Chapter Sixteen
P atrick hailed MacInness as he was saddling his horse.
“I’m no’ deaf,” he bit out, “just busy.”
The Irishman chuckled. “I can see your lovely bride has been softening your rough exterior.”
MacInness scowled at him. He’d just left his wife and insisted she rest; she looked so tired to him. He doubted she’d recovered yet from the herbal draught. And that was why he’d asked Patrick to come to Sedgeworth.
He looked at his friend. “Have ye been able to find out anythin’?”
Patrick shook his head and leaned in close. “There’s a rumor,” he paused. “You won’t like it.”
MacInness snorted. “I’ve already heard it.”
“Not this one.”
MacInness paused and looked at Patrick. The hard look in his friend’s eyes decided him. “Come with me, then. I’ve got to check on the southern perimeter.”
They rode in silence until they reached the edge of the woods, then MacInness demanded, “Out with it.”
“I heard your lady can speak.”
MacInness shrugged. “What of it?”
The Irishman cleared his throat. “Some say it’s just a ruse, that she never lost her voice in the first place.”
When MacInness remained silent, the other man continued, “A ploy to get you to marry her, and now that she has, she plans to kill you to get the holding and all its revenues.”
Shocked to the soles of his well-worn boots, MacInness rode in silence, looking neither to the left nor the right, but straight ahead at the road winding away from them.
“Do you believe it?” Patrick asked.
“Nay. I was there, but too far away, when she received the blow to her throat. The lass was terrified she’d never speak again,” he told his friend.
Patrick waited and MacInness said, “I was the one to help her find a way to communicate without words—her relief was real.”
“Do you trust her?”
He looked at Patrick and then nodded toward a break in the trees and a stream. They led their horses over to the water. Dismounting, MacInness waited while his horse drank his fill.
“I have no reason not to trust her.”
“But what about the attack?”
“She wasn’t there.”
“You looked behind you?”
“No,” MacInness held the other man’s gaze. “I’d sense if she was there.”
Patrick snorted, his derision obvious.
MacInness got in his friend’s face and said, “I can tell when she’s within ten feet of me.”
Patrick raised one eyebrow in silent question.
“’Tis the truth.”
“Do you have the sight, then?” his friend demanded.
“If you maun know, ’tis her woman’s scent.”
Patrick nodded. “What about the herbal draught she prepared just for you?”
MacInness rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “Ye didn’t see the hurt in her eyes when I hesitated to take it from her.” He swallowed against the lump of emotion clogging his throat. “Then she drank it down and from the confused and shocked expression on her face, I could tell that something was gravely wrong, someone had tampered with the herbs.”
“What will you do now?”
Their horses had wandered away from the water and the men collected them, mounted up, and continued on their patrol. MacInness breathed deeply. “I think it all comes back to the day I stumbled upon Genvieve bein’ beaten.”
Patrick’s jaw clenched, and MacInness nodded. “All but one of the bloody bastards died, and I’d be willin’ to bet whoever wanted my wife dead then, still does and is tryin’ to make it seem as if Genvieve is behind the attempts ta kill me.”
“What if it is Genvieve?”
His heart simply stopped, then resumed beating. “It’s not.”
“You’re a good judge of character, MacInness. If you say she’s innocent, then we’d best find out who’s behind the attempts on your life.”
“And hers.”
Patrick’s eyes widened, as if it had only just occurred to him that two peoples’ lives were in danger. “I’ll be staying the night, and sending word back to Merewood for reinforcements.”
“I thought Kelly was already here.”
“Aye, but we need more men that we can trust.”
“Some of Garrick’s?”
Patrick tilted his head to one side. “And de Chauret’s.”
“But he’s Norman—”
“And I trust him with my life.”
“Send word then.”
Three hours later, they were riding back through the gate. MacInness was just making his way out of the stable when the messenger caught up with him. Patrick and he exchanged worried glances; the messenger didn’t need to speak. The color of his plaid told him it was from his mother’s clan.
When he received the missive, he dismissed the carrier, sending him to the kitchens for mead and a meal. As soon as they were alone, he handed the missive to Patrick so he could read it to him.
“It’s your mother—”
“Can she no’ let me lead me own life?” MacInness grumbled.
Patrick’s gaze met his and from the devastated look in his friend’s eyes, braced himself for bad news.
“Is she sick, then?”
Patrick shook his head and from the look in his eyes MacInness knew. Sorrow cut through his middle like a hot knife through butter. “When did she die?”
“A fortnight ago…’twas a fever.”
MacInness appreciated the brief telling, he didn’t think he could have handled a long-winded explanation. “And me sisters?”
“They’ll not leave their husbands’ clans.”
He nodded, accepting the news. “Who sent the missive?”
“Garrick’s brother.”
“Roderick.”
“Aye,” Patrick answered.
