The Dreamer Page 17

  Flora had already laid out everything needed on the table. She hurried away before Gretna had a chance to release her. Apparently, Ian’s threat had been heard by all.

  He sat on the bed and glared at her. “I chose my earlier words poorly, mo ghràdh. Allow me to explain.”

  Mo ghràdh. My love. A precious endearment now tainted with the truth. The words felt more like an insult to her intelligence. Gretna shrugged. “Do as ye wish, but lie back so I can clean the wound while ye talk.” She dampened a cloth. “But make it brief. When I go to stitching ye back together, I’ll need ye still—which means silent.” A sense of victory filled her as he blew out a frustrated snort. Good. It was time he learned she’d not be taken for a fool again.

  He reclined on the table converted to a padded area for tending the wounded. “I didna mean to sound so coarse and heartless,” he said as he stared up at the ceiling. “It was neither lack of love nor joy that made me ask that cold question.” His scowl shifted to her. “It was fear.”

  “A fearful mercenary,” she mused in a disinterested tone as she cleaned his chest and face, then pressed another cloth in place to staunch the fresh bleeding. “When ye leave come summer, ye best take care that no one gets wind of such a weakness within ye. I’d think such a thing would sully yer reputation so much no one would wish to hire ye.”

  Ian grabbed hold of her wrist as she turned back to her worktable. “I know I hurt ye, and I am sorry. Sorrier than ye’ll ever know.” He held tight, preventing her from moving. “Ye’ve made me love ye, mo chridhe. A fierce love that scares me to death. I love the boys, too, and now ye’ve filled me with a love for my own child growing inside ye.” His uncovered eye narrowed with a pained flinch, and his voice broke as he continued, “If I should lose any of ye—” He paused, tightening his hold. “I canna bear the thought of losing any of ye, and my greatest fear is my curse will steal ye from me.”

  Damned if his words didn’t sound true, but then, so had all his others. Gretna fought to harden herself against him, but her heart wasn’t in the battle. His excuse was legitimate. She tried to twist out of his grasp. “Let me go, aye? I need to finish cleaning away the blood.”

  After a long moment, he eased away his hand and rested it atop his stomach. “I dinna ken what it will take to make ye believe me, but know this—we’ve the rest of our lives together for me to convince ye.” He latched hold of her arm again. “There will be no divorce. Not ever, ye ken? Ye’re mine.” He gently squeezed. “I love ye, whether ye believe me or no’.”

  Gretna tore her gaze from his and stared upward, begging the tears not to flow. They didn’t listen. Instead, they streaked fast and hard down her face. “See what ye’ve done?” she scolded with an angry swipe of her hand across her eyes. “How am I to sew ye up when I canna see for the tears.”

  “I dinna care if ye ever stitch me,” he said quietly as he pulled her down to his chest and held her. “All I care is that ye love me.” He hugged her tighter. “Love me and forgive me, aye?”

  “God help me—I do love ye!” Gretna gently pulled away and straightened. Her back already ached, and the fool man needed stitches. She rested a hand atop his chest. “But know this, if ye’re lying to me, ye will regret it, understand?”

  “Aye, love,” Ian said. He flattened his hand on her stomach. “I understand.” He gave a wincing, lopsided grin. “And I pray our son or daughter is born as fierce and courageous as their mother.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  At least the melting snow and persistent rains had slowed the fighting through most of March and into early April. Much of the glen had become a boggy mess that would suck the boots right off a man’s feet. Ian frowned as he spotted Gretna trudging up the path from the village, skirts muddied to her knees. Her arisaid was hooded over her head as a useless shield against the steady drizzle.

  She looked miserable. He’d speak to her about this, and she’d best heed him this time. The woman had no business tramping about with no regard to the hour or the weather. She’d been down in the village since well before dawn, and here it was almost sunset. He’d not have her catching her death while seeing to someone else’s ailments. Aye, it was a selfish thought, and he fully admitted it. But fate and ill luck had taken more than their fair share from him. He’d not willingly pay them anymore.

