“Munro,” my aunt said, from the end of the table, “Have ye heard about Goody Ross’s loss?”
“Nay,” I said, spearing a piece of meat, trying to call up an image of Goody Ross.
“She lost her bairn,” my aunt said, her voice pitched loud enough to carry to me. I stiffened, my knife halting halfway to my mouth. Beside me, I felt Murieall go still.
“Ye ken Goody,” my aunt continued. “Her husband is the one who volunteered to go to the king’s court to stand for our interest.” She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “If he’d stayed here by his wife’s side, mayhap his son would be alive.”
The similarity to my own loss, to my being away as Isabella had struggled to give birth to our son, sucked the air from my lungs. I couldn’t draw breath to form a response.
“Ye go too far, Lady Magdalene,” James said sharply. “Ye should curb yer tongue.”
But the damage was done. The guilt I kept buried beneath wine and women rushed to the surface, hot and choking. My knuckles whitened around my goblet as memories flashed before me. Isabella’s pale face, the tiny, still form of my son, the way the light had seemed to be gone from her eyes when I spoke to her.
I lifted my goblet and drained it in one long swallow, then held it out for a servant to refill. The wine burned a familiar path down my throat, promising the oblivion I now desperately sought. I drank again, deeply, feeling the edges of the world begin to soften, the voices around me becoming more distant.
I turned toward Murieall just as she whispered something to Guinn, who was leaning forward, so I could see that her gaze had fixed on me with an unsettling intensity. Guinn nodded slowly to whatever Murieall was saying, then looked away. I wondered what Murieall had told her. Had she explained my sudden retreat into my goblet? Whatever she’d said, it couldn’t possibly encompass the truth.
As I reached for my wine goblet, Murieall stood, motioning for the girls to follow. As she stepped back from the bench, I noticed her color suddenly drain from her face.
“Are ye all right?” I asked, recalling earlier when she’d felt unwell.
She started to nod, but then she let out a moan, gripped her head, and swayed where she stood. I sprang to my feet, twisting toward her just as she crumpled.
Chapter Eight – Murieall
I woke to darkness and confusion, my head throbbing with each beat of my heart. Unfamiliar shadows stretched across stone walls, cast by the flickering light of a single torch in its sconce. I blinked, trying to make sense of where I was and how I’d come to be there. The last thing I remembered was standing at the dais in the great hall, the dead woman’s voice screaming repeatedly in my head,tell him there are liars amongst him. I strained to think how I got here, and an image of Munro, face twisted in surprise, and rising from his seat filled my mind, and then another image of his chest, his chin, and him looking down at me. That was the last thing I could recall.
A damp cloth lay across my forehead, cool against my heated skin. I reached up to touch it, my fingers trembling slightly with lingering weakness. Heavy quilts weighed upon me, their unfamiliar scent of wood smoke and something distinctly masculine wrapping around me like invisible arms.
Someone had carried me from the great hall, then. But who? And where—
A deep, rumbling snore startled me, sending my heart galloping in my chest. I turned my head, wincing at the flare of pain the movement caused, and found myself staring at Munro’s profile in the torchlight. He sat slumped against a mound of pillows beside me, fully clothed but clearly deeply asleep. An empty wine goblet lay on its side near his outstretched hand, a dark stain spreading across the fur pelt that covered the bed.
A gasp escaped me as realization struck. I was in Munro’s bedchamber, in Munro’s bed, with Munro himself beside me. My hands flew to my body, frantically feeling for my clothing, and relief washed through me when I found the same wool gownI’d worn to supper still in place. I exhaled a relieved breath that Munro had made no attempt to undress me. There was honor hidden under all his pain, I was certain of it.
In slumber, the hard edges of his expression softened. The furrow between his brows remained, as if even in sleep he could not fully escape his troubles, but his mouth had relaxed from its habitual grim line.
I should have been afraid, or at least uncomfortable, to find myself in such intimate proximity to this man I barely knew. This broken, drunken laird who’d demanded a month in his bed as payment for his protection. Yet somehow, seeing him vulnerable in sleep, a strange compassion stirred beneath my wariness.
As I watched, a slight tremor ran through him. He shifted in his awkward seated position, his shoulders hunching as if against a chill. Another shiver followed, more pronounced than the first. The night air in the chamber was indeed cool, the single torch providing little warmth against the stone walls that seemed to radiate cold.
I hesitated, uncertain what to do. To leave him shivering seemed unkind, yet I was reluctant to wake him. After a brief internal debate, I reached out and gently shook his shoulder.
“Munro,” I said softly. “Ye should get properly under the covers.”
His eyes flew open, startlingly blue-grey even in the dim light. For a moment, he stared at me uncomprehending, his gaze clouded with sleep and wine. Then recognition flickered, and he blinked slowly.
“Ye fainted,” he said, his voice rough with sleep. “In the hall.”
“Aye,” I replied. “I was overtired from my journey,” I lied. “Did ye carry me in here and give me a damp cloth and quilts?”
He looked away, a muscle working in his jaw. “Aye, someone had to make sure ye did nae die.” The words were harsh, but theslight color rising to his cheeks told a different story. “The lasses would nae have liked that.”
“Of course,” I murmured, oddly touched by his gruff attempt at caring. “Ye’re cold,” I added. “Ye should get under the quilts properly.”
He considered this for a moment, then nodded. With movements made clumsy by wine and exhaustion, he stood and began to unlace his tunic. I quickly averted my eyes, fixing my gaze on a tapestry on the far wall that depicted a hunting scene. The sound of fabric rustling reached my ears, followed by the heavier thud of boots hitting the floor.
“Ye can look now,” he said, an unmistakable note of amusement in his voice. “I’m nae completely bare.”
