Chapter 33
33
“ H ow is she?” Doughall walked into Sorcha’s chambers, not caring if the healer told him to leave—he was not about to leave Freya’s side again.
He strode to the bed where his wife lay motionless, her hands neatly folded on her chest, and kneeled at her bedside. Gazing at her beautiful face, willing her to wake up, he reached for her hand and held it tightly.
“We willnae ken for a while,” Sorcha replied, washing her hands in a basin while Isla sat off to the side, sipping some medicinal tea. Doughall could smell the bitter herbs from where he knelt.
How do I tell me aunt that her husband—the man she loved—is dead?
He had partially forgotten that Isla would be there, her presence like a thorn in his skull that he could not rip out.
Upstairs, Ersie and a couple of guards were dealing with the aftermath, removing Flynn’s body from Freya’s bedchamber. Fortunately, there was no blood, but the memory would assuredly stain the castle and the clan for years to come. Flynn had been well-respected, well-liked, and made the most delicious whiskey in at least half of Scotland. He really had made himself essential, carrying his dark secret all the while.
“Aunt Isla,” Doughall said quietly, concentrating on Freya’s face.
His aunt perked up, rising from her chair. “What is it, dear nephew?”
Ye’ll nae call me ‘dear’ once ye hear this…
“Ye should go up to Freya’s bedchamber and say yer farewells,” he replied, wishing he could take her imminent pain from her, wishing there was another way to do this.
Isla frowned. “Farewells? What do ye mean?”
“Flynn… is dead,” Doughall answered, hardly able to believe it himself. “He was the one who poisoned yer sister. He was the one who killed her and killed me faither. He was obsessed with me maither, it seems. I’m sure there’s more evidence to be found, but I’ll have to help ye find it another day. But he confessed to what he did and confessed to poisonin’ Freya because she was on her way to uncoverin’ the truth. So, I killed him.”
The cup of tea dropped from Isla’s hand, shattering on the cold floor. The color drained from her face as the liquid seeped into the flagstones, her eyes widening to the whites as a gasp slipped past her lips.
“I was just tellin’ yer aunt that it couldnae be a coincidence,” Sorcha interjected, drying her hands on a cloth as she walked over to Doughall. “What ails yer wife is exactly what ailed yer maither some thirty years ago. The mix of poisons was identical.”
Isla trembled where she stood. “And I was just tellin’ Sorcha that… I needed a moment to think because…” she trailed off, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Because the poisons were distilled together to form one,” Sorcha finished for her. “And ye cannae make one so refined—and so potent—without a thorough knowledge of distillation. It’s what made it a miracle that yer maither survived thirty years ago, and why I kenned how to help yer wife this time.”
Isla gave the smallest nod. “It was like… seein’ clearly for the first time in a… long, long time. I didnae want to believe it, didnae ken what to do, kept tryin’ to think of how I might be mistaken, but… I suppose I wasnae.” She hiccupped. “Yer ma always insisted that she… just drank somethin’ she found, and I believed her. I cannae believe I… Och, I cannae believe I ever loved that… that bastard!”
It was the strongest word Doughall had ever heard his aunt say, tears streaming down her face as anger burned in her eyes. He had expected that she would be torn about the news, but he had not anticipated that she might have suspicions of her own.
“I didnae ken,” she said suddenly, looking horrified. “I swear to ye, I didnae ken. If I had any notion that he’d… hurt me sweet sister or Freya, I’d have killed him meself. Och, Doughall, I’m sorry I didnae see it sooner. I’m sorry I was so blind.”
Doughall smiled sadly up at his aunt. “We all were. He planned it that way. I’m sorry that ye didnae end up with the man ye deserved.”
Letting go of Freya’s hand for a moment, he got up and went to his aunt, pulling her into his arms. For twenty years, she had been like a mother to him, doing her best to replace the mother he had lost.
He had not always appreciated it, nor had he always returned the constant affection his aunt had shown him. Now, it was his turn to offer her the comfort she needed, being the grown son that she had never had, bonded always by what they had lost.
She sobbed into his chest, holding him tightly in return, as Sorcha poured fresh tea and declared, “Let’s have some of this. It’s goin’ to be a long night for us all.” She paused. “For what it’s worth, I never liked him.”
