Another Man's Bride Read online

  Her heels clipped sharply against the stones as she hurried to the solar. Marriage to Alexander Douglas meant a safe haven for her and Kat both, far from the danger they fled at the English court. No handsome face would divert her from that.

  When she had left Kat, her cousin had been sleeping peacefully. Her return found Caitrina hovering over her kinswoman. Kat had twisted herself in the bedding as if trying to flee her illness. Caitrina straightened the quilts, tucking them around her.

  From the grim look on Caitrina’s face, it was plain the news was not good.

  “How does she?”

  Caitrina shifted on her crutch. “The sickness has settled in her lungs. She still burns with fever and grows ever weaker. I have placed another plaster on her chest, I hope I can draw out the fluid and let her breathe clear again.”

  “Have you seen this before?”

  Caitrina hesitated. “I’ll do what I can for her.”

  “And Sir William?”

  “He’s restin’. The bleeding’s stopped, if it doesna go septic he should live but he too now has a fever.”

  “The same as Katherine’s?”

  “I dinna think it plague, neither has the boils and yer nae sick.” She looked at Isabella sharply. “Are ye?”

  Isabella shook her head. “I am tired, but otherwise I am quite well.”

  Isabella looked at the pair of them, Kat and Sir William, and back at Caitrina.

  “Thank you. For your kindness to them, and to me.”

  Caitrina tucked her chin, now busying herself with the pots at the fire. “’Tis who I am to help those who hurt, ye neednae thank me.”

  “I do nonetheless. If there is anything I can do to help, please tell me.”

  “They’re peaceful now. Perhaps ye should go and sleep a bit.”

  “Methinks I will sit me by Kat awhile.”

  As Caitrina returned to her pots at the fire, Isabella settled beside Kat, whose skin seemed parchment thin, her cheekbones too prominent now. Isabella took Kat’s dry, warm hand and suddenly realized that she had had no visions of Kat’s future, just as she had none of the MacKimzie’s attack. Isabella did not know if she should be grateful for this reprieve or desperately frightened.

  It was as if, with Kat’s hold on life so tenuous, her visions had fallen into respectful silence.

  “Hush, lady. ’Tis only me,” Caitrina soothed, her hand gently placed on Isabella’s upraised arm. “Ye were cryin’ in yer sleep.”

  Disoriented, Isabella took in the solar, the fire, the pale morning light eking through the leaded glass windows. Kat slept on the pallet beside hers, the dark shadows still marring the skin under her eyes.

  The vision had returned as a nightmare.

  Queen Joan sobbing against her shoulder. A sickening crack as the floorboard split beneath her feet. The knife plunging into her chest—

  Isabella wiped the tears from her cheeks with cold hands. She made her way to the fire, holding her hands out to it.

  Caitrina offered her a steamy cup. “Ye sat up through most of the night again. Ye must rest more.”

  The warmth of the cup in her hand helped dispel the last of the nightmare and Isabella took a sip of the broth. It was delicious, meaty, hot.

  Another might ask about a dream that set Isabella weeping her in sleep, but not Caitrina. The Scotswoman showed great respect for the privacy of another’s heart and mind. For that Isabella was grateful.

  Colyne’s sister bent over her pots to mix another of her potions, the fire lighting her thoughtful face. Her healing methods were mystifying. She did not bleed her patients to drain the bad blood to restore their humors, or purge them or examine their morning water as any true physician would. The woman’s ways would make her a laughingstock at court. She did not use their birthdates to calculate the influence of the stars; she felt foreheads and asked immodest questions and poked and prodded in a most unmaidenly way.

  Certainly among ladies of the court there were the making of poultices, washes for the eyes to soothe and brighten them, and remedies to restore and enhance beauty were constantly sought. Less public but also whispered were the remedies to stop a wandering lover, to prevent the making of a child or silence gossip.

  Caitrina had no qualm about employing her methods, no matter the age or sex or status of the patient. She never shrank from asking questions, no matter how personal. She treated every wound, sickness of the stomach and bowel with compassion and unblinking fortitude.

