She absently stroked his cheek, sadness clinging to her like the most stubborn vine. Nay, those dreams were gone. Her life would be very different now. It was doubtful Bowen’s offer of a place in his clan, firmly under the Montgomerys’ protection, was still in place, but perhaps he would see fit to place her in an abbey as she’d first requested.
Making the best of less than desirable circumstances had become a way of life for her. She’d been forced to do it this last year, and she could do it again.
Chapter 18
Genevieve woke from a deep sleep with a start. Her eyes opened to darkness, and for a moment she was completely disoriented. All she knew was that she wasn’t in her chamber, and it took her several long moments to place herself as the day’s events came crashing back.
She scrambled out of bed, horrified that she’d fallen asleep and, worse, she’d been curled up right next to Bowen in the small space between him and the edge of the bed.
She sat up, wiping the sleep from her eyes and pushing her hair back from her face. The strands were in disarray, billowing wildly about her head.
What if someone had come in? What if someone had discovered her boldly sleeping next to the laird? She’d taken great liberties, and it had been a stupid risk.
She pushed up from the bed, desperate to put distance between her and Bowen. Stumbling in the darkness, she reached blindly for the candle that had been burning beside the bed only to find it nearly burnt to the wick.
In the hearth there were faintly glowing coals, not much left of the roaring fire that had burned hours earlier when she’d stitched Bowen’s wounds.
Sleep and disorientation still clinging fiercely, she set about lighting a few of the extinguished candles and then built the fire back up so that a respectable blaze burned. Then she turned back to Bowen, hoping beyond hope that he hadn’t been disturbed by her activities.
To her relief, he was still asleep.
She all but sagged back into the chair, reprimanding herself soundly for the urge that had overtaken her to be closer to the laird. If she’d learned nothing else, it had been to be cautious in all things, and yet the laird inspired her to idiocy.
Her eyes burned with the need to return to sleep, but she dared not allow herself to do so. Who knew what other foolishness she might embark on?
She yawned broadly, her jaw nearly cracking with the effort. Eyes watering, she focused her attention on Bowen, his face softly illuminated by candlelight.
He stirred, and again she breathed a sigh of relief that she’d awakened when she had. She wouldn’t have wanted the laird to awaken with her curled up next to him like a satisfied kitten.
He began to thrash about, his head twisting from side to side, until she feared he’d toss himself right out of the bed. She rose, instantly leaning over him, trying the method of touching his face, but this time he would not be calmed.
A ragged moan escaped his throat, and she realized that he must be in pain again. It had been quite some time since the earlier dram, but she’d require the help of one of the men to force another down his throat.
Hurrying to the door, she hoped that either Geoffrey or Deaglan would be outside, as Brodie had assured her. When she opened it, she breathed a sigh of relief to see that, indeed, both men were at their posts—one beside the door and the other on the other side of the hall, sitting on the floor, his back against the wall for support.
When they saw her, they rose to their feet, any sign of fatigue quickly wiped away.
“I have need of your aid,” she whispered. “The laird is in pain and ’tis time for another potion. I cannot do it myself.”
“Of course, mistress,” Geoffrey said. “Deaglan and I will see to the matter.”
The men followed her back inside, and Deaglan collected the small cup that held the mixture he’d concocted. With Geoffrey’s help, they held Bowen’s head and shoulders up enough that they could tilt the cup into his mouth.
Bowen coughed and sputtered, but most of the liquid went down.
They settled Bowen back onto the bed and then turned to Genevieve.
“He should rest easy for the next several hours,” Deaglan said. “If you have need to return to your chamber, we will keep watch until you return.”
She wasn’t sure what to make of that. Whether it was an offer for her to rest or a suggestion because she stank of blood and sweat from the earlier battle. Either way, she must look a mess and, truth be told, she would appreciate the opportunity to wash.
“I should like to take a moment to change my clothing and rid myself of the smell of blood,” she said with a faint smile. “I shall return in a short while.”
