“Aye,” Mrs Mary said, turning from where she was churning the finely sliced mushrooms with a wooden spoon. “I intend to take it to her as soon as these are cooked through.”
“Would ye like me to do it?” Isla asked, holding her breath as a particularly strong wave of scent wafted by.
“That would be lovely, if ye dinnae mind. I dinnae want her soup to get cold.” She was already turning away from her pan of mushrooms, proffering the garlic-smeared spoon she’d been using.
“Och, I didnae mean that,” Isla began, taking a hurried step backwards. “I meant would ye like me to take Lady Gordon her meal.”
Mrs Mary shook her head. “You’re a saint, ye are, but I wouldnae ask ye to do that. It’s no secret that the two ye dinnae—”
Isla’s stomach lurched alarmingly, and she reached for the covered tray, throwing courtesy and conversation to the wind. If she kept beating around the bush like this, the smell of her half-digested breakfast would soon join the stink of frying garlic and crimini. “It isnae a problem!” she cried as she whisked the tray out of the kitchen, finally taking a much-needed deep breath as she entered the odourless sanctuary of the hall. For once, Gavin stayed behind, content to chew on a ham bone that Mrs Mary had given him that morning. That was lucky—the last thing Isla needed was to trip over him and spill Lady Gordon’s lunch all over the hall.
Finally escaped from the kitchen’s rank fog, her mind turned to other uncomfortable matters. Mainly, how her appearance in Lady Gordon’s bedchamber might be received. Her arrival would most likely be counted more as an intrusion than a mercy, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
She knocked before entering, balancing the tray on a hip as she rapped against the oak door with her free hand. Lady Gordon’s voice sounded calm enough as she called for her to ‘come in’—probably because she thought Isla was Mrs Mary, who usually brought her meals. Taking a deep breath and steeling herself for a harsh welcome, she stepped into the bedroom.
Lady Gordon was lying in bed, propped up by several pillows. Her face looked a little paler than usual, but it was still greatly improved since the last time Isla had seen it, when it had been smeared with mud from the pigpen. For once, the woman’s hair had been left down to cascade over her shoulders in pale waves. The effect was remarkable, transforming her normally severe visage into a vision of almost youthful comeliness.
“I’ve brought ye your meal,” Isla said, resting the edge of the tray on her hip again as she whisked the cover off the surface, checking for the first time what lay beneath. “Cock-a-leekie soup and a meat pie.”
Her stomach lurched as the steam rose from the bowl to tease her nostrils. Apparently, Mrs Mary had been just as generous with the garlic when she’d made the soup as she had been with the mushrooms.
Lady Gordon nodded silently, smoothing the coverlet over her lap. Surprisingly, she didn’t leer, or even frown. Perhaps the fall had sapped more of her energy than Isla had originally realised. Eager to get the garlic-laden soup out from under her nose, she strode to Lady Gordon’s bedside and lowered the tray onto the carved oak nightstand. Something lay on the surface, and she recognised the object as she brushed it out of the way. It was the green ribbon Lady Gordon had ventured into the pigpen to retrieve the day before. It seemed to have been washed, though it appeared a little worse for wear. It slipped over the edge of the table and began to flutter to the floor. Isla reached for it, too late.
She sensed Lady Gordon’s gaze on her back as she bent hurriedly to retrieve it from the floor. Grubby ribbon or no, the woman had thought it worth climbing into the mire of a pigpen for. Just as her fingers closed around the dark satin, an extremely disconcerting sensation assaulted her throat, causing it to tighten and her mouth to water.
Oh God, no.
Realisation gripped her as her stomach began to heave. It was finally happening, right here in her mother in law’s bedchamber, before her very eyes. She looked around in desperation and her gaze landed on a chamber pot tucked beneath the bed. She seized it by the handle and lifted the lid just in time to lose her breakfast to its porcelain depths.
Her cheeks burning, Isla reached for the bedside table and seized the cloth that had covered the meal tray. She dabbed her lips clean with it, but there was nothing to be done to rid her mouth of the bitter taste of bile, or erase what had just happened from Lady Gordon’s memory. Slowly, she looked up to meet her mother-in-law’s eyes.
