too cold.
“You should go now. I will look after her needs.”
Claire was soft spoken, but there was no missing the sound of experience in her tone. It sent a shiver down Jemma’s spine, and it drew a cringe from her husband.
“Aye.”
He leaned down and kissed her once more. Jemma reached for him and had to force herself not to cling. She was afraid, but so was he. She caught a glimpse of it in his eyes, and her heart clutched that bit of knowledge close.
If he was frightened for her, he might learn to love her. It was an odd hope when she considered the fact that she should be more worried about opening her eyes again. Instead all she had swirling around in her mind was longing for affection from the man who had touched her heart. She took him into her dreams, and that brought her more comfort than any of the prayers that had been muttered at her bedside.
Time became indefinable. Jemma awoke at odd hours; sometimes the church bell woke her, other times it was the wind whistling in through the window. Claire always seemed to be awake when Jemma opened her eyes. The woman moved in a slow motion that was soothing to the eyes. She offered Jemma warm broth that didn’t tempt her. Her stomach cramped at the idea of any food, so she closed her eyes and escaped back into sleep.
“Ye need the nourishment, lass.”
Gordon’s voice drew her back to the harsh world with its discomforts. She opened her eyes to discover that the sunlight was gone and only moonlight shone through the open window.
Her husband lifted her up and placed another pillow behind her to keep her head more elevated.
“There’s my lass, open yer eyes and share a bit of supper with me.”
“The night feels further gone than supper.”
He offered her a smile and a nod. “Aye, it is. The sun will rise in another hour.” Claire brought him a small bowl that gently steamed. Jemma wrinkled her nose, the scent of food sickening her, but her husband offered her a spoonful in spite of her disgruntled expression.
“Ye can nae expect to recover without food, lass, and I’ve gone to quite a bit of trouble to share a bit of a meal with ye.”
She opened her mouth and swallowed the soup. A cramp seized her belly. It was so painful she gasped. Gordon set the bowl aside and placed a large hand on her stomach to gently massage the tension from her muscles. His fingers forced the knots to loosen, allowing her to draw breath. Sweat dotted her forehead, and she shook her head.
“No more. I cannot stomach it.”
Claire stood nearby, unrelenting in her quiet fashion. The companion took only a single step forward and waited until Gordon turned his attention to her.
“She must eat to cleanse the poison from her flesh, else it will fester.”
Gordon’s fingers tensed where they still worked the tight muscles of her belly, and his expression hardened. She’d only seen such determination in him when he faced down the English knights who had tried to kill her. Now it was aimed at her. He picked up the bowl and the spoon, but from the look in his eyes, it might as well have been sword and shield.
“Ye will eat, Jemma, because I know that ye are every bit as stubborn as I am and ye will nae allow this foul deed to take yer life away.”
The spoon was pressing against her lips, but it was his tone that made her open her mouth and take his offering.
“The sun is going to rise, and I want ye to see how beautiful the day is, lass.”
There was no relenting in him. One spoon after the other, he pressed the contents of the bowl into her. But her insides only gave a few more twinges before accepting the soup. It might even be called soothing except that there was dull pain still lingering everywhere within her. She heard the spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl and sighed with relief. Her eyelids closed in weary fatigue.
“Aye, lass, ’tis enough for the moment.” He set the bowl aside, sparing her the last bit. She blew out a sigh of relief while her belly balanced on the edge of nausea. She closed her eyes, trying to think of other things besides the discomfort attempting to make her reject the soup.
“I brought ye something, sweet wife. Open yer eyes and look at what ye reduce me to gathering for ye. Me men believe I’ve gone soft, and that is a fact.”
Jemma opened her eyes to see him lifting a small bundle of heather up off the table. This time he’d tied it with a ribbon.
“A bit of an enticement to make ye want to rise from this bed. The world is out there waiting on ye to fill it with mayhem once again. I believe even the laundresses miss ye.”
“They do not.” She reached for the heather, her eyes drinking in the sight of the tiny flowers so rich with color. Why had she never noticed the brilliant shade before? Each tiny petal was unique but blended together to form a magnificent display of beauty. It was breathtaking. “So kind of you . . .” Her words trailed off, and the hand she raised to reach for his gift never made it. Now that she was full, her strength seemed to be gone. Her eyelids fluttered shut, but she smiled because she took the vision of that bouquet with her and the feeling of tenderness for the man who had picked it for her.
He’d never been so frightened.
Gordon watched his sleeping wife and ground his teeth in frustration. His sword arm was no use here. The urge to have Anyon whipped until she confessed threatened to boil over, past his logical ability to reason. Although the girl was the likely culprit, they had no proof. He’d never been a laird to condemn without evidence. Barras Castle had never once held the reputation as being a place where mercy was absent. There was no rack in the dungeon or any other foul means of torture. At the moment he felt as if that fact was the only thing holding his hand back from ordering something he might regret.
He wanted to hang her.