  She kept all things, including her hands, scrupulously clean and her tools and herbs organized. She was willing, when Isabella showed interest, to explain how she used wine and whiskey to clean wounds and her needles to sew cuts. She advised honey for coughs, demonstrated how to brew willow bark for fever and headache, and explained how poppy could bring on senselessness when it would be painful to set bones or sew wounds. Caitrina insisted cloths, bandages, and bedding be boiled with lye and scrubbed her hands and instruments with soap and whiskey.

  Isabella took another sip of the broth. If Katherine were hale, she would surely tell Caitrina her thoughts on the Scotswoman’s backward methods.

  “Where did you learn to heal so?”

  Caitrina lifted one shoulder. “My mother taught me some and old Morag too, most I learnt on me own.” She nodded toward a table near the fire. “Colyne brought me books when he came back from the wars.”

  The precious books, three in all, were stacked lovingly beside the girl’s herbs and pots.

  “You can read?” Isabella asked, surprised.

  “Aye, nae many here can or care to. Father was nae much for letters either, but Mother tasked the old priest to teach Colyne some.” She smiled, shaking her head. “He would slip away the moment the poor man’s back was turned and run off to hunt or play.”

  Isabella imagined the MacKimzie as a copper-haired boy, his gray-green eyes full of mischief as he escaped his teacher.

  “I pestered Mother till she tasked the priest to teach me as well,” Caitrina said fondly. “He was near eighty then, and grateful to have one eager pupil, even if it were only a lass.” Caitrina shifted on her crutch. “Ye may look at the books, if ye’ve a mind to it.”

  Isabella carefully lifted one, a well-worn and clearly oft-referenced tome, as Caitrina turned her attention to her herbs.

  “John of Arderne,” Isabella read. She did not know the author but he was plainly a surgeon, not a physician. She wrinkled her nose at the illustration of a man, plainly intended to be John himself, sewing another’s posterior. Kat would discourage her from even looking at such a book. But this man, like Caitrina, knew so much about healing—

  “I spoke with Colyne,” Caitrina said over her shoulder. “He would not have ye restrict yerself to this room. I’faith, he has given ye freedom of the castle and wishes ye join the company as ye will. Ye may go about as ye please if ye nae cross the bridge.”

  “That is very kind.”

  He had little to risk by allowing her some measure of dignity to move about the castle. Even if she could get past the clansmen who guarded the gate and cross the bridge, where could she go in this strange country for help? And how, even with a horse, could she hope to find her way without escort or guard? Not that it mattered, as he must well know. She would never leave Kat.

  Only once had she ventured below stairs to dine. Thinking of that evening now, Isabella glowered at the fire.

  Kat and William were sleeping and Isabella found herself unbearably restless. Impulsively she threw her cloak over her shoulders and told Caitrina to send for her if she were needed. Outside, she pulled her cloak tight and breathed in the icy air of the hall. Even bitterly cold, the fresh air was welcome, as she had spent days surrounded by the smells of illness, unwashed bodies, and Caitrina’s healing herbs.

  Isabella smoothed her hair by the stairway rushes’ faint light. Mary had been tasked with serving her and offered enthusiastic, if inept, efforts as a lady’s maid. The girl proved so hopeless at the task of hair arrangi
ng that Isabella followed the Scots’ custom for unmarried women, and let her hair hang free.

  Still, she wished she had thought to brush it before she left the solar.

  Isabella took the stairs slowly, her fingers on the stone to keep her balance. She recalled the MacKimzie’s russet hair against her cheek when she stumbled, the warmth of his hand, the feel of mouth on hers.

  Would he seat her at his side again?

  Her indoor slippers were silent against the wood floor of the dim outer hall. Light and noise spilled out from the archway of the great hall and Isabella hurried to join the company within.

  A movement in the shadows caught Isabella’s attention and she hesitated. There stood two in a pose such that they could only be lovers seeking a moment alone.

  She took a few uncertain steps closer, then stopped short. A shock ran to her fingertips as she recognized the pair.

