“And do what with them?” Emelie wondered.
“The ancients believed if a woman’s pish made the wheat bloom, she was having a son. If the barley blooms, she’s having a lass. Either way, if one blooms, you ken you’re with child.”
Emelie stared down at the plants in her hands and nodded mutely. Her mind seemed to both race and be blank at the same time. She couldn’t pull forth a coherent thought. She already suspected she was with child, and she’d come to the midwife hoping for a conclusive answer. But holding the barley and wheat, knowing she either needed to return or watch for blooms while in her chamber, she feared she would be ill all over the woman’s clean floors.
“If you are, my lady, there are options,” Goodwife Thomas’s kind voice was soft and lilting. Emelie still couldn’t speak, so she nodded once more. She closed her eyes against the tears that threatened to fall. She wished she’d thought of those options before she coupled with Henry either time. But both occasions had happened so spontaneously that she hadn’t prepared. Though, as she considered their last tryst at the castle, she knew she should have expected Henry to act as he did. He’d cajoled her many times before until she relented one night. And upon his last return, he’d clearly already decided, since he’d untied his breeks before Emelie arrived. She should have known he would assume they would couple again once they’d done it the first time. “Were you forced?”
Emelie’s head jerked up. “No. Not at all. I can’t claim that as an excuse. I was just wretchedly foolish.” Emelie closed her eyes and shuddered as Goodwife Thomas laid a gentle hand on her arm.
“Do you wish me to keep these until you can come back to learn of the results? You could decide then what you will do.”
“I don’t know how easily I can slip away again.” Emelie worried her bottom lip, knowing she took an extreme risk leaving the keep without guards, telling no one where she went, and with no one discovering her whereabouts. She reached into her pocket for her coins, and her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Thank you.”
“Nay, my lady. You know you’ve erred. You’re not here because of recklessness or convenience. I think you will have much to consider soon. All I ask for is you return if you need me.”
What could it be if not recklessness? It was the very definition of recklessness, and now it has likely come home to roost.
“Thank you, Goody Thomas. I won’t forget your kindness.” Emelie forced a smile. She tucked the wheat and barley into the folds of her cloak before ducking out of the shop. She hurried back to her chamber, grateful that it was still empty. The Mistress of the Bedchamber didn’t always allow sisters to share chambers, but Emelie and Blythe had been one of the fortunate pairs. While Emelie wasn’t ready to confess, not even to Blythe, it didn’t terrify her if Blythe discovered her secret.
Emelie poured a mug of fresh water and gulped it down before pacing the chamber, hoping movement would hurry the water’s descent. When she was certain she could use the harvested plants, she laid them over the chamber pot and closed her eyes. When she finished, she stared at the plants, wondering how long it would take. She hadn’t thought to ask where she should store them. She prayed wrapping them in a drying linen and keeping them in her chest would be fine. She tucked them away before climbing into bed. Her tears soaked her pillow.
Two
Emelie’s hands shook as she read the missive for at least the seventh time. Her legs gave out as she approached the bench tucked away in the royal garden. She missed her target and landed hard on the ground without caring. She stared into space, seeing nothing but the words in her father’s missive in her mind’s eye.
Daughter,
I have received no missive from Henry Pringle asking for your hand in marriage or otherwise. I could not, since the man married more than a moon ago. He wed Laird Kenneth Elliot’s third daughter. You may recall Alice is your former peer’s sister. Of course, Allyson is no longer an Elliot, but now a Gordon.
I do not know why you would think to ask on Pringle’s behalf, but it is obvious that I cannot grant you permission to marry a man already married. If you are so eager to wed, I will make arrangements. You are of an age. I shall look into matches for you and your sister. But your mother and I had hoped you and Blythe would find husbands much as Isabella did. We wish you and Blythe the same happiness that Isabella found with Dedric.
I will send word when I’ve secured a betrothal.
Faithfully,
Father
Emelie couldn’t cease shaking. She didn’t sob; she didn’t even cry. She merely trembled to the point where she knew she must appear like she convulsed. Her heart hurt to such an extreme that she wished it would stop beating. Her ears rang as she heard her father’s voice reading the missive to her once more. As the words faded from her mind, her mother’s devastated face replaced the image of the missive. It was her mother who she saw sobbing, not herself. She was entirely numb.
