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Trouble with a Highland Bride Page 5
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“Good-bye, Jack.” Gwyn whirled around to walk away, because if she didn’t leave soon, she feared she never would.
“Wait!” he called.
She stopped and slowly turned back to face him.
“Do not have your brother go to the negotiations tomorrow.” His voice was grave.
“No’ negotiate? But why?”
“Because my uncles are bastards, that’s why. They will not honor the truce or the negotiations. They plan to capture or kill any who enter the tent. You must warn your brother not to go.”
Gwyn could not believe what he was telling her, not just because of the treachery, but why should he warn her? “Why would ye tell me this?”
“Because you have shown me kindness, and I cannot have you lose your brother in such a deceitful manner. The plans of my uncles are not mine. I would negotiate with Laird Campbell and Lady Isabelle directly if I could, but as it is, I must wait for my fate to be decided by others.”
Gwyn stepped quickly up to the bars, lowering her voice though there was none to hear. She was running out of time. “Do ye mean what ye say? Would ye negotiate under a truce if ye could?”
“Yes, but you see I am not able.” Jack motioned around him.
Gwyn’s mind spun. She could let the soldiers find him, but he would most certainly be put into a dungeon until the siege was past. If it was to be war, it would not be a pleasant time for Jack, particularly with an injured foot. He needed tending. He needed her. And she needed him to negotiate a peace. Would they have a chance to do that if he was found by the guards? Yet any other plan would mean trusting him.
“Give me yer weapons and armor, all. And quick!” Gwyn’s heart beat with the excited pulse of choosing her own destiny. She would not sit back and hope things worked out as she wished. No, she would take fate by the hand.
Jack stared at her, his eyes opening wide as understanding dawned. “Are you certain about this?” He handed her a bundle of armor and his sword through the holes in the lattice gate.
“Nay.” She took his sword.
He handed her a knife from his boot (he had a knife in his boot!) and then surrendered once more the golden knife. She took it slowly from his palm. “If all goes well, I shall return it.”
“If all goes well, I insist you keep it.”
Gywn ran to the side of the storeroom, out of sight of the English knight and hid the weapons all under some canvas behind a pickle barrel. She ran back to him, her heart pounding. David would not approve. Indeed, she could think of none in the castle who would approve. But that had never stopped her before.
She stood before him, unsure how to proceed. “I will ask for your most solemn vow that ye enter under terms of peace for the purpose o’ negotiations and that ye will attempt no violence nor treachery against me or any o’ my kin whilst ye are our guest.”
Jack inclined his head. “I enter under a flag of truce. I give thee my solemn vow—no harm will ever come to you or your kin from my hand.”
“I will hold ye to yer vow, sir knight.” Gwyn swallowed on a dry throat. “If ye treat me false, I shall track ye down, and if ye doubt my ability to do so, do not doubt my ability to hire someone who can. I have friends of a certain notoriety.” Gwyn brought to mind her sword trainer, her sister-in-law and (mostly) retired thief, Morrigan.
“No act of vengeance will ever be required insomuch as I am concerned.”
Gwyn took the keys from the pocket of her kirtle and put the key in the iron keyhole. Her hands shook and her heart pounded. This was either going to save the castle…or kill them all.
She turned the lock, and it opened with an echoing click. Her heart pounded on her rib cage as if demanding to be released. Would he be true to his word? Would he charge and attack? She stepped back and rested her hand on her own dagger.
He limped his way slowly to the gate and swung it open. The iron hinges cried from lack of use and Gwyn flinched at the loud noise, glancing around to make sure no one had heard the telltale squawk of the gate swinging open.
Jack slowly limped his way through the gate and closed it behind him. He made no move to attack her, and she doubted he could, even if he was of a treacherous nature. He attempted to walk to her but stumbled, and she rushed to his side. If she was to be a fool, it might as well be a big fool.
“Can ye walk?”
“Yes…yes, a little.”
