He felt her forehead and cheeks. ‘You’re burning up. Angus!’ He bellowed for his valet, who stood frozen at the threshold of the main hall. ‘Get the doctor. She’s ill. Hurry!’
‘But I am not ill,’ she answered. ‘I am just...’
‘You are just what?’ he asked in soft, docent tones. ‘Tell me. Whatever has happened, you can tell me. I will understand. I promise.’
She gripped his hands as they clutched her face and whispered the shaky words. ‘I am a murderer, Rory. Somehow they know what I have done, and I will hang for it. He shall have his revenge on me at last as he always said he would.’
What?
‘Who? I don’t understand, I—’ he started.
Moira crumpled in his hold, and he caught her before she collapsed to the floor. Nothing she had said in the last few minutes made a whit of sense. He picked up the balled letter that had fallen from her hand and shoved it in his pocket before swooping her up and into his arms to carry her back to her bedchamber. Her head lolled against his shoulder and her arms swung loosely as he walked. His heart hammered in his chest.
What was going on?
Tressa appeared from his wife’s chamber. ‘What’s ’appened, my laird?’
‘Moira is ill. A fever, I think. Ready her bed and whatever you feel the doctor will need when he arrives. And make sure someone has gone to fetch him,’ he commanded.
Tressa scurried back in the room to turn down her mistress’s bed, and Rory laid his wife gently on the covers, resting her head back carefully along the pillows.
Just this morning they had been talking about the future. Of a day when he might be well and they could be a family. Now, she was muttering to him of a murder and hangings? Tressa fussed at Moira’s shoes and Rory ordered her away. ‘I will tend to her. Gather what the doctor will require. Now!’
Tressa hurried from the room, closing the door hastily behind her.
Rory cursed and ruffled his hair with his hand. While he didn’t mean to snap at the lass, he couldn’t think with Moira like this.Hewas supposed to be the sick one, not her. She was the one full of life and joy. But this? Her weak, pale form rattled him.
Stop worrying and do something.
Shaking his head, he snapped back into form. He needed to get her out of these wet clothes and warm her. He tugged at the knotted laces of her boots, snapping the ties until he was able to free her feet from them. Her toes were ice cold and her stockings soaked through. Carefully, he rolled her stockings off and rubbed her feet between his hands in a desperate attempt to warm her. Realising she was still wearing a soaked gown, he turned her carefully to unbutton the back of it.Why were there always so many buttons?Before he could take a dirk to it and cut them off, Tressa returned. She avoided Rory’s gaze and headed straight to her mistress.
‘If ye will allow me, my laird. I shall be faster. And yer uncle awaits ye in the main hall. He’s returned.’
‘Aye,’ he answered, relief consuming him. The lass was right. ‘Change her clothes. Try to warm her.’
‘Aye,’ she replied, already beginning the task of unbuttoning Moira’s dress. He gave his wife one last lingering glance and left the room.
This couldn’t be happening, could it? He jogged down the hallways and rushed down the staircase until he reached the main hall. Uncle, who was shaking off his hat and giving his wet coat and gloves to a servant, faced him.
‘I saw Angus roaring down the road on horse to the village despite the ice and enter to find the servants rushing about as if we are to hold a celebration. They told me you’ve found Moira.’ He smiled.
‘Aye,’ Rory answered. ‘She’s returned, but in quite a state. She’s in a fever. I sent Angus for the doctor. Something has happened. I can’t make sense of her ramblings.’
His uncle’s gaze narrowed in on him, his smile crashing into a thin line of concern. ‘What do you mean?’
Aware that they were being overheard by everyone and anyone, Rory nodded to his uncle. ‘Come with me. We must talk.’
Silently, they made their way to his study. Once inside, Rory dropped the latch to the room, shrugged off his wet coat and pulled the balled letter from his pocket. He pressed the crumpled mess to the desk and smoothed it with his hand. Even though the ink had been smudged from the rain, the words were still unmistakable.
He read the note twice to be sure.
I know you killed Peter.
I have proof.
You will hang.
The three short lines hung heavy with meaning, but Rory stared at them dumbfounded and uncertain as if written in some other language he could not ascertain. His Moira, a murderer? He couldn’t fathom it. Her mutterings echoed in his mind.
