Now her father had stolen even that wee gift from her.
Her eyes filled with tears.
She couldn’t blame the laird.He was doing what he thought best.Like culling coos, a quick blow and a sharp knife probably caused the least amount of suffering.But no one ever asked how the coo felt about it.
John the kitchen lad set a trencher of creamy mushroom, leek, and saffron pottage before her.Normally, she would have slurped up the velvety soup with enthusiasm.But today the strong aroma troubled her nose.She pushed the trencher aside.
“Simnel?”her father offered.
She nodded.He carved off a fruity slice for her and placed the honey within her reach.
Bypassing the honey, she nibbled a corner of the cake.But she had little appetite for it.
The next course was roast lamb, which she abhorred.She tried not to guess which spring lamb had been sacrificed as she tucked bits of meat into her napkin to sneak to the hounds later.
None of the subsequent courses appealed to her.Not the rabbit stew.Not the buttered vegetables.Not the capons.Not the cherry custard.Not the gingerbread.And even the fine French wine her father opened for the occasion turned her stomach.
She caught John’s sleeve when he came to remove her untouched gingerbread.“Do we have any pickled eels left in the pantry?”
“I’ll look, m’lady.”
Her father chuckled.“Didn’t get enough pickled eels durin’ Lent?”
She gave him a sheepish smile.She supposed it was silly to crave something most of the clan was sick of, but they were the only thing that seemed worth eating.
That night, she wept again.For herself.For her husband to be.For Hew, whom she’d lost, not only as a suitor, but apparently as a friend.
Her menses didn’t start the next day.Or the next.Or the following week.
By the time she packed for the journey to Darragh and bid her father farewell, there was no doubt in her mind.
Her breasts were sore.Her belly was troubled.And she had an unnatural craving for pickled eels and little else.
Sir Gellir of Rivenloch’s bride-to-be was carrying a child.And it wasn’t his.
Chapter 24
It was entirely Hew’s fault.He saw that now.
It had taken him a long while to come to terms with that tragic truth.
At first he’d stewed in bitterness, sure everyone in the world had turned against him.Lady Carenza.Her father.His clan.His king.Even the gods.
But long days at Kildunan and a missive from Laird Deirdre had finally made him realize he had no one to blame but himself.And now, as he packed his possessions into his satchel to take leave of the monastery, he was even more certain he needed to unburden his conscience.
According to Laird Deirdre’s glowing missive, Hew was the one responsible for Gellir’s betrothal.It was his recommendation that had condemned Carenza to this fate.He was the one whose quill had set Lady Carenza’s virtues to parchment.He was the one who’d painted her as an angel.A saint.A goddess.
He could see now what he’d neglected to clarify was that he meant Carenza was the perfect bride forhim.
Hew.
Because of his careless omission, everyone wrongly assumed Hew had made the suggestion on behalf of his cousin, Gellir.After all, Gellir was the one in the most urgent need of a Scottish wife.He was a tournament champion and the heir to Rivenloch, a more valuable and vulnerable pawn when it came to the king’s designs.
And before Hew could correct that error, Gellir—who trusted Hew’s judgment when it came to women—had agreed to the match.And Laird Deirdre had been eager to petition the king on her son’s behalf.
But—damn his eyes—Gellir could haveanybride.
Women tripped over themselves to catch a glimpse of the illustrious champion Sir Gellir Cameliard of Rivenloch as he rode through their town.Titled ladies begged for an introduction.Wise beldams winked slyly at him.Maidservants freely offered their favors.
