Chapter Thirteen

Ian ran out of the empty Great Hall to find Emily lying in a heap at the bottom of the spiral stairs, crumpled bedsheets on the floor beside her. She wasn’t moving and her eyes were closed. Rushing over, he knelt down, his fingers searching for a pulse along her neck. He breathed a sigh of relief when he felt a faint but steady beat.

His hand lingered there for a moment, savoring the satiny softness of her skin, before he noticed the bump on her forehead that was already beginning to swell. He touched it gingerly and she moaned slightly, but her eyes remained closed. He looked at the winding stairs. She must have tripped on the sheets coming down and, with no railing, had pitched off them. Guilt washed over him and he chastised himself for allowing her to stay in the old part of the castle. He should have insisted that she move closer to her sisters. At least he could remedy that right now by taking her to one of those bedchambers.

As he started to slide his arms beneath her shoulders, he paused, looking down at her face. Long eyelashes, darker than her hair, rested against the delicate curve of her cheekbones. Her lush, full lips were slightly parted. A sudden urge to kiss them jolted him like a lightning bolt. He had no business kissing Emily, especially since she was unconscious. Taking advantage of a woman was not something he did, but the urge was nearly irresistible. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d so desperately wanted to taste a woman’s mouth. Certainly not the occasional tavern wench who slaked his lust in exchange for coin.

Ian looked around. The foyer in front of the Great Hall was entirely empty, workers having gone to the fields and the other servants busy in the newer part of the castle with their daily routines. He was alone with Emily. He glanced down at her once more. There was more color to her cheeks and her breathing was even. She would no doubt stir in a moment or two. What harm could come from stealing a wee kiss before she did? No one would be the wiser…

He bent his head and brushed his lips across hers. The softness and warmth nearly undid him, and he wanted more. Wanted to tease and nibble and take. Wanted to wake her with dozens of kisses. Somehow he managed to lift his head, although his eyes lingered on her delectable mouth. With a sigh, he slid his arms beneath her shoulders and knees and lifted her. As he did, her head fell against his shoulder and, although he knew it was because she was unconscious, it felt right—like she belonged in his arms.

He gave himself an inward shake. Such thinking would only lead to trouble. His clan was depending on him to help restore their lands, not conspire with the enemy. He looked down at Emily once more. She didn’t seem so much like the enemy anymore, even if she was English.

More foolish thinking.

“Cad a tharla?” Fiona rushed from the solar as he strode past it. “What happened?”

Juliana appeared behind her. “What’s wrong?”

“Is Emily hurt?” Lorelei crowded behind them.

Down the hall, Ian kicked the door open to an empty bedchamber. “She fell off the stairs while carrying some bedsheets.”

“A Mhuire Mhàthair!” Fiona exclaimed. “And damnation!”

Ian lifted an eyebrow at his sister. “Calling on the virgin and cursing at the same time might nae get results.”

“Ye ken what I mean! ’Tis time ye talk to Maggie about taking the servants to task for nae treating Emily proper.”

“That is not entirely your housekeeper’s fault,” Juliana said before he could respond. “Emily likes to be independent.”

Yes, she does. Ian lowered her carefully to the bed. She probably—most certainly?—would not have agreed to the kiss had she been awake, but he couldn’t truly regret the small pleasure.

Emily moaned again, her eyes fluttered, then opened. She blinked up at them and tried to sit up but fell back. She raised a hand to her temple and winced. “I guess I took a nasty fall.”

“Ye did,” Fiona said, fluffing a pillow and stuffing it behind her to help her sit.

“’Tis good ye remember,” Ian said, “but I will send for Old Gwendolyn just to make sure ye are all right.”

“Is that necessary?” Emily asked. “I hate to be a bother.”

“’Tis nae bother.” Fiona glared at Ian. “If my eejit brother had ordered the servants to help ye, ye would nae have fallen.”

“Ye already made that point.” Ian turned to Emily. “’Tis better our healer look at ye, since ye were unconscious for a few minutes.”

She gave him a puzzled look, and he hoped she hadn’t been more seriously hurt, but then she nodded, stopping at once.

“Ouch.”

“That settles it then,” Fiona said. “I will ride over myself and fetch Gwendolyn.”

“And send Maggie up,” Ian said.

A few minutes later his housekeeper arrived, a contrite look on her face. Ian had no doubt Fiona had already let her feelings be known, but he wasn’t going to admonish Maggie in front of the Englishwomen.