“Here let us wrap this round ye, and I shall help ye.” Gwyn helped wrap him back into the plaid. It also helped to disguise his English clothes. “People will think I am helping someone who is injured or ill.”
“Shall we find your brother?” asked Jack in a shaky voice.
Gwyn guessed his foot pained him a great deal. “Aye, but first let us find a place where ye can rest.” She needed to get him somewhere safe and then find a way to broach the subject with David.
She turned and locked the gate, placing the key back in her pocket. Jack rested all his weight on one leg, and she hoped he could manage across the courtyard. She drew his arm around her shoulder for him to gain support, and wrapped her own arm around his waist. Jack had on one boot and his other foot was bandaged. His injured foot would not fit in the boot, so there was nothing to do but leave it behind.
She had never been so close to a man. Or maybe she had, but never one who made her heart pound and her head spin. He rested some of his weight on her, and Gwyn strained to hold even part of it. He was a tall man, trim but solid.
In this most unconventional manner, Gwyn helped Jack hobble through the storeroom to the door to the courtyard. It was fortunate the rain had chased everyone inside the keep. With luck, they could leave without anyone taking note.
“Just keep yer head down, and dinna say a word,” whispered Gwyn. “I have a plan.”
They proceeded slowly across the courtyard in plain view, if there was any to see them. They moved slowly, and Gwyn kept her head down against the cold rain. They were almost there.
“Gwyn Campbell!” Isabelle appeared before her, holding a plaid over her head. “What are you doing, child? Is this man ill?”
“Nay. Well, aye, but only slightly. I can take care o’ him, just a mild case o’ collywobbles.”
Isabelle frowned. “What nonsense are you speaking?”
“Here!” Gwyn thrust the key to Isabelle, hoping Jack would have the good sense to keep his head down. “I found it and was taking it to ye, and then I saw this man and offered to help take him for a lie down. Little too many sips from the jug. Just needs to sleep it off, poor man.”
“Put him where he can sleep it off and come back to your quarters. ’Tis late and you need sleep. I will check on you soon.” She drilled a look into Gwyn that brooked no opposition.
“Aye, I will be there shortly.”
Gwyn and Jack continued the short distance to the tower where the chapel was housed. Below was another storeroom, as most of the towers’ ground floors were. She hurried him inside and set him down on a crate with a sigh of relief, both for her aching shoulders and her escape from Isabelle. She shook off her plaid from the rain.
“Was that Lady Isabelle, my cousin?” asked Jack weakly. “I thought she had caught us.”
“Aye, it was Isabelle. I also feared we would be caught.”
“I do not wish to cause you trouble.”
“Much too late for that,” said Gwyn with a smile. She rummaged through the storeroom and was pleased to find a stack of pallets that had been prepared for the coming guests. She arranged them in a corner and slid crates around it, so that the bed would not be visible to any who entered the storeroom. She wished to lock the door but did not dare. This storeroom would be used during the feasts and a locked door would raise suspicion.
“Come here and lie down.” She braced him against her once more, even as sparks of excitement shot through her at his touch. She helped him to lay on
the pallets, and he did so with a groan.
“I must return to the solar. Isabelle will be checking.” Gwyn chewed her lip, thinking of what she must do. She could not leave an English knight unguarded in a storeroom, even if Jack was hardly in any condition to cause trouble. David would have her hide.
“I cannot thank you enough for your help.” Jack’s eyes were half-closed and his face was white. His foot had begun to bleed again through the bandages, so Gwyn raised it up on a bundle of hay.
“Ye need to sleep.” Gwyn pulled out the sleeping draught. If Jack would take it, Gwyn could feel secure knowing he could not escape or cause any harm.
Jack stared at the little bottle. “What is it?”
“Something to help ye sleep.”
Jack pressed his lips together, took a deep breath, and finally nodded. “You have trusted me. I shall trust you.” He accepted the draught and took a swig. “I shall hope to wake from this sleep without a sword through my heart.”
“Rest well, sir knight. I shall keep ye safe.” Gwyn smiled at him.