Freya wasn’t aware of much, surrounded by darkness, uncertain of where she was or if she was still alive. There was one constant, though—a gentle motion that seemed to draw her closer to familiarity, a motion of someone stroking her hair. And a voice whispering things she could not quite understand, tender and compelling.
I ken that voice. I ken it as well as I ken me own.
She wasn’t certain if it was the words or the caresses that finally opened her eyes, or if her body had merely decided that it was time. Either way, her eyelids fluttered open, low candlelight and the rafters of a vaguely familiar room greeting her.
“Freya?” A face appeared in her field of vision, lupine eyes crinkled with concern.
She blinked a few times to be certain of what she was seeing, her throat dry as she attempted to reply, “What… happened to me? I… remember tryin’… to get to ye… but I couldnae do it. I think… I fell.” Her head pounded, her eyes gritty, her mouth dry and bitter. “Did I drink… too much?”
“Of the wrong thing, aye,” Doughall replied with a nervous smile. “Though nae enough to get ye out of marryin’ me.”
She frowned. “But I… wasnae tryin’ to get out of it.”
“I ken. That was a poorly timed joke,” Doughall said, grimacing. “If it makes ye feel better, ye should ken that ye’ve officially won yer wager with Ersie.”
Her frown deepened, everything jumbled up in her hazy mind. “What do ye mean?”
“Well, love, I’ve never felt fear like that in all me life,” he replied with a softer smile. “I didnae ken I was still capable of bein’ afraid, but then… I thought I’d lost ye, and… I almost lost me mind along with ye.”
She tried to sit up, but Doughall rested a strong hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down on the bed.
“Dinnae try to get up yet,” he told her with some of his former sternness. “Ye’re still weakened from the poison. Sorcha said that if ye woke up, it’d be days before ye could be up and about.”
Freya’s eyes went wide. “Poison?”
“Flynn,” Doughall said simply.
“Flynn? I… dinnae understand.”
“Neither did I.”
Doughall’s eyes clouded over as he began to tell her what had occurred between her collapsing in the Great Hall and that very moment—how Flynn had been in love with his mother, playing a long and wicked game to make her his own, resulting in the death of both his parents.
“He thought ye’d figure out the truth,” Doughall concluded wearily. “And I can fathom why. Ye’re wise, ye’re wily, ye’re sharp as a blade, and once ye decide on somethin’, ye dinnae let it go. I’ve nay doubt that if ye’d continued to try and solve the mystery, ye’d have found him out. So, he did to ye what he once attempted to do to me maither. Like her, ye survived it too.”
Freya stared up at the rafters for a long while, watching old cobwebs flutter in the cold draft, trying to wrap her head around what she had just heard. She had liked Flynn, had sensed no danger from him, but something came back to her as she sifted through the annals of her memory.
When she had encountered Flynn in the hallway on her way to the empty study, with the book and the note behind her back, she thought she had seen him look at her strangely. That must have been when he decided to act, plotting to end her search by poisoning her cider.
“He was hidin’ at the distillery, nay doubt makin’ the poison under the guise of preparin’ whiskey for the weddin’,” she whispered. “He didnae hear that Lewis had been killed.”
Doughall shook his head. “Nay, he didnae.”
Freya turned her head and looked at him, her heart aching for him. He could hide most things behind that disciplined, blank expression of his, but he could not hide the anguish in his eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Doughall,” she whispered. “I’m sorry ye had to kill him, and I’m sorry ye had to find out like this.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “He should have never come after ye.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “How do ye feel?”
“Like I’ve imbibed somethin’ I shouldnae,” she replied with a dry laugh. “How long have I been asleep?”
“About a day,” he replied. “Yer braither stayed. He decided to delay his search for yer sister. Now that ye’re awake, I can have him take me place.”
Freya flinched as if she had been struck, confused by the feeling of abandonment that swept through her as he let go of her hand and moved to stand.
Was he really going to leave her? Did he not understand that it was him she wanted at her bedside, not her brother?
“Very well,” she muttered. “I suppose ye have other things to do. The weddin’ is over, after all. Ye can resume yer old way of life.”
He halted, staring down at her with a raised eyebrow. “I beg yer pardon?”
“What? If me braither is here, ye dinnae have to worry about takin’ time away from yer duties to tend to me. That’s what ye meant, is it nae?” she replied more tersely than she had intended.
