12
“How long?”
Barra grimaced as he helped Alexander sit up and sip at some honey-sweetened gruel. He did not want to answer that question, for once he did there would be others that would be harder to answer. Unfortunately, Alexander had done nothing else but ask it since he had woken up. Barra sighed as he realized he could no longer evade the confrontation that was so long overdue.
“A month—give or take a few days.” He shrugged when Alexander stared at him, in openmouthed surprise.
“A month? Nay, ye jest. ‘Tis not the sort of wit I wish to hear just now.” Alexander sagged against his pillows after Barra took away his light support and wondered why he felt so weak and light-headed. “Now—how long have I been ill?” He lifted his hand to wipe the light sheen of sweat from his face only to hold his hand before his eyes in horrified surprise. It was bone thin and shook like some old man’s. “A month?”
After gently pressing Alexander’s hand back down, Barra wiped his brother’s face. “Aye—a month. Ye were ill by the time we returned from Leargan. The cold, the beating, and the loss of blood from your wound nearly killed ye.”
“ ‘Tis why I look so emaciated and feel nearly too weak to keep my eyes open.”
“Aye. There may even be a chance that the arrow was poisoned. Or carried some filth to sicken ye. There was little we could do but to try to keep ye alive. It wasna easy.”
“I remember nothing. Was I out of my head?”
“Nay.” Barra tugged a stool over to the edge of the bed and sat down facing Alexander. “There is no way to soften such news. Sometimes ye were out of your wits. We even had to tie ye down a time or two. Other times ye were so deep asleep we feared ye would slip that last step unto death.”
“And Ailis?” Alexander found no cause to hope in the expression of Barra’s face. “Still trapped at Leargan?”
“Aye. I fear so. Jaime stayed with her. Angus offered to share his horse with the brute, but Jaime wouldna leave his mistress. He said he would protect her.”
“Oh, aye, him and that cursed Malcolm,” Alexander muttered, an image of Malcolm holding Ailis distinct in his mind.
Barra shook his head. “There are a few things ye clearly remember all too well.”
“I also remember that we had to leave her with MacCordy. So, a month. Then winter has truly arrived.”
“With a vengeance. Even if we dinna get any more snow, ‘twill take till spring for what is already on the ground to melt away.” Barra gave his brother a faint smile. “I think it might take ye that long to regain your strength.”
Alexander struggled to sit up, dismayed when it proved to be too difficult. “Donald MacCordy willna let my child live for very long after he is born. I must rescue Ailis and our child as soon as I can.”
“We are all ready to save Ailis and your child.” Barra clasped his brother’s hand in his. “Ye ken how impossible it is to launch a successful attack—small or large—in the heart of the winter. And, as I keep saying, ye need to get strong again. This is the first time we have talked since ye left to see the priest. Aye, and ‘tis evident to the greatest of fools that this is tiring ye.”
“The priest! Did he betray us?”
“Nay, ‘twas a man who worked at such chores as mucking out the cowshed. ‘Tis strange, but that man was the only one who died. Angus found the man in the inn’s kitchen stuffed into an empty wine cask. His throat had been cut.”
“The poor misguided fool probably thought that MacCordy would act with honor.” He looked toward the narrow window, and although he could not see outside, he could easily imagine what it looked like. “I must wait until spring to retake what is mine—whether I heal quickly or nay.”
“I fear so. It willna be easy to retrieve her. We dinna want to fight mud and weather as well as the MacCordys and the MacFarlanes. Ailis is only good to them if she is alive, and the child isna due until May, mayhaps even early June. There is time. Dinna waste your strength in worrying over what canna be changed. Save it for healing. Ailis had Jaime with her. He will watch over her. She will still be alive when we are finally able to go after her.”
“That is all true, but after six months under Donald MacCordy’s brutal fist, will she still want to live—and will our child survive it?”
Alexander was not surprised when Barra was silent.
Ailis sat on her bed and glared at the heavy door that stood between her and even the smallest of freedoms. For a moment anger overcame the fear that continuously gnawed at her and had done so in the three months she had been a prisoner at Craigandubh. They had fled to the MacCordy keep within days of Alexander’s rescue. Even her uncle and stepaunt had come along, although she saw nothing of them, and they gave her no help. She was tempted to throw her meal tray at the door, but she wanted the food too badly to waste it.
She smoothed her hand over her rounding stomach as she munched on a thick slab of honey-coated bread. The quickening she could feel now was her only source of happiness at the moment. Her child was still well. She knew that would continue as long as she and the baby were so intimately connected, so interwoven, that harm to one caused harm to the other. Spring would steal that protection, and she had to keep her strength to fight or flee the dangers she would face then.
Loneliness was her worst enemy. She saw only Jaime, her step-aunt, whose mental confusion seemed worse every day, and Donald, who delighted in threatening her unborn child. Malcolm visited a few times, then decided she was safe enough and traveled on to his own keep, a small peel tower he held for his cousins. She almost missed him. Without Malcolm, Jaime was her only pleasant company. Her stepaunt Una did not always make sense. And Donald, she thought with a renewed flare of anger, came only to frighten her and speak gloatingly of killing her child. Since any sort of physical abuse could seriously risk her life, he had stooped to verbal assault. A lot of times he succeeded in stirring her terror, for her child was her only real weakness.
A soft rap at her door drew her attention, and she waited to see if her visitor was a welcome one or not. A dull, cowed maid entered to take her meal tray, but right behind her was Jaime. Ailis breathed a sigh of relief as the maid left and locked them in together. For a minute she had feared that Donald would arrive, and she was not prepared for the man’s almost daily dose of invective.
“I dinna suppose ye have heard any word of Rathmor,” she said as Jaime sat down on a heavy wooden bench near the narrow window.
“Ye ask me that every day.”
