By God's Grace Page 18

  Arbella sighed. This was to be expected. The last time they visited with one another, she’d been a child on the verge of womanhood, which Duncan would have known nothing about.

  After dressing, Arbella left the room and subsequently the keep. Being holed up in the room for so many days doing nothing but loving her husband could not last. The world must reenter at sometime.

  Stepping out into the hallway, Arbella headed toward the door. The brightness of the day was blinding as she walked outside in search of her troubled husband.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Alan returned with the tea as Grant finished grinding the herb. The two items were mixed together and sat on the table in front of Lyall. They were unsure what to do next. The voice had given no other commands, and Lyall hadn’t moved.

  Alan said, “Maybe we should help her drink it.”

  “Aye, maybe.” Grant could hear the quiver in the young lad’s voice. If they decided to help Lyall, Alan would no doubt prefer Grant handle the pouring. He was a tall, strong Scot. Surely he could pour a little drink down a crazy woman’s throat, right?

  Tankard in hand, he started forward, explaining as he advanced. “Lyall, this is the tea ye requested. If ye will but part yer lips, I will help ye drink.”

  Lyall listened. Parched lips parted, allowing the liquid to go into her mouth and dribble down her throat; when no more could go down her gullet she swallowed.

  After drinking the strange brew, Lyall’s body relaxed. Limp arms laid by her side, her eyelids closed, and she slumped. Grant caught her before she slipped to the floor. The burden was carried to the bed, laid down, and covered.

  Once comfort was ensured, Grant faced Alan. “Can ye get a servant or someone to come and sit in this room?”

  “Nay, I canna.”

  Confusion knit Grant’s brow. “Why not? Ye are laird. Go fetch a servant and tell them to sit with Lyall till she wakes up.”

  “Nay, I will not. Ye don’t understand how these people feel. The physician wasn’t as afraid as some of the others in the keep.” A glance was directed toward the floor, taking in the still form of the physician. Then a shifty glance was sent in the direction of the bed. Rab Burns’s daughter appeared innocent, laying there sleeping. Chest rose and fell with an even rhythm just like a normal person. Assured the tormentor of persons couldn’t hear, Alan continued, “She tortured these people.”

  With a quizzical expression, Grant asked, “What could Lyall have possibly done that would make them behave like Duff?”

  “I know ye might find it hard to believe. Mayhap she was a completely different person when she married Cainneach.”

  Grant mumbled, “Not hardly.”

  Alan ignored him and explained, “Lyall would add wisteria or fern spores to meals just to make people sick. Then she would sit in the corner and snicker to herself about the trick she’d pulled while watching the residents retch. Rab said Lyall created an imaginary friend, and when she pulled these tricks, she would go into the corner and laugh with them. The truth, of course, is anyone’s guess. Something else, she would put burrs under the men’s saddles so when they rode, their horses would throw their riders. She would rip an article of clothing in a strategic place so when an individual would bend or stoop over, there would be an embarrassing rip. She—”

  Grant couldn’t help but feel Alan’s shared events were things a child would do. Perhaps the Burns’s men were not as thick-skinned as the Camerons and Sinclairs. Now if the new laird wanted to discuss torturing a keep or an individual, the things Lyall had done to Cainneach would raise the hair on a man’s arms. Instead of arguing he said, “I understand. Bryce and one of the other men will sit with her.”

  “Ye realize, we never got to question Lyall.”

  “Aye, I do. But surely ye don’t think the wee lass had anything to do with her father’s death. Why, she seems distraught over the laird’s demise. While she could be fakin’, I don’t think she could do it so well.”

  “Aye, I agree Lyall does seem distraught.”

  “Yet ye don’t seem convinced.”

  “I don’t know about much, but I do know Lyall was born for the stage, and I wouldn’t trust the lass as far as I could throw her.”

  Leaving Alan, Grant retrieved two men to stand guard. With them in position, Grant and Alan helped the waking physician to unsteady feet; then they walked out of the room together. The physician stumbled away, claiming unfinished business. Alan left to plan the burial, while Grant contemplated his next move. Should Duncan be informed of the delay? Or should Grant wait until there was more news? Right now, there were too many questions and not enough answers.

  ****

  The three men left the room, and Lyall’s eyes popped open, a slow maniacal grin splitting her crazed face.

  ****

  The thoughts of writing a letter to Duncan reminded Grant of the letter he’d intercepted in Aberdeen. His father, Laird Cameron, had never been good about writing, but Grant’s younger brother, Samuel, loved to write. The only time word was received from the family, it came from Samuel. Resting on a quiet grassy knoll outside the keep walls, he pulled the letter from his sporran and began to read:

  Grant, my dearest brother, I hope this letter finds ye well and in good spirits. Father and the girls send their love. Everyone misses ye, and we all hope ye don’t wait until Father perishes to return home for a visit.

