Chapter 15
Rose did not know how much time had passed, trapped in this nightmare from which she could not wake. Agony gripped her body, so intense that she had no control over her own thoughts or movements. Her sisters came and went from the room. And though Rose was aware of all that went on around her, she was nearly insensible from the pain. She was dying. She had no idea how she’d come to be in her own chambers, but she did remember the vomiting and dry heaves. Something was cutting her in two, killing her body. If she lived through this torture, she would surely never bear children.
Shouting and arguing roused her from the swirling tempest of misery. She heard her uncle in the distance once, yelling obscenities, and someone else—Drake?—demanding to see her. Isobel sat on the bed, wiping a cool cloth over Rose’s brow. Rose raised a hand, impossibly heavy, pushing through mud.
“I want to see him.” Her voice was a mere breath.
Isobel frowned and leaned close.
“I want to see him. Drake.”
Isobel nodded and straightened, looking over her shoulder. Rose was relieved, as she couldn’t speak anylouder. It hurt too much. Speaking hurt, as if it vibrated through her, ripping at her womb. Everything hurt, even breathing.
Isobel left her side, and Rose soon heard her sister’s voice raised with the other angry voices. Seconds later Drake was beside her.
He knelt close, his face creased with worry. “What happened?”
“William?”
“He is alive. But sleeps deeply and cannot be woken.”
“He saved my nephew…born dead.”
“Then he tried to save your aunt?”
Rose tried to shake her head but only turned it slightly against the pillow. “No…I saved her.”
Drake’s brow furrowed as he stared at her. “You?”
“Aye, William told me I could…and he was right.”
He glanced at someone behind him and murmured, “She doesn’t know.”
“What? I don’t know what?”
He straightened, turning away from her and speaking to Isobel in a soft, urgent undertone that Rose could not understand. Both stole worried glances at her throughout. Rose wanted to demand that they tell her what the problem was, but the pain was too great, washing over her in nauseating waves. She closed her eyes and groaned, trying to curl harder into herself. Someone jammed a rolled-up blanket into her stomach, and she clutched at it, pressing it hard into her gut.
“Here, drink this,” said a soft voice beside her.
Gillian’s cool hand slid beneath her neck, lifting and pressing a cup to her lips. Rose drank, recognizing thescents and flavor—valerian and willow bark. Good. She wanted to sleep.
When she woke next, the room was dim and quiet, except for the crackle and pop of the fire. She sat up in bed, her hand to her empty belly. It was sore and achy, but the pain was bearable. A head popped up beside her bed—wiry gray fur and a long snout. Broc, Gillian’s deerhound. He snorted and gave a short bark.
Gillian sat in a chair near the fire. She set her sewing aside and came to the bed. “You are awake! How do you feel?”
“Better…how is William?”
Gillian handed Rose a cup of herbed wine. “Lord Strathwick? I know not.”
Rose drank deeply, then said, “I need to see him.”
“Can you eat?” Gillian asked.
Rose nodded, her belly rumbling hollowly.
“I will get you some dinner and check on Lord Strathwick. You lay here and rest, aye? You’ve been very ill. Broc will look after you.”
Upon hearing his name, the deerhound sat up and whined softly, licking frantically at his mistress’s hand. She scratched his head and ordered him to stay. He obeyed, though he watched her longingly as she left, fidgeting as if restraining himself from bounding after her. When the door shut, he lay back down.