But what did he expect? She had just found out that Flynn had tried to kill her, and now he was foisting his responsibilities on Adam. She figured her husband could not wait to get away from her.
He stood over her, hooking his fingertips beneath her chin. “Have ye forgotten that ye’re me wife? I willnae be farther from yer side than just outside that door. This is yer home, I am yer husband, and ye belong to me. Ye are me responsibility and mine alone.”
Belong to him, never to be loved by him, never to have everythin’ that I dreamed of.
She realized that if she died, she would have gone to her grave never experiencing all the things that she had hoped for. She would have gone to her grave as a mouse who had never spoken up when it mattered, too afraid of rejection to make demands of the man who had crept in and stolen her heart.
“But this… was nothin’ more than a forced marriage,” she reminded him, though she had long stopped thinking of it that way. “I dinnae want to be yer responsibility. I dinnae want to be yers if bein’ yers is a pretense. I want a marriage that is everythin’ a marriage should be. I want bairns. I want… love and a future where I dinnae see me husband in passin’, as if we’re nay more than acquaintances. I want… marriage, nae an alliance. And if ye cannae give me that, then I’ll return to MacNiall Castle, where at least I can be lonely on me own terms.”
Doughall sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned over her, one hand braced on either side of her head—a gesture that should have been menacing, but it brought back memories of the very opposite. In his presence, she could not help but feel safe… and knew she would miss it if she left.
“If it’s bairns ye want, that’s what we’ll have, but I wouldnae start temptin’ me just yet,” he purred, his eyes glinting with something like amusement. “Ye havenae recovered yet, and I willnae have Sorcha scoldin’ me again if she catches ye exertin’ yerself. Before I have ye, I want ye well again.”
Freya blinked, a warmth that could have been bashfulness or a fever rushing into her face. “Ye… changed yer mind?”
“Love, I’d give ye the world if ye wanted it,” he replied. “We can start with a bairn. I think it’d do me some good. Ye’ve already made me want to be a better man, love—a bairn could only help that along.”
She gazed into his gleaming eyes. “Do ye mean it?”
“Have ye ever kenned me to lie?”
“Well, nay, but?—”
“Then take me at me word.” He dipped his head and gently pressed his lips to hers, as if he feared he might break her if he put too much passion into the kiss.
Closing her eyes, looping her arms around his neck, she kissed him back in kind, reveling in the slow sensuality of it. She relished the intensity of their other intimate encounters, of course, but there was something so very special about this kiss, like a promise being sealed—a promise of the future, and the marriage they would have. Not one of duty or convenience, but of affection and discovery and everything Freya had dreamed about.
With a smile, she pulled back. “As nice as this is,” she said quietly, “I would very much like a bath. Indeed, I think it would help me to heal quicker.”
“In that case,” he replied with a sly grin. “Sorcha!”
A door at the back of the chambers opened, and the healer poked her head around, looking none-too-pleased to be summoned so loudly. “What’s all the yellin’ for? Ye’ll disturb—Oh.” She stepped further into the room, a smile replacing her frown. “Glad to see ye’re still with us, M’Lady.”
“She wants a bath,” Doughall interjected. “Have one drawn for her.”
Sorcha rolled her eyes. “Honestly, would it kill ye to say ‘please’ once or twice in yer life?”
“ Please have a bath drawn for me wife,” Doughall replied in a brusque tone.
Sorcha nodded. “That’s better. I’ll have some water fetched at once.”
As she departed through the main entrance to summon servants, Freya peered up at her husband, mischief sparking in her chest. “I think I’ll have to learn a thing or two from her.”
“If ye want the harshest punishment, feel free,” he replied, before catching her mouth in a less restrained kiss. And she pulled him to her, kissing him back with equal fervor.
After all, despite what he said, she had always been told that a kiss was the best medicine for any injury. And with the poison lingering in her veins, she guessed he would just have to kiss her all over to ensure that his medicine worked, speeding up her recovery so they could pick up where they left off—married and dizzy with unspoken love, whirling toward happiness. Together.
“Doughall?” she whispered once he pulled away.
“Aye?”
“Why do ye keep calling me ‘love’ ever since I woke up?” she asked, wanting to hear him say it.
“Is it so hard to guess, love ?” he said, looking intensely into her eyes as he trailed a finger down her cheek.
“Doughall…”
He kissed her forehead. “Rest, love. We have all the time in the world for questions.”