  Alisoun brushed her mouth against Colyne’s. She lingered there a moment, then gave a throaty laugh. The MacKimzie’s gaze never left the woman’s face as her hand trailed down his chest. Alisoun bent toward him again and quickly Isabella ducked into the shadow of an alcove.

  Her heart hammered and her throat tightened; the hollow emptiness in her chest surprised her. She pressed her palms against the wall. The edges of the cold stone dug into her skin. How could she have put his mistress so completely out of her mind? As if that one kiss might have preoccupied the MacKimzie as unrelentingly as it had her! What was one kiss with her measured against bedding a woman like that?

  Isabella tried to quiet her breathing. They must not discover her here. How could she escape unseen? Isabella strained to hear the voices and music from the great hall.

  Do they linger still?

  When she gathered the courage to look, she saw that the MacKimzie and his woman had gone.

  She lifted her skirts and ran back to the stairs.

  Since that night, Isabella made every effort to avoid leaving the sickroom. She did not think she could bear to look at him.

  Isabella finished the cup and handed it back to Caitrina.

  “Yer very devoted to her,” Caitrina said, glancing at Katherine.

  “She is my only family,” Isabella replied.

  Caitrina’s face reflected her distress. “Are ye alone in the world then?”

  “Oh, no, I have relatives aplenty! Each one with an eye to marry me and my fortune off to their best advantage. But I am loved only by that sweet lady.”

  “There’s nae more I can do now for these two but let them rest and heal.” Caitrina hesitated. “There is a place I visit, a sacred well, to pray for those under my care. Mayhap ye wish to come too and pray for your Katherine.”

  “Your brother has forbidden me to leave the castle.”

  “Ye must speak with him, if ye wish to go. He has returned from raiding this morning, safe again.” Caitrina’s face was troubled but she smiled a bit. “They lifted two coos this time and none of the lads hurt. His humor is verra good, I should think.”

  Isabella’s eyes widened. “Raiding for cattle? Does he carry out these raids often?”

  Caitrina shrugged. “Our lads raid there, their lads raid here. ’Tis nae often any come back hurt, but I’ve set arms and stitched heads. I fear the day someone dies on either side. The loch will be red with blood, both MacKimzie and MacLaulach.”

  “Could these MacLaulachs lay siege to the castle?”

  “I dinna think they would do more than sneak up and help themselves to a few coos or a sheep.” Caitrina smiled warmly. “Colyne’s in a fine mood and I dinna think he will deny ye this.”

  Isabella could think of nothing she would like less than to ask a favor of the MacKimzie. She looked back at Kat, lying silent and frail, and tears burned her eyes.

  “Yes, I will ask him.”

  Isabella found the MacKimzie in the great hall with Angus and discovered he was not in good spirits after all.

  Her heartbeat quickened at the sight of him. His bright head was bent intently toward Angus as they spoke. From where Isabella stood both men seemed troubled and angry.

  Angus saw her first and he fell silent, nudging the MacKimzie.

  The MacKimzie abruptly broke off when he saw her.

  Isabella swallowed and approached, relying on Kat’s training to carry her through.

  “My lord,” she began, clasping her hands before her to offer a semblance of self-possession. “I am come to make a request.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Aye? What’s this request, then?”

  “I should like to accompany Caitrina to the well, with your permission.”

  “To the well? Wherefore, then?”

  “Why, to offer prayers for the swift recovery of Katherine and Sir William, my lord.”

  “Was this yer idea or Caitrina’s?”

  “The suggestion was Caitrina’s, but I should like to go.”

  “I will ask me sister if ye speak the truth.”

  “Please do, my lord,” Isabella returned coldly. She tilted her head. “Shall we send for her now?”

  MacKimzie waved off the suggestion before dismissing Angus, whose nostrils flared and mouth tightened as he left them. Isabella watched him go, wondering what they had been talking about that left them so at odds.

  The MacKimzie looked at her from beneath russet brows. To be so close to him sent a shock of longing through her.

  She cleared her throat. “My lord, surely this is a small thing to ask? You know I will not try to escape while those dear to me are held here.”