  He exited the guard tower and met her at the gate, pointing at the entrance to the keep. “To our rooms with ye now. While ye change into dry clothes, I’ll send for hot broth and pour ye a whisky, and then ye’ll keep yer stubborn arse by the fire until time for yer supper, ye ken?” He relieved her of her basket and hefted it up and down. “Are ye carrying stones now? Ye’ve no business carting about such weight. Why did ye not take Flora to help ye?” Offering his arm, he fixed her with a stern look. “We’ll be talking about yer careless ways once I get ye dry and warm. Ye’re going to start treating yerself with more care, or I’m locking ye in the bedchamber. Do ye hear me, wife?”

  “My, my, such a warm greeting.” Gretna’s tone implied she still possessed enough energy to unleash her temper. “It is good to see ye, too, dear husband. Might I advise that ye’d do well to save yer nagging for another time? I’m nay in the mood for it, nor will I abide it.”

  While he admired her dedication and fire, he refused to allow her to keep putting both herself and the wee one at risk. Since the scolding she deserved appeared to make her even more bull-headed, he’d have to get wilier to make her behave. He caught the attention of a passing maid. “A hearty broth and bread for the mistress. Up to our rooms as soon as possible, aye?”

  “Aye, sir.” The lass curtsied and hurried off toward the kitchens.

  Holding tight to Gretna’s hand on his arm, he forced himself to hold his tongue for the remainder of their walk up to their rooms.

  Gretna leaned against him, worrying him even more. “Has Mercy heard the news yet?” she asked with a weariness that sounded bone-deep.

  “Aye. Graham told her this morning after the messenger left.” Ian set Gretna’s medicine basket on the table beside the door and helped her remove her soaked arisaid. As he shook it out and hung it on the drying rack beside the fire, he shook his head. “She mourns the loss of her godfather, but if ye ask me, the man’s happier now that he’s dead. Most say he never got over Queen Mary’s passing.”

  King William had died from a lung inflammation, a complication from injuries he received when he fell from his horse. With no heir to take his place, his late wife’s sister, Anne, was now queen regent over England, Scotland, and Ireland. This could bode ill for Clan MacCoinnich. Mercy had been King William’s only goddaughter, and that connection had shielded them somewhat from the king’s harsh opinion of Highlanders.

  Ian poured a glass of whisky and followed Gretna into the bedchamber. He pushed it into her hand. “Drink this while I undo yer laces. Yer wee fingers look red as fire and feel cold as ice.”

  Thankfully, she complied without arguing.

  “Did it go well with Jenny? Graham said Sawny was so beside himself that he was useless on the practice field today. Nearly caught a sword in his ribs.” He yanked at the wet knots of her laces, ready to be done with the blasted things and just slice them with his dagger.

  Gretna lifted her arm higher to aid him in undoing the side laces that allowed her bodice to adjust to her growing middle. “Aye. Sawny is now the proud uncle of a healthy niece, and Jenny’s overjoyed to finally have a girl in her brood of wee lads.”

  Successful at removing the garment, Ian hung it by the fire, then added more wood to the flames. The log crackled and hissed, sending steam into the air. Nothing escaped the weather, everything was damp. Prepared to launch a more careful reprimand of her stubborn ways, he straightened from the fire but was struck mute at the wondrous sight before him.

  Gretna stood in nothing but her shift, the soft linen molding to the fine abundance of her breasts made even fuller by her pregnancy. Her stomach had started rounding with a small promising mound.
She shifted in place, taking another sip of her drink as she turned aside to avoid his stare. “Stop lookin’ so hard at me. Ye look like a hungry wolf about to rip into a wee hare.”

  “Ye’re such a beauty.” Ian led her to the chair closest to the fire. “I canna help it, love. Yer beauty makes me…fills me with…” He shrugged and shook his head. “It makes me unable to speak.”

  She smiled and seemed to melt into the cushions, gently stroking a hand down the slight curve of her stomach. “Aye, we’ll see how ye feel when I’m waddling around big as a horse.”

  “More of ye means more beauty to behold.” He kissed her soundly, aching to scoop her up and take her to bed. Nay. To do such would be selfish. She was exhausted. The dark circles under her eyes concerned him.

  A knock sounded from the main door.

