*
“Where is myson?” the dowager said when they were alone in the study. Emma took a few steps toward Cormac’s desk and found a chair. She nearly knocked over a stack of books but managed to set them right. The broken book fell into her hands, and she caught it before it hit the floor. Some of the cover crumbled again, and she brushed off her fingers after she set it on top.
“Cormac is still at the cottage,” she said, taking a seat. Her nerves mingled with the pain in her stomach, for the dowager still made her anxious.
“You left him there alone?” Josephine’s voice held the invisible weight of a mother’s worry.
“I did, but you needn’t worry. He’s fine,” Emma reassured her. “In fact, within a day of leaving Dunmeath, his health took a turn for the better, as I suspected it would.” The relief that flooded through her at seeing him well again had only deepened her resolve to find out what was preventing it.
She paused and said to his mother, “Someone is causing his illness. Someone here, at Dunmeath. Which means if we can find the cause, we can save him.”
The dowager remained silent for a time. “So, you do want to save him, then?” The words were soft, almost disbelieving.
“Iwillsave him.” And somehow, speaking the words seemed to make them real. No, she wasn’t the sort of wife Cormac needed. But she could learn every inch of this castle, get acquainted with every servant, and one day, she might be enough. She did believe that he cared for her, even if it was only rooted in pity.
Her own feelings for him were deepening with every day, until she was afraid to face them fully. They had made the rule not to fall in love. And though she’d tried to keep that rule, part of her knew it was already too late. If Cormac died, it would cleave her heart in half, making her into a shell of a woman. She simply couldn’t imagine waking up without hearing the smile in his voice or feeling the touch of his hand against hers.
“I’ve written a list of possibilities,” the dowager said. “Have a look and tell me your thoughts.”
She held out what appeared to be a piece of paper, and Emma felt a wave of uneasiness. It mingled again with her nausea, and she tried to calm her nerves. She wasn’t ready to reveal her inability to read to Lady Dunmeath. To avoid it, she said, “Pardon me,” and pretended to sneeze. She reached for her handkerchief and wiped her nose.
“Could you read it aloud?” She dabbed with her handkerchief a little more. “I fear some of the dust is affecting me.”
The dowager paused a moment and said nothing. For a moment, Emma wondered if she suspected anything. But then she asked, “How long was my son ill in London?”
“Most of the time, from the moment I met him—though he tried to hide it from me. There were good days and bad days. Whenever we were alone together, away from everyone and everything, his illness disappeared.”
The dowager fell silent again before she finally spoke. “What is it you’re wanting from my son?”
A heavy emotion filled her heart and throat. “I want him to live,” she said honestly. “I want to grow old with Cormac and have children.”
“Do you think you could be pregnant now?” Josephine asked. There was an edge to her voice, one Emma didn’t understand.
But she remained honest. “No. Not yet.”
“My sister thinks you could be.”
Emma shrugged. “I had my menses a little over a week ago. Only a day, but I don’t think it’s possible.” Her face felt like it was on fire again, and her stomach pain twisted in her gut. “It’s so hot in here, isn’t it? I think I need some air.”
Her earlier decision to try eating a sandwich had been a terrible idea. Her nausea had grown so bad, she felt like the slightest motion would send her stumbling toward a chamber pot to empty her stomach. Even her hands felt rather itchy, which was odd.
“Are you all right?” Josephine asked. “You look peaked.”
“I’m just feeling hot. I think if I go outside for a moment, it would be best.”
But when she stood from her chair, the room seemed to sway. The warmth of the room combined with a roaring noise in her ears, and she felt faint. The pain in her stomach sharpened, and she brought her hands to her waist, terrified of what it could mean.
“Emma, sit down,” her mother-in-law ordered.
She was dimly aware of the dowager ringing for a servant, but it seemed best to lay her head down for a moment. She rested it upon the desk, and once again, the pain in her stomach rippled until it felt as though she were being stabbed.
Dear God... what if shewaspregnant? Was that even possible? What if this pain was not nausea—but instead her worst nightmare of a miscarriage? The thought brought a wave of anguish within her, and Emma tried to slow her breathing, tried to calm down. But a moment later, she lost all awareness of anything except the vicious pain in her gut.
“I think I need to lie down,” she murmured. She staggered from the chair but tripped over a small stool she hadn’t seen.
And dimly, as she started to feel even more faint, she wondered if whoever was trying to harm Cormac had now done the same to her.
*