  “Aye, I ken your reasoning.” His jaw tightened. “Still, I canna let ye go.”

  Days of fatigue and the indignity of begging a favor of him overcame Isabella’s self-control. The tears sprung before she could hide them. She curtsied.

  “As it pleases you, my lord,” she said, hating the tremble in her voice.

  He cursed under his breath and pushed himself off the wall to stride past her.

  “My lord!” she called after him. They were prisoners here. She could not afford to antagonize him, no matter how coldly he dismissed her. “Please, if I have given offense—”

  He paused in the archway and spoke sharply over his shoulder. “Be ye in the courtyard and ready to ride in an hour’s time.”

  Isabella held her skirts up as she ran. She had lingered overlong, giving Mary final instructions and fussing over Kat. Had an hour passed already? Had they ridden without her?

  She came to an abrupt stop in the courtyard, her quickened breath visible in the cold air. Caitrina, Malcolm, and Angus were already mounted and waiting, as was Colyne MacKimzie, who was plainly annoyed.

  “You are coming with us?” Isabella asked.

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Aye, if ’tis all the same to ye.”

  “As you like, of course, my lord.” Why could she not look at him—just once—without thinking of that kiss?

  Her gaze dropped from his mouth to his hand. He held the reins of William’s horse with casual confidence. Those same strong hands had run down the length of her back as he pressed her closer; he had been very roused then.

  She dropped her gaze instead to the muddy ground of the courtyard as a boy came, leading her palfrey. She was grateful for the distraction. The stableboy helped her into her saddle, and once seated, Isabella arranged her cape and smoothed her dress to protect her legs from the cold.

  “Whenever yer ready,” MacKimzie said dryly. “We’re none of us tired from ridin’ all night again’ the MacLaulachs, are we, lads?”

  Isabella hurriedly signaled for the boy to hand over the reins. When she had them in hand, she offered MacKimzie a nod.

  MacKimzie blew out his breath and waved to Malcolm ahead, who in turn urged his horse forward to lead them out. Caitrina rode next to Malcolm. That placed Isabella riding beside the MacKimzie with Angus trailing behind them. Isabella’s stomach tightened at the realization she would likely be paired with the MacKimzie, and awkwardly so, for the duration.

  They
rode across the bridge and towards the village. Their group rode at a walk, and Isabella felt acutely conscious of the man riding next to her. The horses were so close their legs touched, and she was aware even of his breathing beside her.

  The MacKimzie’s lands likely held more clansmen elsewhere but this village was small. Fewer than twenty thatched-roof cottages were scattered about near the castle. A path of plain mud led through the center of them. Dogs ran about barking at the riders. Boys and girls clad in tunics and mantles—likely the only clothes they owned—played outside, their faces flushed from the cold.

  It was all so different from London and the crush, intrigue, and richness of Bella Court. Men of her acquaintance ruled vast estates they never bothered to visit. The king’s feasts included whole bulls roasted and swans cooked then their feathers meticulously reattached. The cost of her scarlet cloak alone could have fed this village well for a month.

  Likely none of these folk had been farther from the village than they could walk in half a day. They would not know their own king if he walked among them and she wagered none could even say in which direction Edinburgh lay from here.

  For so few houses there were a considerable number of villagers. A poor village, but its people stood proudly and showed good-natured faces. Many stopped to watch the small party from the castle as they slowly rode through. They called friendly greetings and waved to their recognized chieftain, but many stared openly at the English lady in her vermilion fur-trimmed cloak.

  A little girl, bright-haired and daring, grinned up at Isabella and offered an awkward curtsy.

  Isabella smiled at the child and gave an abbreviated courtier’s bow. The girl ran back giggling to her mother.

  MacKimzie had observed the exchange and smiled slightly.

  “Thank you for allowing me to ride Cobweb,” Isabella said, feeling stiff and self-conscious. “She seems very well cared for.”

  “She’s a fine horse.”

  “She was a gift,” Isabella said, patting the animal affectionately. “I have never known such a smooth ride.”

  “A gift? From Douglas?”