It March 7. Iain was returning to war.
Tears filled her eyes. She had lost their child two weeks ago. What if she lost him, too?
She had been crying at the oddest moments, quite suddenly, ever since the miscarriage. Alana knew she was grieving. She was suffering from melancholia. It was as if a heavy fog of pain weighed her down. She could not sleep at night, tormented by thoughts of her unborn child, or by dreams of a beautiful baby boy. It was so difficult getting up in the morning. Even the most mundane tasks and chores were hard to perform. She could barely lift her arm to brush her hair, and she had no appetite. She was becoming unattractively thin.
But now, for the first time since the miscarriage, she felt fear as she watched Iain astride his dark warhorse.
Iain was going back to war. She had almost seen him murdered once, at Boath Manor. And she had had that vision of her uncle preparing to deliver a blow with his sword from behind, a blow that appeared as if it would kill him. Her alarm increased.
“Iain?” she whispered.
It was as if she had lost her voice, her whisper was so low, so rough, and he could not have heard her, but he turned his mount sharply to face her.
She inhaled as, from across the courtyard, their eyes met.
Iain had barely spoken to her during the past two weeks. She did not know if he was angry because she had lost the child, or because she had not told him about her condition—another deception on her part. She had been relieved that he hadn’t tried to share her bed—he had taken a different room—or tried to make love to her.
He had checked on her once or twice a day, politely asking how she was feeling each time. Her answers had always been the same. Short, brief—she did not want him to linger with her. So she had told him she was fine.
But she wasn’t fine and they both knew it.
And now he was leaving to attack Sir John Mowbray.
Why hadn’t they spoken of the lost child? Of his anger? Of her pain? Of Alice and the future?
Alana suddenly went down the steps. As she did, he rode over to her. She wanted to tell him that she was so sorry, for everything—she wanted to beg him to stay safe.
His face was set and grim. “I have left ye with twenty good men, and they have orders to keep ye safe.”
“Thank you.” Shouldn’t they talk about what had happened now? “Iain?”
He had been lifting his reins to turn his mount back around. But he settled it, his stare hard and intense.
What should she say? “Are we in danger, here?”
Relief flitted through his eyes. “I dinna think Brodie is in danger, not when the fighting is to the south. Buchan and Duncan have gone to defend Mowbray, so they cannot attack ye here.”
“My uncle doesn’t care about Brodie.”
“Buchan is a man who thirsts for revenge. He will want revenge, Alana, upon ye.”
She grimaced. She did not want to discuss Buchan now! “Iain, I am so sorry. I should have told you about the child.”
He stiffened. “Aye, ye should have. Ye kept another secret from me—that ye carried my child!”
“I am sorry...so sorry!”
His gaze was hard, anguish in its shadows. “It’s finished now.”
“I am so sorry I lost our child.” Tears ran down her face.
“’Tis not yer fault, Alana. God has His ways.” He was harsh. “I must go. Send word if there is danger.”
He was leaving—and they were at such odds! “Iain, you must stay safe!” She laid her hands on his bare knee. “You must come home to me!” Pain stabbed through her. “I cannot lose you, too.”
“I am a warrior, Alana, and one day, God willing, I will die by the sword, with great courage and greater honor. But that day is not today.”
She was not comforted. “Beware, Iain, always.”