He took her hand in his and held it until he drifted to sleep. She remained longer than she needed, listening to his rhythmic breathing and marveling over how a lock of dark brown hair fell over one closed eye. She slowly traced one fingertip across his forehead, brushing the lock to the side. Without thinking, she leaned down and kissed his brow.
She stood up like a shot, surprised at her own action. She needed to get to her quarters before Isabelle raised the alarm. She needed to get away from this man before she betrayed any more confusing emotions.
What was she going to do with her English knight?
Seven
Gwyn woke the next morning before dawn. She had spent a nervous night, sneaking out of her bedchamber past her sleeping sisters to check on her slumbering knight. Every time she checked, he was where he should be, unconscious and breathing. Her plan was to bring Jack and David together at first light so they could negotiate a settlement. It would work. It had to.
A quick check on Jack revealed he was still sleeping, still breathing. Yet as she approached, she could see something was wrong. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead and he was hot to the touch. He had gotten the fever. His injured foot was swollen and red.
“Nay, nay, this isna right. Jack…Jack!” She shook him until his head lolled to one side and his eyes opened.
“Gwyn.” His voice was a whisper, as if it was all the energy he could muster. “Not well this morning. Give me a minute, then I’ll be ready to talk with your brother.” His eyes closed again. He was in no condition to meet with David—and may never be if she did not act fast.
Fortunately, she had recently been training with Isabelle regarding what to do with festering wounds. Gwyn ran to Isabelle’s stockpile of medicines, grabbed what was needed, and returned to Jack. Working fast, she held up his head and poured a healing draught down his throat. She then drained, washed, and redressed the wound. It was all she could do.
Would it be enough? It must be. But there was no way he could meet David today. He needed time to heal.
Her mind spinning, she went in search of her brother. He was planning to meet with the English that morning and must be warned. She took a deep breath. It was time to get creative.
She found David in his solar, being helped into his armor by his squire. “David? May I talk to ye now?”
“I need to prepare to meet wi’ the English, Gwyn. Can it wait?” David did not even look up at her, focusing his attention on the preparations of his armor.
“David. ’Tis important.”
David’s eyes met hers. He dismissed his squire with a wave of the hand. “What is it?”
“I must confess to ye that last evening, I took the key to the cistern gate and went outside.” She paused, waiting for the explosion. David did not disappoint.
“What?! Ye went outside wi’ the English on our doorstep? How could ye be so foolhardy? Do ye have any idea o’ what might have happened to ye?”
Gwyn nodded. “Aye, a good notion indeed.”
“Why? Why would ye put us all at risk?”
“There was a sick bairn. I needed an elder branch—”
“Nay, I’ll no’ listen to yer excuses. There can be no justification for doing such as ye did.” David crossed his arms and frowned at her. “Wait, why are ye telling me this? Ye’re not overly troubled wi’ confession.”
“Ye must no’ go to the meeting today wi’ the English. When I was outside, I overheard two soldiers talking. They spoke of a trap today for any who came to the parlay. Ye would go into the tent but ne’er come out.” Gwyn bit her lip at the slight fib she had told her brother.
David stilled. “Damn Sassenach,” he growled.
“Aye. I knew I must warn ye, though it would bring retribution on my head.” Gwyn breathed deep, relieved he had heeded her warning.
“Aye, it will, lass. I do appreciate yer honesty, though I expect nothing less. Ye are a Campbell. We dinna shy away from our duty.” David stood with his hands on his hips.
“Nay, indeed.”
“Considering the seriousness of yer actions, I will banish ye from the games.”
“Nay! I’ve been so looking forward to seeing the joust!” cried Gwyn, forgetting herself.
“Aye. Ye must sit alone, pray, and consider yer actions.”
Gwyn took a deep breath, remembering that this might actually work to her advantage. “Aye, David. I understand.” She walked back to the chapel tower slowly. It would be helpful to be able to spend all her time with Jack without question, but to miss the tournament games was a hard blow. She sighed, hoping that someday someone would appreciate her sacrifice.
