“Until she hanged herself from the second-floor bedchamber window.” An uneasiness, a terrible suspicion, made Lyla hug herself. Grant’s first wife had suffered from severe depression. Her mental illness had caused her to end her pain by taking her own life. As miserable as she was while alive, could it be her spirit that was so miserable in death? “Do you think it might be her that’s returned?”
The longer Grant stared at her, the more she realized he believed the aggressive entity to be his first wife’s ghost. “I dinna ken,” he said, but it lacked conviction.
She pulled an upholstered footstool up beside the cradles and sat. Too weary to stand any longer but too filled with worry to sleep. With her elbows propped on her knees, she closed her eyes and massaged her temples, trying to remember anything she had ever read or seen about expelling malevolent spirits. She had never put much stock into spooky stories. Until now. Her Ouija board days in London came back to her. She’d read so many books to portray herself as a legitimate spiritualist. She wasn’t proud of those days, but it had paid the monthly rent. “Sage and salt.”
“What?” Grant turned from the window and moved closer.
“I remember reading that smudging with sage helps spiritually cleanse a place and spreading a circle of salt creates a protective barrier that evil won’t cross.” She hugged herself while staring down at her babies. “But I have no idea whether it works or is just a bunch of mumbo jumbo.”
“Mumbo jumbo?” he repeated while moving to stand behind her. He slipped her shift off her shoulder and leaned closer to examine the wound. “’Tis like a wild animal tore into ye. I’ll fetch another cloth. I dinna like the look of this.”
She smiled. Weariness had caused her to use words from her former life in the future.Mumbo jumbo.She hadn’t slipped like that in a very long while. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. It only hurts a little now.”
He ignored her. Instead, he went to the narrow table where she kept all the necessities for the babies. Fresh nappies. A powder she and her maid, Besseta, had concocted by pummeling cleaned and dried corn until it resembled cornstarch from the future. Herbal ointments her sister Abby had created after her own daughter was born.
Grant took another of the cleaning cloths, doused it in the basin of water, then wrung it out. “Reckon the ointments ye use on the wee one’s arses would help ye heal?” As gentle as a nursemaid, he dabbed the cool wet cloth across the scratches.
“I don’t know. It can wait ’til morning. I’ll ask Abby then.”
“We must warn everyone,” he said in a hushed voice, then crouched beside her. Even by the dim light of the candles, she saw the muscles in his strong jaw flex. Worry and frustration darkened his eyes. They had gone all flinty, as they always did when he was upset. “If anything happens to ye…” His voice broke as he touched her face, cupping her cheek in his hand. “I canna bear the thought of it.”
She covered his hand with hers. “I love you.” She wanted to reassure him, but how could she when neither of them knew what had attacked her? “Nothing will ever change that. Not sickness. Nor suffering. Or death.”
“And I love ye more, my precious one.” His mouth quirked with a sad smile. “Even by candlelight, the hazel of yer eyes has gone green with worry. I used to think the color shifted whenever ye lied.” He brushed the softest of kisses to her brow. “But now I ken when they go green ’tis yer eyes showing the depth of yer feelings.”
The candlesticks on the mantel crashed to the hearth, dousing the room in a darkness softened by moonlight slipping through the window.
Grant unsheathed his dagger and held it high. “Be gone, Merideth! Yer time here is done!”
The din of the candlesticks paired with Grant’s shout woke all the children. The babies cried and so did Fawna and Rory.
Lyla gathered up her infant daughters and climbed into bed with the seven-year-olds. “It’s all right. Da will protect us. Hug in close. We are all here together.”
“What is it?” Fawna cried.
“Aye,” Rory added, snuffling as he scooted closer. “Why did Da yell? ’Twas it a battle cry?”
“It doesn’t matter now.” Lyla struggled to remain calm for the little ones’ sake.
“I will not relight the candles,” Grant said from the end of the bed. “I willna give her the weapon of fire.”
“Her who, Da?” Fawna patted the baby closest to her, quietly shushing the infant.
Lyla clenched her teeth to keep from telling the children it was their own deceased mother attacking them.
“The angry wraith.” Grant sidled back and forth, staying close to the bed in case the spirit attacked again.
“How do ye know ’tis ashe?Rory perked up and dragged the back of his hand across his runny nose.
“I just know,” Grant said. The whiteness of his léine glowed an eerie blue in the moonlight. “Try and go back to sleep.”
“I canna sleep now,” the lad said. “I could eat, though.”
“Ye willna eat ’til morning when ye break yer fast.” Grant tipped a stern look at his son. “Lie ye down, close yer eyes, and sleep.”
“Listen to yer Da,” Lyla gently urged them both, knowing Grant was at his wits’ end.
With surprisingly little grumbling, both children did as they were told.