“Is he coming home with his new bride?”
Again Patrick answered in the negative.
Braced, MacInness accepted his response. “I have to go to them.”
Patrick nodded. “Shall I wait for you to speak with Lady Genvieve?”
“ Och , no,” MacInness said. “I canna wait.”
“Then leave her a note—”
“Ye know I canna write nor read.”
Patrick followed MacInness across the bailey and up the steps to the hall, pausing to call out to one of the servants. “I need to send word to Garrick of Merewood and leave a message for Lady Genvieve.”
While MacInness took the steps to the upper level two at a time, Patrick penned a note to Genvieve, and another to Garrick, telling of the news from the Highlands and urging Garrick to send someone over to guard Lady Genvieve while they were away.
Ten minutes later, they were gone.
*
Genvieve paused in her measuring to ask Mary’s opinion, when Beatrice burst into the kitchens.
“Milady! I’ve bad news,” the servant said.
Genvieve’s heart began to pound. Lord, don’t let it be Winslow. She nodded, urging Beatrice to speak.
“His lordship’s mother has died.”
A deep ache swept up from her toes, Genvieve clutched her belly, wrapping her arms about herself to hold in the hurt. “Did they say how?” she rasped.
The servant nodded. “A fever.”
She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer for Winslow’s mother’s soul. “I have to go to him.”
“He’s gone, milady.”
The ache in her belly widened. “Gone?”
“Patrick left a missive for you.” Beatrice handed it to her.
“But Winslow didn’t?”
“No, milady.”
Mary reached out a hand to her, but Genvieve shook her head and brushed past her, hoping to hide the hurt that enveloped her entire being. She’d misunderstood her husband’s words. He cared for her out of duty, nothing more. He didn’t trust her, or he didn’t care. Both were reasons not to tell her of his urgent need to go home.
Three days later, Eamon arrived from the Highlands and all hell broke loose.
Her hands trembled as she motioned for Garrick to have Eamon repeat what he’d just said.
The younger man stared at her as if she had lost her mind, but Garrick urged him to speak.
“MacInness’s mother isn’t dead.”
She placed her hand on the tabletop, bracing herself, before looking at Garrick. Why? she mouthed.
“Why what?” he asked.
Did he lie , she exaggerated the words so the two men could understand the movement of her mouth. Her heart was breaking, and she couldn’t control the tremors coursing through her at the thought of her handsome husband leaving without saying goodbye, and worse lying about where he was going.
“MacInness never lies,” Eamon bit out.
Garrick nodded.
Genvieve’s eyes filled with tears, and she desperately blinked them away. She could not break down in front of these men. Later, when she was alone that would be acceptable. Not now.
“How well do you know MacInness?” Eamon asked her.
Garrick intervened, “Lady Genvieve’s throat was injured, and it has yet to heal…she has difficulty speaking.”
The younger warrior narrowed his eyes but didn’t contradict what his overlord was saying. Genvieve didn’t know if she should be grateful or not.
Recognizing the look and knowing she would have to accept his reaction to the sound of her voice, she spoke, “Where is he?”
Eamon’s expression told her it had not improved by not using it. She still sounded like a scalded cat.
Garrick went to her then, braced a hand around her, and led her over to a chair. Once she was seated, he knelt in front of her. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “But I promise you, we’ll find him.”
“And Patrick,” she urged, ignored the way he winced.
Garrick slowly stood. “Aye. Rest your voice, it must pain still pain you to speak.”
Eamon still hadn’t moved, and when his brother Kelly poked him, he walked over to where Genvieve sat. “Are you certain you don’t know where your husband is, milady?”
Kelly shoved him into a chair. “I thought you were going to ask if they’d found the bastard who clubbed MacInness from behind.”
Eamon caught himself and would have shoved back at his brother, but Garrick stepped in between them.
“Enough.”
“Will it be enough when we find MacInness and Patrick with their throats slit ear to ear?”
Genvieve’s stomach roiled and a noxious taste filled her mouth. She shot to her feet, clamped a hand over her mouth and ran out of the hall.
Garrick found her in the corner of the herb garden and held her through the worst of it, offering her a linen square to wipe her mouth when she sat back on her heels.
“Eamon’s been in the Highlands too long,” Garrick explained. “He never used to speak like that in front of a lady.”
She didn’t care about that. Since they were alone, she risked speaking aloud, asking, “Do you think that’s what happened?” With every ounce of willpower she possessed, she prayed it wasn’t true.
Garrick didn’t wince this time hearing her speak, and did not answer right away. Finally, he sighed. “No. I think there is more here than we have been told and have yet to find out.”
“Who would be so cruel as to send such a missive?”
“Someone who knew MacInness would react the way he did and head off without waiting to discuss it with anyone.”
“Except Patrick,” she added.