“I’ve sent for the healer, but do what ye can until she gets here.”

She nodded and less than a minute later Ian found himself on the other side of a closed door while maids bustled by with cool water and cloths. He could hear female voices engaged in conversation, and he hoped they weren’t wearing Emily out with their questions about what happened.

He was glad she remembered going down the stairs and falling, but equally glad she would have no memory of what else had taken place. That would be his little secret.

…

Ian MacGregor had kissed her. At first, Emily thought she’d dreamed it, drifting in some sort of hazy trance, feeling the lightest brushing of his lips across hers. And then, as she floated toward consciousness, she realized what she’d felt was real. His mouth, gentle as a zephyr breeze, had slowly stroked across her own, lingering for just a moment, teasing her senses before he broke the contact. And, in some foggy, recessed area of her mind, she’d wanted more…a sensation she couldn’t remember ever having. Still, she had been too befuddled to open her eyes or even make a sound. The last thing she remembered was him picking her up and tucking her close. She’d experienced another strange sensation as she’d nestled against him and allowed herself to drift away once more. She had felt safe.

The bedchamber he’d taken her to suddenly felt empty as he was shooed out the door, even though it was crowded with her sisters, the housekeeper, and what seemed like a dozen maids, coming and going.

“I am sure I am quite all right,” she said as Lorelei dipped a cloth in cold water and pressed it to the bump on her head. “Oh, that does feel wonderful.”

“Which just proves you might not be as ‘all right’ as you think,” Juliana said, wringing out a second cloth.

“We will see when Gwendolyn gets here.” The housekeeper looked around the room as if to make sure all was in order. “I will go downstairs and make ye a fresh pot of tea with some honey. ’Tis always good for what ails ye.”

Emily wasn’t sure if Maggie was making the overture because Ian had given orders or because she was sincere. Either way, perhaps it was a start to a reconciliation.

As she bustled out, Emily could hear male voices in the hallway, probably Ian’s brothers or uncles come to find out what all the ruckus was about, since so many servants had congregated. It didn’t take long for the voices to fade, and she wondered if Ian had left as well. It was rather nice knowing he’d lingered.

A short time later, Fiona returned with the healer in tow. She promptly dismissed the maids, although Juliana and Lorelei insisted on staying. Nodding once, Gwendolyn then poked and prodded Emily to make sure the only injury she had was the bump on her head. She tsked when she examined it.

“Ye might as well let the laird in,” she said, without turning around. “He will want to ken what I say and I doona like repeating myself.”

Emily exchanged a surprised look with her sisters. There had been no noise, not even boots shuffling, outside the door. How had the healer known Ian was there?

But he was. When Juliana opened the door, he nearly fell through, like some small boy listening at a keyhole.

“Is Em—the countess—going to be all right?” he asked.

The healer straightened with surprising agility and, as a sunbeam from the window lit her face, she seemed younger somehow. Odd. Usually sunlight made people look older.

“Fiona told me that the lady was nae conscious when ye brought her to the room. Do ye have any idea how long she was such?”

“Just a few minutes,” Ian answered. “I was still in the Great Hall when I heard her scream and fall. I brought her directly here.”

Not directly, Emily thought and tried not to smile. There had been the kiss…

The healer studied him and, as Emily watched, a slight flush crossed his face. For a moment, she wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

“Just a few minutes,” he reaffirmed.

“’Tis good, then. Even so, ’tis hard to ken how hard she hit her head when she fell.” The healer rummaged in the knapsack she’d brought and pulled out two small bags of herbs. “I will make a poultice of comfrey and foxglove to help with the swelling, but ye must be sure the lady stays awake for the rest of the day.” She looked at Emily. “Just last year I treated a young man with a blow to his head. I cautioned his father to keep him awake, but he didna listen. The lad didna wake up.”

The words had a chilling effect, which was probably just what Old Gwendolyn had intended. “I will stay awake.”

“I will make sure she does,” Ian added.

Lorelei pointed to her sister. “We will sit with her, too.”

“Aye. See that ye do.” The healer looked satisfied that she’d instilled enough fear into them. “I will go then and make the poultice.”

After she left, Ian pulled up a chair by the window. Fiona gave him a curious look. “’Tis sheaving day. Are ye nae going to go check on the fields?”