A gleam passed through them, too understanding for Isla’s liking, but, “I hope ye dinnae have anything that’s catching,” was all she said.
Isla forced herself to stand, shaky knees or no. “Nae, I dinnae think so.”
“‘Twas the smell of garlic, was it not? I couldnae stand it myself when I was with child.”
Isla’s stomach plummeted, but fortunately it was already thoroughly empty. She suppressed a dry heave that tried to sneak up on her and racked her mind for something to say. This was certainly not how or when she’d planned to inform the rest of the Gordons of her pregnancy, but there was no taking back what Lady Gordon had just seen. Eventually, she settled for nodding mutely.
“When I was carrying my first child,” Lady Gordon continued, “I couldnae stand to even walk through the hall by the kitchen. Mrs Mary was here then, too, and just as fond of garlic, though I hadnae taken special notice until then.” The corners of her mouth curled into a rare, if wry smile.
“Your first child?” Isla asked. Alexander had never mentioned any step-sibling besides Alpin. It occurred to her too late that it might be a subject better left unbroached.
The smile faded from Lady Gordon’s face. “Aye, my wee daughter Maggie. She didnae live past her first year.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” Sorry and surprised. Not so much over the death of the infant—that was sadly common enough—but that Lady Gordon would speak of it to her. Between her unexpected confessions and loose moonbeam waves, the woman lying propped against the pillows hardly seemed like her mother-in-law at all.
“Aye, well, losing my first bairn did cast a shadow over my life. I imagined I could see it sometimes, darkening the face of my wee son as he lay in his cradle. It must hae been naught but a fancy, though, for he’s grown into a man before my very eyes, and not a day passes that I amnae grateful for it.”
Aye, Alpin had grown into a man—one who haunted Isla’s nightmares. And yet, his transgressions aside, there was something about his mother’s sentiment that stirred Isla’s heart. Perhaps it was because she was now carrying a child of her own. If she’d been a papist, she would have crossed herself as she’d seen Alexander do on several occasions. Instead, she sent up a silent prayer for her child’s safety. The thought of an empty cradle was too much to bear.
At a loss for what to say, Isla suddenly remembered that she still clutched the green ribbon she’d stooped to pick up. “Shall I put this away?” she asked, eyeing the chest of drawers that stood against the wall.
“Nae, let me have it. I dinnae like to go without it. ‘Tis a fancy I took as a child, that I might remember my mother by wearing a green ribbon in my hair as my father said she had always done.”
Another subject that a wiser woman might have left untouched, but Isla thought of her own mother, buried in the earth behind the modest cottage she’d made a home, and felt compelled to seize the subject before it passed.
“Ye lost your mother, then, when ye were a young lass?”
Lady Gordon nodded as she took the ribbon, holding it against the coverlet in her lap. “Aye, she died in giving birth to me.”
“My own mother died when I was but a few years old.”
Lady Gordon nodded. “Aye, my husband mentioned it to me, having learnt it from Alexander. At the time my heart wasnae moved.” She looked up from her lap, where she was threading the green ribbon through her fingers, and met Isla’s eyes. “But now I find I must reconsider how I’ve treated ye. I ken well enough that I owe ye my life.”
Isla’s throat tightened again, though not from nausea this time. Images of her mother and thoughts of her own unborn child were still dancing through her head as she soaked in Lady Gordon’s unexpected words, and the three proved too much to think about at once. Tears stung her eyes, but she fought with every fibre of her being to restrain them. Being with child was already pulling alarmingly at her heartstrings, she was sure of it. The last time she’d cried had been at the spring, in front of Alexander. She had no desire to lose control of her emotions in her mother in law’s presence, despite the strange new understanding that had sprung up between them.
“I could hardly have watched ye die.” She managed to keep her voice steady. “I did what anyone would hae done.”
“A crueler lass might hae turned a blind eye. From now on ye may call me by my Christian name, Coira, and I’ll be glad to share my home with ye. If ye hadnae come, I might well be dead.”
