Chapter Fourteen

“A nna!” MacInness shouted for the serving woman, relieved when she burst through the door leading to the long passageway to the hall.

“Milord—” Her worried gaze met his and at the ashen face of the woman in his arms.

“What happened?”

He looked over his shoulder. “Somethin’ in the herbs she mixed for my achin’ head.”

Nodding to the goblet on the table he absorbed the ache into his body, ignoring it, concentrating on what he had to tell the woman. “She drank it first.”

When Anna tilted her head and looked as if she wanted to ask him why, he continued. “Send yer most trusted servant out the postern gate and stop Patrick, he should be halfway to Merewood Keep by now.”

“Patrick?”

“Ye canna miss him,” MacInness said. “He stood beside me when I wed—”

“Tall warrior, dark hair, green eyes?”

MacInness nodded. “Tell him there’s trouble.”

The woman nodded. “What about milady?”

“Do ye have a healer ye trust with yer life?”

Fear flickered in the older woman’s eyes, but she nodded. “Aye, milord.”

“Send for her then, and pray we’re not too late.” The lass had saved his life. Had she meant to kill him and had a change of heart?

Anna moved to the goblet and MacInness ground out, “Dinna touch it.” The fear in his wife’s eyes and memory of her in his arms weighed heavily toward her innocence.

She stopped and curtseyed. “I’ll send Mary to ye.”

Striding along the passageway, MacInness prayed. He hadn’t spoken to God in years, but he prayed now. “Dinna take her yet. I need her.”

By the time MacInness laid Genvieve on their bed, she was so cold. He covered her with a blanket and when she didn’t warm, took her back into his arms and sat on the bed.

“Milord?”

“Are ye Mary, then?” He wasn’t sure he could trust her, but there wasn’t time to question her.

She walked over to where he sat cradling his wife in his arms and asked, “How long has she been like this?”

“Since she drank the headache draught she prepared for me.” His heart sank. She was so cold. Did God care or would he snatch the woman away before MacInness could decide if he cared for her or loved her?

“I need to know what’s in the herbal mix before I can decide what’s to be done.”

“I brought milady’s jar of herbs,” Anna said, holding out the small, round lidded jar.

Mary looked at MacInness. “She’d be more comfortable on the bed.”

He shook his head. “Her skin’s like ice.”

Mary’s eyes narrowed as if she were thinking. “Keep her warm then.” Taking the jar from Anna she opened it and sniffed. Held it away from her nose and sniffed again.

“That’s odd,” she said, then mumbled something more beneath her breath.

“I didna hear that last, can ye repeat it?” It sounded like she’d said Witches’ Glove. The name didn’t bode well.

Mary shook her head. “No time.” She put the lid back on the jar and set it into the basket she’d brought with her. Working swiftly the young woman had a brazier carried up and set in the corner of the room.

“What about the smoke?” MacInness didn’t think it was wise to light the brazier, the ceiling was too low.

“She needs the heat.”

He nodded and didn’t question the healer again as she sorted through her supply of herbs and selected and ground out what he hoped would be the cure to bring his wife back.

Through the next hour, he took turns with Anna trying to force the healer’s herbal mix down his semi-conscious wife’s throat and holding her while her stomach rebelled.

“What now?” MacInness asked as the healer stepped back from the bed.

Genvieve had little or no color, but at least the gray cast to her skin changed and it was now pasty white.

“We wait—and pray.”

“There isna anythin’ else to be done?” He refused to believe he had to sit and wait for a miracle. He wasn’t sure he still believed in them.

“Nay, milord,” Mary answered. She sounded weary.

“I’ve no’ thanked ye yet,” he said rising from where he’d been sitting on a stool by the bed.

Her gaze met his. “Don’t thank me yet, milord,” she cautioned. “We need to see if she can be roused, that will tell if she’ll waken.”

“If?” MacInness thundered. The need to pound something nearly overwhelmed him; he fought to control the urge and won. He spun around and stalked back over to where Mary sat, willing her to speak with every fiber of his being.