Gwyn returned to the tower, entering the storeroom where Jack lay. He was still hot to the touch and appeared asleep or unconscious. She stroked his head, free to do so since no one—not even he—was awake to catch her. Even ill, he was an attractive man, and she hoped he would be hearty. How could she explain it if he should die?
The thought left her cold. He could not die…could he?
She propped him up once more and uncorked the bottle of medicine with her teeth. “Drink this!” she commanded through the gritted teeth.
His eyes fluttered and he obeyed. “Do anything you wish,” he mumbled.
She gave him a healthy draught and eased him back down. She went over in her head what Isabelle would do. She sighed. There was nothing else that could be done. He would either recover or he wouldn’t. Gwyn began to pace the room, unsure what to do next. She preferred action. Great feats of skill and bravery had always appealed, even if these were not particularly prized in a lass. Yet now she could do nothing but wait.
Tired of pacing back and forth, she wandered up the spiral stone steps to the floor above, entering the small chapel. With the games beginning in the courtyard, the chapel was empty, though many lit candles revealed the numerous prayers of the castle residents, most likely praying to bring a resolution to the trouble of the English army at their gate. Gwyn may have the key to the solution in her makeshift sickroom, if he survived to be of use.
Gwyn was no enemy to the church, but neither had she been a particular friend. Services were usually long and dull for an active-minded lass. The long liturgy in Latin was a particular chore. Her elders had attempted to teach her Latin, but she was a hopeless case. She had not the mind for it nor the discipline to learn. She could pick out a few words and phrases, but otherwise it was a jumbled mash of nonsense. She preferred to worship God riding through the heather on a fast horse or climbing a snowcapped peak. These expressions of faith, however, were not endorsed by her family, who corrected her catechism and chastised her for squirming in the pew.
The empty chapel was new to her. She had been in the chapel before, squashed in between her siblings on the pew, but never had she been alone. She felt oddly shy, as if being alone
in the chapel allowed God to notice her for the first time. She walked up to the altar and gave her best curtsy. She lit a candle and went to her knees before the altar as she had seen her sisters do.
At this point, her sisters would close their eyes, bow their heads, and silently pray. Herein lay the problem. What was she to say? She cleared her throat, an unnecessary gesture when praying silently. She could not think of what to say. “Hello,” she finally said out loud. “I…I am sorry for no’ praying much before, for all the wrong stuff I’ve done, and that probably most of it I have’na confessed the way I should because I dinna care to pray the rosary as much as Father Thomas would make me do if he knew what I’ve done.”
Gwyn shook her head. This was a poor beginning. She wished she had been better at confession, maybe then she would have a chance at the Good Lord hearing her prayer. “I know it is my own fault that I have Sir John downstairs, but it was his fault he stepped on his own spike!” She felt the need to defend herself. She paused, but the stone walls of the chapel made no reply. “Truly, I would appreciate it if ye could heal Jack. I ken he’s English, but even so, he’s a good man. And mayhap he can help prevent a war. So please, I ask for yer mercy on him. Heal him please and help me no’ to get in the way o’ yer good healing. Thank ye kindly. Amen.”
Gwyn rose and curtsied again, for it was what her sisters always did. At this point, her sisters would leave, but Gwyn lingered, wanting to know if her prayer had been heard or if it would be answered. No sound save the faint flickering of many candles could be heard. She stepped closer to the altar and noted the wood around the sides of the altar had been inscribed with a verse in Latin. She could make out but one word.
Love.
***
Gwyn sat beside Jack for most of the day, leaving only to bring back water, which she forced him to drink, or food, which she forced herself to eat. His status remained largely unchanged. She took some comfort that he did not appear to be getting worse, but neither did he appear to be getting better. Sometimes he called out in his febrile state, and she learned of his grief over his father’s death, his determination to protect his younger sisters, and his concerns over his uncles.