ye will come home?”
“Aye, I will come home,” said Grant, spirits instantly lifting.
****
Lyall had been arguing with Sori for days. The part of a grieving daughter had been played long enough. Sori, on the other hand, felt Lyall's performance was lacking. Today Lyall was adamant. She would no longer wait around in this room. Sori, who wanted her to stay put, had thrown the chamber pot at Bryce, but Lyall wasn't going to let the young man's injury detour her plans.
Walking toward the main hall and the food, the smells wafting up the stairs caused her palate to salivate. All this pretending to be an invalid had left her hungry for some decent food. The servants had been feeding her a weak, meat-flavored broth since the game began. So many pounds had been lost during these last few weeks; her dresses would all have to be taken in.
Just passed the corner, Lyall heard voices. Grant and Bryce were talking about Bryce's lack of skills and his desire to go home and be a sheep farmer or some such nonsense. The boy was one of the largest men Lyall had ever seen, and he wanted to waste his power on herding sheep! The fool probably also wanted a wife and some whiny, bratty children running around, pestering him constantly.
That line of thought reminded Lyall of her own daughter. Unable to search for her babe during the day, she took to roaming outside around the countryside at night. Every night was the same, looking for the babe or the midwife who had taken her. No one had seen a midwife the day of her arrival. Even the servant, who Sori had sent to fetch the midwife, had mysteriously disappeared.
Lyall closed her mind to the drifting thoughts and focused on Grant and Bryce's conversation. When Bryce mentioned he wasn't much of a warrior, Lyall felt a stirring in the pit of her stomach. This could only mean one thing â Sori was in the process of forming another plan. As she hurried to dinner, she wondered if she would ever get a break.
