Winnifred pressed a hand to her stomach and blew out a slow breath. The queasiness refused to dissipate.
“Something the matter?” Deirdre asked.
They were in the garden, cutting flowers, Banquo and Horatio lazing in the sun near to them. Deirdre wanted to line the hallways lined with vases full of them. The guests would start arriving that afternoon for the ball and Highland gathering set for a week’s time. Since Sin hadn’t given her any details, Winnifred had pestered Tavish to learn what would be expected of her as marchioness.
Thankfully, blessedly little.
Aside from welcoming guests and acting as hostess at dinners and afternoon teas, the bulk of the festivities would proceed apace without her leadership. At the Highland gathering, a festival of Scottish games as Winnifred understood it, she only had to enjoy herself as a spectator, the steward had said. Observation. Finally, a task as marchioness for which she felt qualified.
Her stomach grumbled as she bent to snip a small bud from a rose bush.
“Winnifred?” Deirdre’s shadow fell upon her. “I asked ye if you were well.”
“Quite well, thank you.” She added her flower to her mother-in-law’s basket and forced a smile. “Just a minor stomach-ache.”
Deirdre’s eyes brightened. “Do you think you are increasing already?”
Winnifred paused. She hadn’t considered the possibility, but she should have. She laid a hand over her abdomen. Lord knew she and Sin had spent enough time in bed.
A flutter of excitement whispered through her veins, quickly extinguished. She swallowed. If she was with child, she would need to moderate her behavior. A child needed stability. A mother he or she could depend upon. Not someone who let her baser instincts take control of her mind.
If she were pregnant, her wildness with Sin would have to come to an end. She bit her lip. Wouldn’t it?
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t raise your hopes just yet.” Winnifred shrugged casually. “It could also be the bit of beef tongue I ate to break my fast this morn.”
Deirdre sniffed. “Fine Scottish food does a bairn well. I’ll ask Cook to prepare special meals for you, just in case.”
Winnifred’s shoulders slumped. She’d never feel well again, not on a diet of haggis. She wiped her palms on her apron and shook the cotton out. “I think I’ll go check on the preparations for our guests. You don’t need my help here, do you?”
Deirdre sighed as she surveyed her garden. “Nae. There’s hardly enough blooms to fill the ballroom, much less the guest rooms and hall tables. Kenmore will make a poor show of it this year.”
Clasping the woman’s shoulder, Winnifred squeezed. “Everyone knows of the troubled growing season. No one will expect a bounty of bouquets.”
“I suppose.” Deirdre sounded so forlorn, Banquo rolled to his feet and leaned into her thigh. She rubbed his head.
“Instead of flowers from your garden, how about I collect flora more native to Scotland? The thistle and gorse are blooming on every hillside.”
Deirdre wrinkled her nose. “They’re naught but weeds.”
“Quite lovely purple and yellow weeds, if you ask me.” Winnifred tapped a finger against her lips. It was a wonder that plants that weren’t valued seemed to thrive even in the worst conditions. She might have to investigate the growing cycle of these native plants, see if there was anything she could learn that would help the crops grow.
She shook off the urge to disappear into her laboratory. It was not the time. “I believe we can fashion some lovely bouquets with them.”
Deirdre shifted her basket higher on her hip. “Well, if ye think so….”
“I’ll collect some samples and meet you in the day room. We can experiment with differing arrangements.”
A smile broke over Deirdre’s face, small but genuine. “Thank you, dear. I believe we’ll be able to make this work, after all.”
Stomach-ache forgotten, Winnifred hopped down the path and out of the garden. She headed around the castle, heading in the direction of the loch. A thick hedge full of the velvety, yellow blossoms caught her eye, and she bent to cut a thin branch from a gorse bush.
A watery shadow fell across her path.
“Did you decide to help me gather the flowers?” Winnifred notched the branch into the crook of her arm. She should have brought her own basket along with her.
“Nae,” an angry voice said.
Winnifred spun, and landed on her rear in the dirt. She looked up, and her pulse evened out when she recognized Donald’s form limned in the afternoon light. “You gave me a start.” She climbed to her feet and shook the dirt from her skirts. “What are you doing at Kenmore? You must know that my husband wouldn’t welcome you here.” She raised her gaze and got her first good look at his face. His bottom lip was swollen and bruised, red and purple marks covered his face, and a ragged cut etched its way from his eye across his cheek.