Both men nodded, and she quickly retreated from the chamber to go next door to her own.
Stripping out of her clothing, she went to the small basin along the wall and poured water from the pitcher into the washing bowl. She’d love a full bath—it might take two to scrub the blood, dirt, and smell of death from her body—but she dare not risk venturing outside the keep, not only because of the dangers presented by a possible attack but from the McHughs themselves.
She had no way of gauging the current mood of the clan, or if Brodie had indeed uncovered more traitors than the one who had tried to murder Bowen. It was a sure bet that by now word would have spread as to her part in Meagan’s husband’s death and that she’d singled him out as a betrayer.
Having intelligence didn’t signal being a coward. A smart lass knew when to stay out of direct fire, and she had no intention of braving the McHugh clan until she was certain as to what occurred after the attack on the keep.
She brushed her hair and took a washing cloth to the long strands, scrubbing as best she could the dirt and matted blood from her tresses. When she was reasonably satisfied with the result, she donned a clean dress and then sank onto her bed. A bed that she still marveled was her own. That she didn’t have to share with anyone or fear that she would have unwanted bodies there.
She lay her head down and closed her eyes, enjoying the comfort of her pillow. It was heaven. And yet she’d slept so soundly next to Bowen. It was an oddity she wasn’t sure she understood.
Never did she sleep too soundly. Too many times she had awakened to Ian’s abuse, and she’d learned to always be prepared—even in sleep—for the worst. But the entire keep could have been laid siege to over the last hours and she wouldn’t have known.
Surely it was because she was exhausted from the stress of the day, as well as from the mind-numbing task of stitching Bowen’s wounds.
It had been no easy feat, and there had been extraordinary pressure for her to seal the wound properly. One misstep could have earned her serious reprimand and censure. She shuddered to think what her punishment might have been.
One of the ties securing the furs over the window had loosened, and a light breeze lifted the end, allowing the first faint shades of dawn into the room. Soon the keep would be alive with activity, though she was uneasy about the sort of goings-on that would be initiated.
’Twould be best if she remained here or in Bowen’s room until such time as she was forced out. She had no desire to face what awaited her. She was delaying the inevitable, but at the moment, she cared not. She was more concerned with her self-preservation than with anything else.
When a knock sounded at her door, her dread immediately intensified. She scolded herself for being so quick to draw conclusions. It could simply be one of Bowen’s men, seeking a report on his condition. Or Brodie himself come to ask how Bowen had fared through the night.
As she was attempting to right herself enough so that she could rise from the bed, the door swung open and she frowned at the breach of her privacy. Not that she’d been guaranteed any such thing. But she’d assumed, and she should have learned better by now.
Relief was instant when she saw it was Taliesan poking her head through the door. Genevieve immediately smiled in welcome, happy to see a friendly face.
“Oh, ’tis good you’re awake. I much wanted to speak to you regarding the laird’s condition and what is happening within the clan,” Taliesan said. “May I enter?”
“Of course,” Genevieve said, motioning her forward.
She patted the edge of the bed encouragingly, aware that she’d never been so openly inviting to another person in all her time here.
Taliesan seemed delighted with the overture and limped over, her gait much quicker and smoother this morn. Genevieve hoped that meant Taliesan’s leg wasn’t paining her as much as usual.
Taliesan settled on the bed next to Genevieve and impulsively reached over to hug her.
“What was that for?” Genevieve asked in bewilderment. But she found she didn’t mind the affectionate gesture at all. It made her feel … wanted. Liked.
“You just looked as though you needed it,” Taliesan said kindly.
“I did, and thank you,” Genevieve said with a smile.
Taliesan’s expression sobered. “What goes on, Genevieve? The Armstrongs and Montgomerys alike are being close-lipped about the laird’s condition, which has fueled gossip that he lies dying in his chamber. There is much worry as to what our fate will be if that happens. ’Tis widely known that Patrick instigated the attack, and that some of the men who swore allegiance to the laird turned betrayer.”