  Grant sighed. Every letter began the same way. Samuel was forever trying to get him to come home. He held nothing against home. In fact he loved every member of the Cameron clan. He had a very natural, healthy relationship with his father.

  Slowly memories resurfaced as to why he’d left home.

  Cainneach had married Maisie, a frail Scottish girl he’d met while he and Grant were squiring. Cainneach hadn’t gotten his father’s permission to wed and had been terrified to take the lass to the Sinclair keep. When the couple discovered they were expecting, Grant convinced Cainneach of his need to return home.

  Cainneach went home, and the Sinclair’s had accepted their new daughter-in-law and the impending grandchild with enjoyment. Unfortunately the joyous reunion with their son and the new additions to the family didn’t last long because Maisie passed away from this world as Cainneach’s son entered into it. Grant had been visiting the Sinclair keep and saw the devastation his friend experienced with the loss of his wife. Cainneach had overcome his loss to raise his son. He said, “He is part of her.”

  Once Cainneach was settled, Grant had gone home and developed a regular routine. Then news arrived of the little boy’s passing. Cainneach requested Grant’s presence. Without a second thought, he’d left home and family and went to Cainneach’s aid.

  When Fletcher, Cainneach’s father, passed, and Cainneach became the new Sinclair Laird, he asked Grant to stay on as second-in-command. Grant had never regretted staying with his friend. But now Duncan was laird. If the new leader turned out to be capable, perhaps it was time for him to return home. Duncan should be allowed to pick his own second.

  A strong wind blew and picked at the letter resting idly in his hands. Since the rest of the day was uncertain, Grant finished reading.

  I have news for ye. Ye are an uncle yet again. Rona and the other girls just keep pushing them out, and Papa couldn’t be happier. But even in his happiness, he never fails to mention how his two sons have yet to reproduce. I have assured him our time will come, but he is more concerned with his time than ours.

  Alas, I come to the point of my missive. I am leaving, Grant. I have felt the tug to travel and witness to the lost souls of Ireland. By the time ye receive this letter, I will be there and starting my new life.

  As soon as I arrive at my destination, I will send another missive yer way, so ye will know how to reach me. Lastly, know this: I will always be yer most faithful and loving brother, Samuel.

  What was the lad up to? thought Grant as he refolded the parchment and placed it in the leather sporran. Father had surely tried to d
issuade Samuel from going. They had to know about the trouble Queen Mary was causing for the Protestants of Ireland. How could his brother, a young Protestant minister, believe he could waltz into this environment and come out unscathed?

  As soon as Grant was able, he would pen a missive to his father with his temporary location so he wouldn’t miss any news of Samuel. Perhaps this would be a good time to pen a missive to Duncan as well. The laird would need to know of Lyall and her deteriorating condition.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Arbella searched for Duncan. Since he’d taken his sword, she assumed the lists would be a practical place to look, but upon arrival, he wasn’t there.

  Picking a spot in the yard, Arbella made a complete circle, spinning on the tip of a soft-soled slipper. As she twirled around and came to a stop, she saw him. He was standing in front of a small hut, bare from the waist up. An ax rested beside him, chopped wood littered the ground. He was bent over, conversing with a little girl.

  “Lass, ye must run along and play.”

  “Whatever for?” she asked.

  Duncan laughed at the freckled face girl. “Because I am chopping wood, and I don’t wish for ye to get hurt. And because I told ye to do so. I am laird.”

  Lips pursed in a rosy pout. “I never get to enjoy myself.”

  “May I ask what do ye find enjoyable about me chopping wood?”

  “Aye, ye may ask. I was enjoyin’ lookin’ upon ye. Yer wife is a lucky woman.”

  Arbella snickered under her breath as Duncan’s faced mimicked a red apple.

  “Now, little lady, where did ye hear such a thing?”

  “My sister. She says it all the time about the boys who come to the house.”

  “Humph, I think ye need to go inside and check on yer mother.”

  With a low bow, the lass added, “Aye, my laird,” before skipping inside. Duncan watched the girl leave, shaking his head.

  Arbella watched from a distance as her husband picked up the ax, placed a piece of wood straight up, and proceeded to split more logs. Arms and back rippled with activity as the ax went up and came down. The little girl was correct; his wife was lucky indeed.

  She wanted his attention. But how could she get it without startling him? Gnawing at her lip with worry, she attempted to think of the best approach when a yell was heard. The sound was coming from somewhere behind her.

  “Get out of the way!”

  In slow motion, her gaze drifted upward. A large, full wagon careened toward her. Arbella wanted to move but was frozen to the ground with fear. This was it. The bad luck and death that always followed her was here. Only this time, she would be the one to exit the world. With her eyes closed, she waited for the impact of the wagon, but instead she went sailing through the air, landing against the hard ground. Something warm and heavy lay across her. A struggle ensued for breath.

  “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 ‘Uncan’. 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.”