Mary closed her eyes and sighed. When she opened them, she met MacInness’s direct gaze. “Help me rouse her.”

MacInness felt the icy stab of fear slicing through his middle but tamped it down and nodded. “Tell me what to do.”

Mary started by pinching the bottom of his wife’s foot. He didn’t think that would help, but kept his thoughts to himself.

Genvieve flinched and his stomach bottomed out. Mayhap there were still miracles. “Let me try something.”

The healer stepped back and MacInness gathered his wife in his arms. He held her to his heart and whispered in her ear. “If ye can hear me, lass, come back to me. I dinna want to lose ye, lass. Please?”

She stirred but didn’t open her eyes.

Mary touched his shoulder, but he shook his head. “Can ye leave us for a moment?”

The healer narrowed her gaze at him and looked as if she wanted to say something, but in the end, agreed.

When the door closed, MacInness laid her back on the bed and hoped his idea would work. She’d craved his touch, burned for him, surely that would rouse her. He ran his hands over her shoulders and down to her fingertips, massaging the muscles, coaxing them to respond.

Genvieve’s breathing changed. A good sign, that.

Pulling her back into his arms, he leaned her against his chest and then rubbed his hands from the nape of her neck down to the curve of her waist. She stirred against him.

Taking her by the arms, he held her away from him and rasped, “Genvieve, I need ye, lass.” Before he could pull her back against him, her eyelids fluttered.

“That’s it! Open yer eyes, Love.”

Her eyes slowly opened, though he wasn’t sure she was fully aware. “Winslow?”

“Aye, lass.” His heart began to pound, as the last few hours of worry and tension came to a head. His body trembled but he ignored it, holding her against his heart, not willing to let go.

She mumbled something that he couldn’t quite hear. He laid her back down and brought the covers up to her chin. “What did ye say?” he asked, pressing his lips to her forehead.

Genvieve reached out and touched the tip of her finger to the edge of his jaw. “How’s your head?”

“Bloody buggerin’—”

Her eyes widened and he clamped his jaw shut.

“It still pains you,” she whispered.

“Lass, have ye no memory of what happened to ye?” He’d never forget the way she collapsed in his arms, the ashen cast to her skin, or the terrible fear that she’d die.

Genvieve closed her eyes.

For the second time he wondered, had she intended to give him the draught? Though he cursed that it was there, the niggling suspicion would not go away.

MacInness stood and paced by the bed, the ache in his head and surge of unfamiliar emotions making him daft. His clan would label him as mad as Black Iain.

“Winslow?”

He stopped and turned toward his wife, but didn’t speak, afraid of what might pop out of his mouth in his present state of mind.

“Someone tampered with my herbal blend.”

He’d thought so as well. Hoped so. Another thought came to mind. “Are ye certain ye didn’t add something yerself by accident.”

The hurt look flickering in her gray eyes had him wanting to bite off his tongue. The last thing he wanted to do was cause her more pain.

“Yes.”

A one-word answer, never a good sign when a woman was involved. God give me back my simpler life. As soon as he thought the words, he wanted to take them back. Without Mary’s help, he’d almost gotten his wish!

“The healer, Mary, will be by to check on ye.”

Genvieve nodded and looked away.

“Dinna fret,” he soothed. “Ye can collect more herbs from the garden.” He paused and wondered why she still wouldn’t look at him. “’Tis vast.”

After a pause that had the hair on the back of his neck standing at attention, MacInness placed a hand on her shoulder. She jolted and whipped her head around. The stark fear in her eyes tore at his heart.

The knock on the door startled them both.

“Milord?”

“’Tis Mary,” he said. “Let her have a look at ye.”

Before he made a fool of himself, blundering by saying any more, MacInness left his wife in Mary’s capable hands.