“How many?” Genevieve asked sharply.
Taliesan’s eyes widened. “You do not know?”
Genevieve grimaced. “I know not anything. I spent the night tending the laird’s wounds and watching for any sign of fever. I’ve only just come to my chamber a short time ago.”
“Then ’tis sorry I am for disturbing you. You should be resting.”
Genevieve shook her head. “I am well rested,” she lied. “I would know what is occurring within the clan. Brodie left Bowen’s chamber last eve to determine if there were more traitors in our midst.”
Taliesan sighed, her mouth turning down in an unhappy frown. “ ’Tis a sad and disgraceful tale I bring you. There were three other McHugh warriors who remained behind and made a vow to support Bowen Montgomery. ’Twas discovered that they played a part in the killings of two men. One a Montgomery and one an Armstrong. They are to be executed, and the clan is in uproar over it.”
“ ’Tis not less than they deserve,” Genevieve spat. “They follow in the old laird’s footsteps. A path steeped in treachery and dishonor. They bring shame to your clan’s name. The clan should be first to want justice to be served.”
“But they are husbands and fathers to our clan’s women and children,” Taliesan said quietly. “ ’Tis not such a simple matter when wives and children will be left without a husband and father.”
“Aye, I know it, but they should have given the matter due consideration. The consequences of their actions were spelled out long before they chose to travel the path they trod.”
“When will it end?” Taliesan asked softly. “Our clan is bathed in blood, betrayal, and treachery. All because of Ian McHugh.”
“Nay,” Genevieve said fiercely. “He carries not the full blame. Patrick McHugh allowed his son free rein. Patrick was laird, not Ian. He was too weak and dishonorable to stand up to his son and correct the wrongs that have brought this clan low. ’Tis on him and Ian that the clan should turn their ire. Not me. Not the Montgomerys or the Armstrongs. They set in motion all that has occurred when they made the choices they made.”
“You are right, of course,” Taliesan murmured. “But ’tis still sad that brother is pitted against brother. Father against son. Wife against husband. ’Tis no position for any clansman to be in. We are family. If we don’t stand together, how can we stand for anything else?”
Genevieve grasped Taliesan’s hand. “Aye, ’tis sad indeed, but there is naught you and I can do to change it. ’Tis their decisions. Their choices. They must live with the consequences.”
Taliesan sighed. “I know you are right, but I still have no love of the entire sordid mess. It makes me fear for the future of our clan—our bloodline. Already we have a Montgomery laird. How long will it be before there are none of us left and we are but spoils of war, scattered to the winds, our name naught but a black memory carried to generations after us.”
“You take far too much on your shoulders, Taliesan,” Genevieve said gently. “You are wise for one so young, and you think deeper on matters than your kinsmen. You can only take responsibility for your own actions and act with honor in every encounter.”
“I know you are right. ’Tis not me who is wise, Genevieve, but you.”
“If I was wise, I would have found a way to kill Ian McHugh long ago and save us all the misery of his actions,” Genevieve said, her voice so cold it sent a shiver down her own spine.
And ’twas true enough. Killing Ian would surely have meant her own death sentence, and yet that would have been preferable to the life she’d endured. But she’d stubbornly clung to her existence, refusing to be beaten down. Her damnable pride would not allow her to concede defeat to Ian or any other McHugh, most especially not Patrick McHugh. She would not have given him the satisfaction of ordering her death. And that was supposing that she would have even been killed. Just as easily she could have been consigned a fate as bad as the one Ian had heaped upon her. Given to the McHugh men to play the unwilling whore. Passed from one to the other and perhaps given as bounty to another clan.
Nay, as long as she had hope of one day regaining control over her destiny, she had silently endured, knowing that one day … one day she would be in a position to seek justice. That time had come the day before, when Patrick had been in her sights and she’d let the arrow fly.