  “’Tis probably yer broth. I’ll fetch it for ye.” He scooped up the dry shift she’d laid across the foot of the bed and draped it across the chair beside her, then scooted it closer to the fire. “We’ll warm it here. Wait a bit to put it on, aye?”

  “Aye, love.” She’d already leaned her head back against the pillowed chair and closed her eyes.

  The knock came again.

  “Hold now!” He pulled the bedchamber door closed but didn’t latch it as he left the room. Upon opening the hall door, he found himself in the middle of Sutherland’s wooing of the young maid bearing a tray of food. Ian rescued it. “Here. Give me that before it spills.”

  The girl blushed, ducked her head, then scurried off.

  “Ye scared her away,” Sutherland scolded.

  Ian ignored him and nodded at the decanters. “Pour yerself a drink. I need to get this to Gretna before she falls asleep.” He hurried back to the bedchamber.

  Gretna had already changed into the dry shift and climbed into bed.

  “Prop yerself up, lass.” Ian thumped the bed with his knee. If he didn’t hurry, she’d be fast asleep for sure.

  “I just want to sleep,” she said as she curled onto her side.

  “Ye need to eat—for the babe,” he ordered. “And I’m not leaving or letting ye be until ye do so.”

  “Ye’re an arse. Ye know that?” She glared at him as she shoved herself to a seated position back against the headboard.

  “Aye. I’m an arse who loves ye.” He balanced the tray across her lap. “Ye need this to warm ye and for strength. Ye know that as well as I.” He stepped back. “Sutherland awaits me in the other room. Eat this, and then I’ll leave ye in peace for a while, agreed?”

  She rolled her eyes and lifted the steaming bowl toward her mouth. “Agreed.”

  He kissed her forehead, pleased that although her hair and face were still a bit damp, she remained cool to the touch. He might not be a healer, but even he knew an expectant mother worn to exhaustion risked falling victim to a fever.

  “I love ye,” he whispered so softly she didn’t hear. It mattered not as long as she felt it. A sense of peace settled across him as he left the room and softly clicked the door shut behind him.

  Sutherland stood by the window, staring at the raindrops racing down the glass. He turned to Ian. “She’s not ill, is she?”

  “Not yet.” Ian shook his head. “If she doesna listen and take care of herself, she soon will be.”

  “She trained up Flora pretty well. Could the maid not handle some of the load?” Sutherland meandered back to the row of decanters on the cabinet and poured himself another drink.

  “I’m sure Flora could if my stubborn wife would let her.” Ian gave a curt nod as his cousin held up a glass. “Aye, I’ll have one.”

  “Ye’ll need more than one after ye hear the news I bring.”

  “What now?” Ian accepted the drink, then moved to stand in front of the fire. He’d gotten a might damp himself.

  “Angus Neal has requested a meeting.” Sutherland backed up to the fire next to Ian. “At Kilchurn.”

  “Campbell’s keep.” Hatred rushed through Ian, heating him faster than the whisky or the fire. Ever since Glencoe, ever since Janet’s death, he’d sooner gut a Campbell as to look at one. “What’s the bastard playing at?”

  Sutherland shrugged. “His message said he’s willing to call off the warring if an agreement can be reached. My guess is, he’s going to demand what he feels is rightfully his, since he was next in line to claim the chieftainship after we killed that vile brother of his.” He sipped his whisky and shrugged again. “But the message merely said an agreement.”

  “An agreement.” Ian tossed back his drink and strode to the cabinet for another. “I trust that whoreson about as much as I trust the bloody Campbells. What does Alexander say?”

  “After talking to Graham and the other advisors, he’s willing to hear the man out.” Sutherland joined him and held out his empty glass. “Me? I’m against it. It smacks of treachery.” He shook his head. “But the others feel if a suitable accord might be reached, we should attempt it, for the sake of the people.”

  Ian stared down at his glass. They’d all be lying if they didn’t acknowledge that Angus’s attacks had brought a fair share of suffering to many in the clan. If it continued, dissension and unrest would seed and grow among those who had always been faithful to the MacCoinnichs. All options had to be considered—for the survival of Clan MacCoinnich. He blew out a heavy sigh. “When does Alexander leave?”

  “Not just Alexander.” Sutherland lifted his glass in a mock toast. “You were requested, by name, as well. Magnus, along with several guards, will accompany ye both, while Graham and I remain here to guard the keep.”