“Patrick O’Malley has been vassal to MacInness for years,” Garrick told her. “They’ve saved one another’s lives countless times over.”
“What about Kelly and Eamon?”
“They’re cousins to Patrick and Sean.”
“Who’s Sean?” she asked, slowly getting to her feet with Garrick’s help.
“Patrick’s brother.”
“I see.”
Garrick shook his head. “I don’t think you do. MacInness heads up his Irish Contingent, and they, along with my wife, were instrumental in helping my youngest brother escape from certain death at the hands of the former Lord of Sedgeworth Keep.”
As Garrick relayed the events leading up to and immediately following his brother’s capture, Genvieve began to understand the unbreakable connection between Winslow and the men and why Lady Jillian and her husband shared a similar bond. She wasn’t jealous, but she wasn’t comfortable with it either.
“And despite how my husband feels about your wife, you trust him?” she asked.
Garrick’s jaw hardened, then relaxed. “I owe him my life and hers, twice over.”
“You trust him.” He hadn’t said as much, but she sensed it instinctively.
He nodded. “But you’re mistaken if you think he doesn’t care for you, Lady Genvieve.”
She wished it were so, but wouldn’t count on it.
“Wait here,” he said, leading her over to a bench near the steps. “I’ll bring you some water.”
Genvieve needed the time to think. After reacting to the image Eamon so brutally painted, she searched her heart and her soul and knew Winslow was not dead. All she had to do now was find out what happened and where he was.
When Garrick returned, he handed her the water.
She thanked him and drank deeply. The cool water eased the pain in her throat. “May I accompany you on your search?”
He started to refuse, but for some reason relented. Genvieve wondered if it had to do with the story he’d told her about Lady Jillian following after Garrick to London to try to bargain with the king in order to secure her family’s former holding for her husband.
“Can you be ready to leave in an hour?”
“Aye and I’ll ask Mary for some healing herbs and poultices and pack some bandages.”
“I didn’t say that MacInness was hurt.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I think people underestimate you, Lady Genvieve.”
She felt the corner of her mouth lift. “Most do.”
“MacInness wouldn’t.”
The ache arrowing through her reaffirmed her belief that he was still alive. She embraced it. “No,” she whispered. “He wouldn’t.”
*
MacInness opened his eyes and swore. The pain slicing through his head nauseated him. He closed his eyes and tried to move and realized his hands were bound behind him, inhibiting his movement. Wherever he was, given his current circumstances, he doubted they were friends.
A loan moan off to the left of him had his eyes snapping open again. The dark shape took the form of the head of his Irish Contingent—Patrick.
“Dinna tell me they got the both of us?” he rasped.
“ Bollocks! What hit me?”
“Not what, mon. Who.” MacInness had sensed they were being followed and had been preparing for the ambush when he and Patrick were attacked from behind.
“All right then, you damned Scot,” Patrick said, “who hit me?”
He snorted, “Damned if I know.”
“Then why did you have me ask you?” Patrick groaned.
“I thought it would help pass the time while I figure out how to loosen me bonds.”
The other warrior sounded as if he were choking.
“Are ye all right, mon?”
In answer he groaned.
“Does yer head pain ye as well?”
“Aye.”
“Like as not, we were both felled from behind.” MacInness wished he’d caught a glimpse of who’d hit them, but it had happened too fast. His gut told him it was all connected with the last two attempts on his life…nay; make that one attempt on his life, and one on Genvieve’s.
“Can you move closer?” Patrick asked.
MacInness shifted onto his back, taking deep gulping breaths. The pain in his head was blinding. Once the sensation passed, he sidled over next to his friend.
“Roll onto your side,” MacInness said. “I’ll try to loosen your bonds first.”
It was slow going; he had to stop and breathe slowly to control the constant roiling in his gut.
“Let me try,” Patrick offered after several unsuccessful attempts.
MacInness finally admitted defeat and let the other man try to untie the knots. In a matter of minutes, MacInness felt the rope loosen. Rolling over onto his hands and knees he gave in to his body’s clamoring need and retched until all that was left were dry heaves.
“Are you done, yet?” Patrick asked quietly.
“Aye,” MacInness said. “Though me head still aches.”
“Untie me.”
“After I toss some straw over this, else the smell will have me losin’ the rest of me stomach linin’.”
When Patrick was free, they began to look for a way out. After an exhaustive search, they agreed, there was only one way in and one way out of the dank cell they were locked in.
“Someone will be by to check on us sooner or later,” Patrick said.
“Who do ye think attacked us?” MacInness had a few guesses, but was interested in what his vassal thought.
“Probably no one we know.”
“And why do ye say that?” MacInness wondered how Patrick arrived at that conclusion.
“Because everyone who knows us loves us.”
MacInness grunted.
“And if they don’t,” Patrick added, “they should.”