*

Genvieve would never forget the pain arrowing through her breast at her husband’s suggestion that she’d forgotten the simplest of headache remedies. But he didn’t know her well, and couldn’t possibly know she’d been preparing the cure for her mother for years. Especially after her mother had lost the last babe she carried. Though no longer a young woman, losing a babe had left her mother with a constant pain in her head… and Genvieve suspected one in her heart as well.

“Milady?”

Mary sounded surprised to see her awake. Rather than trust her voice, she put a hand to her throat. Mary nodded as if she just remembered her mistress could not speak. So far Genvieve had only trusted Anna and Beatrice not to gossip about the way her voice sounded. Let everyone else think her mute.

“I didn’t think you’d recover so quickly.”

Why? she asked, waiting for Mary to follow the movement of her lips.

“The herbal mixture,” Mary began. “Witches’ Glove, milady?”

Genvieve shivered and pushed herself up in bed. Mary moved to help her get comfortable.

“Didn’t you know?”

Should she risk speaking and thereby becoming the fodder of gossip as she had been at Merewood? She hated the looks of pity. Genvieve shook her head.

“Well then…”

Genvieve reached out to clasp the healer’s hand. Mary’s gaze met hers. “I’ve heard Anna and Beatrice talking with one another, and know you can speak when no one else is around to hear you. It doesn’t matter what it sounds like. It would save time if you would please speak to me and tell me what you think happened?”

Genvieve tried to pull her hand free, but Mary held fast, giving it a gentle tug. “You think someone tampered with your herbs, don’t you?”

She looked away and Mary let go of her hand. Who would have? She barely knew anyone at the holding, hadn’t been there more than a few weeks. Who would hate her so? A black thought hit her right between the eyes…whoever wanted Winslow dead.

She turned back and her gaze collided with Mary’s. She had to tell someone the horrible suspicion that lanced through her belly, and it would save time if she could just say it one time. “Whoever struck my husband.”

Mary’s eyes widened, but didn’t ridicule the sound of her mistress’s voice. Then she nodded. “’Twould make sense. Did you tell him?”

Genvieve frowned, “No.”

“Because?” Mary prompted.

“He wouldn’t believe me.” Sadness engulfed her.

“You hide behind the guise of not being able to speak when you can and you won’t tell your husband your suspicions about the herbal remedy,” Mary stated baldly. “Either you have something to hide or—”

“I’ve nothing to hide,” Genvieve croaked. Her hand flew to her throat and tears filled her eyes. Merde. She sounded pitiful.

Understanding filled the healer’s gaze. She sat on the stool beside the bed. “I’ve a potion or two that would ease your throat.”

Genvieve blinked. “Others have tried.”

“’Tis the sound that bothers you?”

“My voice is weak, and it sounds like someone is…” She let her voice trail off; it should be obvious to the woman how it sounded.

Mary sighed. “People can be cruel with their words, milady,” she said. “But not always their intentions.”

Genvieve had wondered about that. For now, she’d not risk being ridiculed.

“What about your husband?”

“I speak when we are in private.”

Mary smiled. “You trust him.”

She nodded. “With my life.”

“But not enough to tell him about the herbs?”

Mary’s question had her wondering why she hadn’t spoken up when Winslow was in the room with her.

“He’d mentioned it, and I didn’t want to place the blame on any of the servants, any one of whom could have added the extra herb to the jar.”

Mary’s gaze warmed. “Thank you.”

Genvieve’s throat began to throb, unused to speaking so much. She rubbed at it without thinking.

“I’ll mix up something for your throat,” the other woman promised, “but I think if your husband rubbed it for you to loosen the muscles, it might feel better faster.”

Winslow’s hand on her throat brought other images to mind. She felt her face heat.

Mary grinned. “I don’t believe you intended to poison your husband.”

Poison! The ugly word arrowed through her heart and pounded in her head. Mary had the right of it; when not used to heal, herbs could kill. But who would have tampered with her herbs? Who hated Winslow or herself that much?

Her upper lip beaded with sweat as her heart continued to pound. She grew light headed. Was it the kidnappers, or did someone else want Winslow dead?