The laird of Claven’s Carn dismounted and came forward to greet them. He took his wife’s hand and kissed it. Their eyes met, and the passion that still existed between them was palpable, yet they spoke not a word. Logan turned to his stepdaughter. “Did you bring back a husband, lass?” he asked her bluntly. The vibrant blue eyes looked at her with interest.
“Nay, none of those court dandies are suited to the life Friarsgate has to offer, Logan,” Elizabeth answered him, “but Mama will tell you all the news. If we ride hard I will be able to complete at least half a day’s work when I get home. Good-bye, Mama. Thank you for coming. I love you!” Elizabeth blew them kisses, and then with a smile she turned her horse back for home.
“Good-bye, my darling,” she heard her mother call after her.
She was relieved to have escaped further cross-examination by her stepfather. Logan was Rosamund’s problem. That other Scotsman was hers. Her mother was right: Baen was prideful. But he wanted her. Elizabeth might be unskilled in the ways of men and women, but she knew when a man wanted a woman. And she intended on torturing her big Scot until he could no longer resist her blandishments. He was already hers, though he knew it not. Smiling, she hurried her horse home, her Friarsgate men following.
Her fields were green with grain, she noted, pleased. The hay was almost all cut, and drying before being stored for the winter. Her beasts were fat. They would begin shearing next week. Many sheared earlier, but Friarsgate sheared their sheep just after Midsummer’s Day. There was time through the remainder of the summer and autumn to grow back the fleece the sheep would need for the winter months. And the wool they harvested from the later shearing could be spun into longer and stronger threads. It was part of the secret of their particularly fine wool. Their flocks were great this year. They had lost no beasts to disease or to any predators.
Strangely the hall seemed a little emptier that evening without Rosamund. She had for so long been the heart and soul of Friarsgate. As they sat talking after the meal Edmund remarked that he was not feeling well, and then suddenly fell from his chair to the floor. Maybel shrieked her dismay, but Baen jumped forward to pick up the unconscious man.
“This way,” Elizabeth said quickly, leading him up the stairs to the chamber Maybel and her husband shared. She flung open the door.
Baen was quickly behind her, and laid Edmund gently upon the bed. Maybel pushed the younger man aside and began loosening her husband’s shirt, clucking and fussing as she did.
Edmund opened his eyes. “Lea... leave... me be,” he muttered.
Baen gently moved Maybel away from her husband and, leaning over, spoke into Edmund’s ear. “Where does it hurt?” he asked him.
“Head,” Edmund ground out. “I c-c-can’t seem to m-move.”
Baen nodded. “You must rest, Edmund, and let Maybel take care of you. You will feel better tomorrow. You have been working very hard.”
“Aye,” Edmund said, and his eyes closed again.
“What has happened to him?” Maybel begged Baen. “He has always been so strong. What is the matter with him?”
“I do not know what they call it,” Baen said, “but I have seen this before in old men, Maybel. With God’s blessing he will regain the use of his limbs, although he will never be as strong again as he was. With some the power of speech is lost too. He is fortunate there. Keep him warm, and give him watered wine if he is thirsty. Sleep is the best healer that there is.”
“I will prepare a carafe of wine,” Elizabeth said. “I will put a sleeping draft in it so poor Edmund can rest. Stay by his side. I will hurry back.”
“As if I would leave him!” Maybel huffed with a bit of her old spirit.
The two younger people left the bedchamber to hurry downstairs.
“Poor Edmund,” Elizabeth said. She called a servant and sent the man to her apothecary cabinet with instructions on what to bring back. “What could have caused this? He is not a man to be ill.”
“I cannot tell you what caused it, but I heard once that it is an eruption within the head. It can cause death if it is severe. I do not think it is that severe with Edmund, but it is unlikely he will regain his full strength again,” Baen told her.
Elizabeth nodded. “I will need your help then,” she said. “You came to learn our ways with the sheep and the wool. Now you will have to take Edmund’s place for me until he is well again, but I will teach you myself what you need to know, Baen.”
“I will do whatever I can to help you, of course,” the Scot answered her, “but I cannot step into Edmund’s shoes. It would be presumptuous of me. What would your Friarsgate folk think of such overweening conduct from me? They would resent me, and rightly so, Elizabeth.”
“If you are right he will be well soon enough,” Elizabeth said. “Besides, if you have my authority they will accept it. Please! Until Edmund is well again. I have no one else, Baen. Edmund has never had anyone to assist him, nor have we ever considered a time when he could not do his duty.” She looked up into his handsome face, her eyes filled with worry and concern. “Please!”
He nodded. “Very well,” he told her. “But only until Edmund is well again.”
“Thank you!” she cried and, flinging her arms about his neck, kissed him.
“Nah, nah, lass!” he admonished her, but he was smiling, and he did not push her away when she snuggled even closer. “Would you cause a scandal?”
“Do you think we could?” she asked innocently.
“Elizabeth!” He unwrapped her arms from about his neck. “Here is Albert with your herbs. I think Maybel will feel safer once you have mixed your potion.”
Elizabeth took the small container from Albert, giving him a wink as she did. The middle-aged man could not restrain his grin. “Thank you, Albert,” she said sweetly. Then she set to work adding just the right amount of a powered substance to the wine, gently shaking the stoppered carafe to mix it in. “I will take this to Maybel. Please remain in the hall until I return,” she told Baen. “We must talk further.” Then she hurried off, the carafe of wine in her hand. Reentering the bedchamber where her steward lay, she set the carafe upon a small table and poured a draft into an earthenware cup. She gave it to Maybel, saying, “See he drinks all of it,” and she waited while the older woman gently coaxed her husband to finish the wine. Elizabeth took the cup back and set it by the carafe of wine.
Edward was quickly asleep, and Maybel turned to look at her young companion. “What is the matter with him?” Her voice quavered. “What will happen to him, Elizabeth? Is he going to die? And who will help you with Friarsgate now?”
