Or himself for tumbling her. It had been the rash mistake that many a man made when they’d had one or two ales and the night was cool enough to make the idea of pressing up against something warm enticing.
Aye, a mistake, and one that may have risen up to cut far deeper than he believed he might survive. Jemma was too pale, and dark circles ringed her eyes. Lady Justina would not confirm to him that his wife would recover; instead, the lady offered him only the hope that their action ensured—that no further poison would make its way into her body. He reached out and stroked his hand along his wife’s face. Her skin felt more delicate than before, more fragile. But her breath teased his knuckle, giving him solid proof that she was still the wildcat he’d labeled her. There was fight in her yet.
But would it be enough?
That question tore at the very fabric of Gordon’s soul.
He stood up and left the chamber, moving toward the sanctuary of the church. There had never been a woman who drove him to his knees, but now he knelt willingly in the hope that God might hear him.
For his lament was great and the blessing he sought more precious than he could say. For Jemma, he would fall to his knees.
Gladly, even humbly.
“I am so tired of this bed.” Jemma folded her legs and let out a huff. Claire eyed her from across the room.
“You should spend more time being grateful that you are still alive.”
“I am grateful.” But she did sound like she was whining, and she was very aware of how fortunate she was to be alive. The sunlight looked brighter and the air smelled better than she had ever noticed. Scooting to the edge of the bed, she stood up, but she had to hug the thick banister that held up the curtain to remain on her feet. Weakness still ruled her.
Claire knew her duty well, for the companion was quickly by her side, offering her shoulders to help support Jemma.
“Do you wish to go to the window, my lady?”
“Yes, thank you.”
It was a long journey that frustrated Jemma almost to the point of tears. Now that the pain was gone, she was impatient to return to normal, but her body didn’t seem to agree. She needed to lean on Claire for every step. Her knees felt wobbly, and the activity demanded that her heart move faster, but it felt like the muscle was too weak to keep up with the simple task of walking. Her blood was sluggish, resisting the command to circulate. Along her legs, her muscles protested having to move, but the sunlight drew her forward.
“There now, the sun must feel good on your face.”
“It does.”
And the sight of the yard filled her with happiness. The church was in sight, and she could see the nuns tending to the windows. Off to the other side the boys were once more training with their wooden swords. She could see men walking along the curtain wall and hear the blacksmith working on his anvil, the steady hammering drifting up to her window. She could also hear the water beyond the tower in front of her. Her senses wanted to notice everything suddenly, and Jemma drank it in, absorbing it. But she forced herself to be realistic about how much effort it was going to take to return to the bed.
She might be weak, but she was sick of being carried like a babe.
“I should return now.”
“Very well, my lady.”
Claire lent her strength again on the way back to the bed, and Jemma blew out a tiny sigh of relief when she reached it. Her legs quivered, but satisfaction filled her, too, for being able to do something beyond waiting to be catered to. There was an ache in her legs, but the sort that came from working hard. She felt better, as though the short walk had begun the process of unfreezing her body. Her breathing felt deeper, and she smiled as the increased air cleared up her thoughts even more. The fresh breath banished the haze that seemed to have settled into her for so long. Relief replaced the weakness, and she smiled with satisfaction.
“Shall I read to you, my lady?”
“Umm, that would be thoughtful.” And a test of her newly cleared thoughts.
Claire opened up a small book and sat down on a stool near the bed. Her voice was even and soft as she began to read. Jemma reached over to pick up the newest piece of heather Gordon had brought her. Holding it up to her nose, she inhaled the fragrance, allowing it to chase away the depression that was attempting to settle into her.
Which was not to say that he didn’t, but it wasn’t to say that he did.
She knew it now and even found herself being thankful for the poison because it had forced her to see what she had. When time grew short, everything became dearer. It had been that way with her father, too. She smiled at the memories, able to recall them without sorrow now. She would never regret the years she had spent with him, for that was what made her into the woman she was. It was what had taught her to love. If that was insanity, so be it. She wanted no cure, only time to spend loving the man who was her husband. There was never enough time to love the ones you held dear, but always plenty of days to mourn your mistakes.
A soft knock landed on the door. Claire stopped reading and stood up, but the door opened before she reached it. Jemma turned her head to see one of the nuns standing there in her wool robe. The garment was undyed, only the light cream color of the wool. Her head was covered with another piece of wool; this one had a black band that tightened around her forehead. The black signified that she had taken her final vows. There wasn’t a hint of her hair showing, the head wrap tightened down to help her preserve her chastity and modesty vows. She even hid her hands inside the wide cuffs of her sleeve by crossing her arms in front of her body and clasping her own wrists.