“My brothers can handle it. I doona think they’ve left yet, so ye can tell them.”

As much as Emily liked the fact that he wanted to stay, she also didn’t want his clansmen thinking he was neglecting his duties because of her. “Really, if you have matters to attend to—”

“I am staying.”

Lorelei stared at him. “This is not proper.”

He raised a brow. “’Tis my home. I say what is proper.”

Juliana pursed her mouth. “You are almost as arrogant as your brother.”

His brow went slightly higher. “I assume ye mean Rory?”

Surprisingly, Emily saw a faint blush on her sister’s cheeks. Of course, it could have been anger, since Juliana tossed her head. “He would be the one.”

A corner of his mouth quirked, but before he could answer, someone knocked. Fiona opened the door to find Hamish standing there.

“What is it?” Ian asked.

“’Tis a problem at the distillery. One of the wash backs has developed a crack. Broderick asks that ye come at once.”

“Damnation.” Ian rose. The wash backs were where the fermenting of the sweet syrup extracted from the mash tuns was turned into alcohol. If the pine vat had a crack and the liquid started leaking, it would mean they would have less whisky to distill. Not good when they’d just signed a contract to sell a good amount to White’s. And, with the harvesting coming to a finish, he couldn’t afford to call in hands to help repair it.

“Go.” Even as she spoke, a maid appeared with the poultice and tea. “As you can see, I will be fine.”

He hesitated, then finally nodded. “I will be back as soon as I can.”

A warm feeling enveloped her as she leaned against the headboard and sipped the strong tea, poultice balanced on her head. Even if Ian couldn’t stay, it was his intention that was important. And, besides, they couldn’t afford to lose a batch of whisky.

She sipped more tea contentedly. It really was quite good.

…

It was a good thing Broderick had sent for him, after all, Ian thought as he started to ride home a little over an hour later. The crack in the pine had been fresh, not completely gone through the thickness of the wood, and they had been able to repair it without wasting any of the fermenting barley.

He had barely crossed the old drawbridge and entered the bailey when the heavy wooden door to the castle flew open and Fiona bounded down the steps. From the expression on her face, he knew something was wrong. He reined in and slid off the stallion at the same time.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“’Tis Emily…we canna keep her awake!”

She’d hardly finished the sentence when he ran past her into the castle and hurried to the bedchamber where he’d left Emily. He pushed the door open without fanfare and then stopped dead in his tracks.

Juliana and Lorelei each had one of Emily’s arms around their shoulders while she hung like dead weight between them. They were attempting to walk with her, but her feet dragged and her head lolled.

He reached them in three strides. “Let me take her.” Not waiting for affirmation from either of them, he disengaged Lorelei, tugging Emily’s arm around his neck while his hand slid round her waist. Holding her against him, he managed to shuffle forward. Since the chamber wasn’t large, it was more like a macabre dance of three steps forward, turn—while Emily slipped down his side and he propped her up—before taking three steps back. Then repeating. She mumbled to herself and her eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t wake up.

“Have ye sent for the healer?”

“Yes, but—”

“I am already here.” Old Gwendolyn entered the room, followed by Fiona. In her hand she held a bag of herbs. “I was going to leave these with the comfrey and foxglove but forgot.” She squinted at Emily and squeezed her cheeks. “Mayhap ’twas nae a mistake after all. It seems the faeries kenned I was needed.”

“Do ye ken what is wrong with her?”

“I doona work magic, laird. I need to examine her first. Place her in the chair.”

“Shouldna I keep her moving?”

The healer gave him a chiding look. “’Tis nae helping, is it? And I canna see what is wrong if yer prancing about.”

Ian clamped his mouth shut and carefully set Emily down, then stepped back. “Hurry,” he said when the healer simply stood there, observing.

Gwendolyn ignored his command and turned to Fiona. “How long has she been like this?”

“I am nae sure.” Fiona shrugged. “Mayhap less than an hour?”

Ian glared at her, then at Emily’s sisters. “Were ye nae in the room?”

“We were,” Fiona shot back. “We were all sitting here, talking and sipping tea. Emily was a bit quiet, but ’tis to be expected when her head hurt.”

“Then she started to get sleepy,” Juliana said. “We tried to get her to stand up, but she just fell back on the bed—”

“And then she was out,” Lorelei finished. “We tried to wake her, but Fiona said not to shake her.”