Just that morning, she’d checked the wheat and barley once again. It had been three days since she visited the apothecary and the midwife gave her the harvested plants. She’d managed not to look for two days, but her fear and anticipation demanded she check that morning. The wheat had clear blooms while there was no change in the barley. She’d pretended to pull a pair of stockings from her chest while their maid helped Blythe with her hair. She’d nearly dropped the lid. Through shallow breaths that made her lightheaded, she prepared for Mass and even endured the service. She’d been on her way to the Great Hall when a page sought her.
The young boy handed her a folded sheaf of parchment, and she immediately recognized her father’s insignia in the wax. Blythe knew Emelie believed she would marry Henry Pringle. That wasn’t a secret, since many had witnessed him pay court. She’d even confided in her sister that she’d written to their father to learn why she hadn’t received his approval. As she sat on the damp grass, she now knew why.
Dominic Campbell watched the young woman wander into the garden. She appeared distracted; upon first glance, he’d thought she was a lost child. He’d followed, thinking she had become separated from her parents. But he caught sight of the parchment dangling from her fingers. When he noticed her gown, there was no longer any doubt of her position. The ornate stitching and lavish material signified she was a lady-in-waiting. When Dominic watched the woman miss the bench entirely and land ungracefully on the ground, he rushed to her. Even from his distance he could see that she shook. The parchment drifted to the ground, but she didn’t appear to notice.
“My lady?” Dominic said as he neared. It surprised him when she didn’t turn toward his voice. She didn’t appear to even register his presence. He tried again. “My lady.”
Emelie heard a fuzzy noise beside her, and part of her mind recognized it as a man’s voice. But she couldn’t collect herself enough to look toward its owner. It wasn’t until an enormous hand gripped her elbow that she looked toward the towering Highlander. He pulled upward with caution, but she didn’t budge.
“My lady, should I fetch someone? Are you unwell?” Dominic didn’t know what to do. The young lady didn’t respond to his words, nor had she accepted his help. He didn’t want to manhandle a stranger, but he knew he couldn’t leave her on the ground. He wasn’t certain he could even leave her side. He glanced at the missive that now laid beside her. He caught the words “daughter” and “father” before he flipped it over, recognizing the Dunbar crest. Dominic looked at the woman once more. She was ghostly pale and still trembling. Resolved to seat her on the bench, he prayed she wouldn’t fall off.
Dominic looked around to ensure no one watched them. When he was assured that they were alone in the garden, he wrapped his hands around her waist. While he’d noticed her diminutive height, she didn’t feel as fragile as he expected. He lifted her onto the bench and sat down beside her. She turned unseeing eyes toward him and wilted against his shoulder. Unsure what to do, he wrapped his arm around the strange woman’s shoulders. He heard her inhale—or sniff—before she curled into him and burst into tears. Sobs wracked her body as her tears dampened Dominic’s doublet. Baffled but sympathetic, he tightened his hold on her. She burrowed closer, as though he could somehow solve her unknown crisis.
“My lady, what can I do to help you? Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Dominic tried again. She shook her head as she continued to cry, but the sobs subsided. It was just a steady onslaught of tears. The longer he held her, the more she calmed. Absentmindedly, he stroked her arm, just as he had done countless times when his wife, Colina, grew overwrought about one thing or another. Thoughts of his dead wife soured Dominic to his soul. He grimaced as he forced himself to ignore any reminder of the treacherous woman. Instead, he focused on the one in his arms.
“I’m—so—sorry,” Emelie stuttered as she fumbled to wipe tears from her face. She was utterly humiliated. First by the contents of her father’s missive, then being found mute in the garden before bursting into hysterics, and finally realizing she’d practically crawled onto this strange man’s lap. She couldn’t reason out why his scent had suddenly felt like a sanctuary. His sturdy presence and brawny arm felt like a shield from reality. And he’d merely held her. He hadn’t shunned her or even demanded she answer him.
“Is there aught I can do? Someone I should fetch?” Dominic offered. Emelie shook her head as she sat up and wiped the last of her tears. She glanced down and saw the missive in the man’s hand. Her eyes widened as she stared up at him in fear, then anger. “I didn’t read it, my lady. I only glanced and noticed Laird Dunbar sent it. I assume he’s your father, since you have the missive.”