  “Why me?” Ian asked, suspicion growing.

  “None of this unrest occurred until Colin Neal returned from the dead.” Sutherland meandered back to his spot in front of the fire and looked at Ian with a knowing scowl. “It is my opinion all this trouble has something to do with that bastard. After all, we’d heard nary a peep out of any of Catriona’s brothers or the supposedly disgruntled Neals until now. I believe he’s at the core of all this strife—whether he’s doing it out of spite or because he’s hungry for power.” He shrugged. “A man like Colin goes through gold quickly—even the amount ye gave him.”

  This most definitely had to be a trap. Why else would Angus Neal request the chieftain’s cousin attend? Ian shook his head. “And Alexander still feels we should go? Even under such suspicious circumstances?”

  “Alexander knows he mustn’t ignore any opportunity to stave off further attacks. Too many have lost their homes and their lives.”

  Ian scrubbed a hand down his face. “When do we leave?”

  “Dawn.” Sutherland walked over and clapped a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Take every weapon ye’ve got, and trust no one, aye?”

  “That goes without saying.” Ian stared at the bedchamber door. The idea of leaving Gretna alone filled him with gut-churning unease.

  Father William’s rite of sprinkling her with holy water had tamped down the witchery rumors somewhat, but a malicious undercurrent still flowed through the clan. Nothing outright but it was there all the same. Most seemed to appreciate Gretna, but there were still some who openly shunned her—mainly Colin’s blood kin. “Keep close watch on Gretna, aye? And the boys?”

  “That goes without sayin’.” Sutherland headed for the hall door, pausing when he reached it. “The lads and I get along well. They like Magnus better because of that damn bird, but we get on just the same.”

  “I dinna care if they like ye or not. Just keep my family safe, aye? Even if ye have to lock them up here in our chambers.” Ian meant every word. If Sutherland was forced to isolate them to this wing, there’d be hell to pay when Ian returned, but at least Gretna and the lads would be safe.

  “I understand.” Sutherland made a somber bow. “I’ll speak to Alexander and Graham about tightening the guard around the keep until the two of ye return.” He winked as he pulled open the door. “We can attempt to keep Gretna and the wee scamps inside the skirting wall. Easier to keep up with t
hem that way.”

  “Whatever it takes.” Ian turned toward the bedchamber. “Now, pray I survive telling my wife of what is to come, including the fact that ye will be her official keeper, and she’s restricted to the keep until I return.”

  “God help ye, man.” Sutherland made the sign of the cross in midair, then left, as though he feared getting caught in what would surely be a stormy conversation.

  Ian eased into the room, pausing to see if Gretna was still awake. The crackling fire and the rain pattering against the window were the only sounds in the dimly lit chamber. She’d shoved her tray to the foot of the bed and curled beneath the covers.

  As quietly as possible, he removed the tray and carried it to the table beside the door. At least she’d finished her broth and eaten all the bread. He returned to the bedside, sitting in the chair on the other side of the nightstand. Watching her sleep always filled him with a sense of peace. He’d sit here a while, then see to the lads’ supper and getting them asleep.

  As if hearing his thoughts, Gretna stirred, floundering among the pillows to push herself upright. “I need to round up the boys and get them fed.”

  Ian sat on the edge of the bed. “Nay. Stay abed. I’ll see to them.” He repressed a smile when she immediately sank back into the pillows. Her weariness must be fierce. She never gave in so easily when it came to caring for the bairns.

  “I love ye. Ye know that, aye?” She smiled up at him with sleepy eyes that made her even more beautiful.

  “And I love ye more.” He leaned closer and rested a hand on the small swell of her stomach. “And this wee one, too.”

  She laid her hand atop his and squeezed. “I felt the quickening today. Soon, ye’ll be able to feel the child moving, too.”

  He had no words. Instead, he leaned forward and poured all he felt into the tenderest of kisses. Such a glorious, precious woman. Breaking the connection before it inflamed him beyond control, he pressed his forehead to hers. “Ye’ve made me whole,” he whispered as he lifted his head to fix his gaze with hers. “Mended my brokenness and healed my soul.”