As she spoke, it was as if Lady Gordon—Coira—had indeed become a different woman than the one Isla had known since her arrival at Benstrath, and all thanks to a grubby ribbon and a temperamental pig.
“I thank ye, Coira.” Silently, she thanked the pig, too.
She slipped from the room before anything else could be said, afraid she’d break under the strain of trying to suppress her needless tears.
Out in the hall, she breathed a sigh of relief. Still thinking of her mother, she let a tear slip down her cheek and hastily wiped it away with the corner of her apron just as a shadow spilt from a nearby doorway and a man stepped out in a quiet flourish of tartan.
It was Alpin. Isla’s heart leapt, then sank as she met his cold blue eyes. How long had he been there? Coira’s bedroom door had been partially open during their entire conversation. Had he heard? The look he was giving her obliterated any warmth Coira’s words had inspired, chilling her to the bone.
Chapter Eight
“‘Twas like lookin’ into the eyes of a devil,” Isla said, pressing her palms against Alexander’s chest.
The day had been long, and he hadn’t come in from his work until a rainstorm had chased him indoors that evening. Thunder rumbled now, echoing the foreboding feeling that settled over Isla as she remembered her brief encounter with Alpin in the hallway.
“I dinnae think he will ever stop hating me, regardless of what his mother feels.”
Nor could she forgive him for murdering her brother, but if tolerating his haunting presence was the price of being Alexander’s wife, she’d pay it. Still, she would have preferred to ignore him, and he her. Instead, his gaze always seemed to find her, full of ice and malice.
Alexander frowned, idly tracing the exposed curve of Isla’s spine with his fingertips. His arms were wrapped around her, and they’d tensed at Isla’s mention of his brother. Her own muscles relaxed against his and she sighed. Here, she knew she was safe. If only she never had to leave his arms.
“He’s a wicked soul if there ever was one,” Alexander said. “Do ye ken if he overheard your conversation?”
“Nae, not for sure. He may have.” Isla’s stomach flip-flopped at the thought. She would have pressed a protective hand against her belly if it hadn’t been fitted safely against Alexander’s lean muscle.
Would her child grow up under the shadow of Alpin’s hatred? She frowned. It was unfair—no more fair, in fact, than her brother’s death had been. Alpin was a curse upon her family, it seemed. She tightened her hands into fists that rested against Alexander’s chest.
“Och, how I wish your brother wasnae such a wicked bastard.”
Alexander didn’t reprimand her for her language, only took one of her hands in his and slowly unwrapped her fist, interlocking his fingers with her own. His grip was tight, his voice low. “That makes two of us, but Isla…”
She sensed his gaze on the top of her head and looked up to meet his eyes. “Aye?”
He squeezed her hand even more tightly. “I willnae let him harm ye. Ye ken that, don’t ye?”
She nodded, her throat tightening for what seemed the hundredth time that day. Being with child was turning her into a sop. She never knew when something was going to bring her to the point of tears.
“Aye, I ken that. I amnae scared, only angry.”
At least, that was how she felt at the moment. Her emotions were prone to change as often as a summer sky lately, and sometimes fear crept into her heart when she thought of Alpin’s burning gaze, of the wicked blade he’d used to send her brother to the grave. Above all that, though, she trusted Alexander. He’d been nothing if not a magnificent protector since the day she’d met him.
“I can see that he troubles ye,” he continued, his blue eyes searching hers, “more than ye let on. I amnae opposed to turning my blade against him, Isla. For your honour, and so that ye may have peace.”
She stiffened against him, the tension that had drained from her muscles returning immediately. “Not this again. Please dinnae even speak of it.” The discomfort Alpin inspired was nothing compared to the threat of losing Alexander. And as much as Isla detested Alpin, she couldn’t stomach the thought of how devastated Coira would be if her cherished son were killed. She would never encourage violence between the two brothers, ever.
“As ye wish,” Alexander said, the softness of his voice belying the hardness of his tensed muscles.