“Fiona was right.” The healer gently squeezed Emily’s cheeks again. “’Tis dangerous with a blow to the head.” Emily mumbled something incoherent and her eyes slowly opened.

Ian frowned when he saw how bloodshot they were. “What is wrong with her? Why are her eyes like that? Is she bleeding inside?”

Old Gwendolyn squinted, then leaned forward to sniff her breath and looked up. “Did ye put whisky in the tea?”

“No, of course not,” Juliana said. “It was just tea, with a little sugar.”

Ian eyed the tea service sitting on the small table by the window. “Did ye all drink from the same pot?”

“Yes,” Lorelei said. “One of the maids brought it up shortly after you left.”

“But…” Fiona paused. “Emily was already drinking a cup when the pot of tea arrived, remember? Another maid had brought it with the poultice.”

Ian reached for the pewter mug sitting on the bedside chest. “Was this her cup?” When Fiona nodded, he bent his head. He blinked as his eyes smarted. “’Tis whisky all right.”

The healer frowned. “Whisky could make her sleepy.”

He remembered how Emily had drunk that dram when she’d first arrived. “I doona think a bit of whisky would cause her to pass out.” He bent and sniffed again. The strong fumes of alcohol assailed him again along with a sweet smell. Could someone have put something else in the tea?

Emily mumbled and attempted to sit straighter, although she was not very successful. Still, he breathed a sigh of relief that she was at least awake.

“Find the maid who brought this,” he said to Fiona. “And take her to the library.”

His sister’s eyes widened, but she merely nodded and left. He turned to the healer. “Ye will stay with Emily?”

“Aye, laird.”

By the time he got to the library, Fiona was there with a defiant-looking Maggie and a trembling maid. Apparently, Fiona had told them what had transpired. Ian tried to rein in his temper and turned to his housekeeper.

“Did ye prepare a special cup of tea for Lady Woodhaven?”

“Aye.” She lifted her chin. “The blend I use with rose hips and mint. I mixed it with honey.”

That would explain the sweet smell. “Did ye add whisky?”

She frowned. “Nae. Why would I do that?”

“Whisky was found in the cup.” He turned to the maid who looked on the verge of tears. “Did ye add whisky?”

“Nae! Nae!” She started to cry.

Maggie put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “How would she have access to spirits?”

It was a logical question, but he had to ask the maid anyway. “I doona ken, but someone put whisky in that cup. It made Emily—the countess—drowsy and she fell asleep, which was very dangerous.” He took a deep breath and gentled his voice. “Effie,” he said to the maid. “Did ye by any chance leave the cup standing somewhere before ye took it to the bedchamber?”

She shook her head, snuffling into the back of her hand.

Maggie looked speculative. “I set the cup on the counter to steep a bit, then I walked to the door with Gwendolyn in case she had any more instructions. As I was returning, I asked Effie to take the tea up to Lady Woodhaven.”

At least she was addressing Emily by her title instead of Sassenach, but Ian hadn’t time for niceties right now. “So the cup was unattended for a few minutes?”

Fiona frowned. “Ye think someone else put whisky in it?”

“Someone else had to,” he replied.

“But who would want to do that?”

“’Tis a good question.” Who would have access to whisky, as well as not draw attention to himself or herself by being in the kitchen? Any number of clansmen might have come through to take a bit of bread and cheese with them to the fields, but none would be carrying a whisky bottle at that time of day. His brothers… He couldn’t picture any of them—even Devon—stealthily pouring whisky into a teacup meant for Emily. Probably especially not Devon… He would just say it was a waste of good Scots whisky on a Sassenach. That thought relieved Ian a little, but he still grimaced.

“’Tis a good question,” he said again, “and I intend to find out.”

…

As Ian made his way back to Emily’s chamber, he pondered whether or not whoever had added the whisky to the tea had done it deliberately so Emily would fall asleep or because the person thought it might ease the pain. Scots did use whisky as a remedy for a lot of ills. There might have been no malicious intent at all.

He pushed the question to the back of his mind as he entered her room. Emily was sitting in the armchair by the window and, although still pale, she was alert. He winced as she turned her head and he saw the swollen bump already turning purple.

“Does it hurt overmuch?”

“Of course it does.” Juliana gave him a look that made clear she thought he was daft. “Did you expect it would not?”

“The poultices help.” Lorelei placed another on her sister’s injury and held it there. “And we have all been keeping an eye on her.”

“I am right here,” Emily said. “I can speak for myself.”

“But you are not to exert yourself.” Lorelei looked at the healer. “Is that not what you said?”

“Aye,” Old Gwendolyn answered, “but answering a few questions should nae harm her.”

“And I have a few questions,” Ian said.

“Do ye have any for me?” the healer asked. “If nae, I will be leaving. The lass should make a full recovery now that she is awake.”

“Thank ye.” Ian turned to Fiona. “Will ye see Gwendolyn to the door?”

Fiona nodded and looked at Juliana and Lorelei. “Mayhap we should let my brother ask his questions in private?”

Juliana frowned, but Lorelei tugged her sleeve. “I, for one, could use some fresh air.”

“An excellent idea,” Ian said, “and, Fiona, please bring some broth back in a few minutes.” He paused to give her an unspoken message. “Bring it yerself.”

Emily gave him a curious look when they left. “Did the maid confess to adding whisky to my tea?”

He shook his head and told her what had transpired. “Well,” she said when he finished, “it is hardly a crime to add liquor to tea.”

“’Tis close when ’tis enough to make ye pass out.”

She frowned slightly, laying the poultice down. “If that much was added, funny I did not taste it.”

Ian narrowed his eyes in thought. She had a point, especially since he’d seen her drain a dram without repercussions. If two or more drams had been put in, she would surely have noticed the smell, honey-infused or not. The pewter mug wasn’t big enough for that much whisky and tea. “Ye tasted nothing?”

She started to shake her head, then stopped. “No. The tea just tasted strong.”

“Hmmm.” There was no need to prolong the conversation until he could further investigate. “At least, ye will nae have to fash about tripping on the stairs again.”

“Oh?”

“I am having yer things moved in here. Ye will stay with the rest of us from now on.”

“But I liked that room. It had… I don’t know… A castle-ish feel to it.”

He lifted a brow. “A castle-ish feel?”

“Yes…very medieval, like it is a part of history.”

“Aye, ’tis that,” Ian said. “Complete with a ghost that gives ye nightmares.”

Her eyes widened. “You do not believe in ghosts, do you?”

He didn’t, but he hadn’t dismissed the possibility that someone had used the passageway to access her room to scare her. “’Tis nae the point. After Isobel was killed, that part of the castle was nae used for years because the maids were scared to go up there. ’Tis why ye were having to carry the sheets down yourself probably.” He pointed to the bump on her head. “I’ll nae have ye falling again.”

“But I have walked those steps at least a hundred times by now.”

“And ye could have gotten tangled in the sheets carrying them down before.”

She furrowed her brows. “I had the sheets folded over my arm. I did not get tangled in them.”

“Then why did ye stumble?”

“I do not really know.” Her frown deepened. “My foot slipped on one of the boards, I guess. I just remember losing my balance.”

Ian stared at her. “How far up were ye when ye fell?”

“Near the top. I had just taken a few steps down. Why?”

The hair at his nape began to rise, a warning signal, but he didn’t want to worry Emily yet. “The stairs are old and probably need repair. All the more reason to stay in this room.”

Before she could argue with him, Fiona reappeared, a tray with broth and bread in hand. “The bread just came out of the oven,” she said, letting Ian know silently that she had supervised putting together the tray. “I thought Emily would like some to go with the broth that I skimmed from the stewpot.”

He nodded. “Then I will leave ye to it.”

His sister gave him a curious look, but he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he forced himself to walk out at a casual pace, as though his mind weren’t in turmoil. Every nerve ending was on edge, and he hadn’t felt this wary since the days after his stepmother had been killed.

Thankfully, the Great Hall and large foyer were empty, the clansmen still in the fields. Ian picked up the sheets where they’d fallen and shook them, but nothing fell out, which was expected. Then he searched the ground below and around the staircase, but the stone floor was kept clean and there was nothing there, either. He looked up the stairs and began climbing.

It didn’t take long before he discovered the loose board. It stood out at an angle now, no doubt caused when Emily had slipped. Ian bent down, rubbing his thumb across the holes where nails had been. The openings showed fresh wood as though the nails had just been removed. But he hadn’t found any nails on the floor.

His nape hair stood nearly on end. Had someone deliberately loosened the board? Had someone wanted Emily to fall? Maybe to her death?