By God's Grace (20 page)
Authors: Felicia Rogers
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That day long ago, Arbella, Jamus, and a few Kincade men had left the keep. No one had come to see them off. She convinced herself the council was afraid of the loss and death that seemed to follow everywhere she went. Head held high, back straight and erect, she passed through the keep gate. If any inhabitant saw her leave, she wanted it to be in triumph, not disgrace. There would be no doubt God was watching out for her.
Jonas and Martha Kincade took her in and raised her as their daughter, but in the beginning they weren't happy about it.
“I don't want her,” Jonas said.
The window in the main room had been open when Arbella walked by. Upon hearing her name, she went to the window and crouched down to listen. Jamus and Jonas had already had this discussion several times. Jonas's constant argument had been having Martha to himself.
“What about Martha? This is Marie's daughter as well as Jameson's.”
“Martha and I discussed it, and Martha doesn't want the girl either.”
Jamus's hands flew up in exasperation. “Then where is the lass to go?”
“Take her home to be with yer brood.”
“Jonas, I have told ye I already tried. I would accept the lass in a heartbeat, but if I do, the clan will ostracize her, and what kind of life will that be?”
Jonas's rotating arms gestured in a wild fashion. “And what kind of life will she have here? Two middle-aged people, no children to mention, just barely eking by. Last year the landlord took so many of the crops Martha and I thought we would starve. How am I supposed to feed the child?”
Arbella had listened to every word. Jamus kept hammering at Jonas's excuses until finally he accepted. With an exasperated sigh, they would take the lass and trust that the Lord would find a way to feed them.
The next day Jamus took his leave. Before riding away he gave her the last affectionate hug she remembered getting for the next ten years.
Although Jonas and Martha weren't sure what to do with her, they eventually learned to accept her presence. Arbella remained quiet most of the time, endeavoring to become a good helper around the farm. Arbella believed they loved her in due time. Thinking back on it, she realized she'd never really faulted Jonas for his hesitation in taking her in. The aging man had never been a father, and overnight he became the father of a thirteen-year-old girl. It was no wonder he hesitated.
Fortunately for Arbella, she and Martha became friends. They never talked about her mother, Marie, or about anything in the past; everything revolved around surviving the present, but that was all right. Arbella assumed the past was too sad for Martha.
She could understand. Now walking around the room and dressing, she realized maybe Duncan was right. Maybe she had made excuses for all her loved ones. But what Duncan might not realize is that included him as well.
Why hadn't Duncan come to check on her? In her heart she knew the answer. The mighty warrior, breaker of woman's hearts, had continued to see Arbella as a child, and he assumed someone else was caring for her needs.
Arbella sighed. This was to be expected. The last time they visited with one another, she'd been a child on the verge of womanhood, which Duncan would have known nothing about.
After dressing, Arbella left the room and subsequently the keep. Being holed up in the room for so many days doing nothing but loving her husband could not last. The world must reenter at sometime.
Stepping out into the hallway, Arbella headed toward the door. The brightness of the day was blinding as she walked outside in search of her troubled husband.
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Alan returned with the tea as Grant finished grinding the herb. The two items were mixed together and sat on the table in front of Lyall. They were unsure what to do next. The voice had given no other commands, and Lyall hadn't moved.
Alan said, “Maybe we should help her drink it.”
“Aye, maybe.” Grant could hear the quiver in the young lad's voice. If they decided to help Lyall, Alan would no doubt prefer Grant handle the pouring. He was a tall, strong Scot. Surely he could pour a little drink down a crazy woman's throat, right?
Tankard in hand, he started forward, explaining as he advanced. “Lyall, this is the tea ye requested. If ye will but part yer lips, I will help ye drink.”
Lyall listened. Parched lips parted, allowing the liquid to go into her mouth and dribble down her throat; when no more could go down her gullet she swallowed.
After drinking the strange brew, Lyall's body relaxed. Limp arms laid by her side, her eyelids closed, and she slumped. Grant caught her before she slipped to the floor. The burden was carried to the bed, laid down, and covered.
Once comfort was ensured, Grant faced Alan. “Can ye get a servant or someone to come and sit in this room?”
“Nay, I canna.”
Confusion knit Grant's brow. “Why not? Ye are laird. Go fetch a servant and tell them to sit with Lyall till she wakes up.”
“Nay, I will not. Ye don't understand how these people feel. The physician wasn't as afraid as some of the others in the keep.” A glance was directed toward the floor, taking in the still form of the physician. Then a shifty glance was sent in the direction of the bed. Rab Burns's daughter appeared innocent, laying there sleeping. Chest rose and fell with an even rhythm just like a normal person. Assured the tormentor of persons couldn't hear, Alan continued, “She tortured these people.”
With a quizzical expression, Grant asked, “What could Lyall have possibly done that would make them behave like Duff?”
“I know ye might find it hard to believe. Mayhap she was a completely different person when she married Cainneach.”
Grant mumbled, “Not hardly.”
Alan ignored him and explained, “Lyall would add wisteria or fern spores to meals just to make people sick. Then she would sit in the corner and snicker to herself about the trick she'd pulled while watching the residents retch. Rab said Lyall created an imaginary friend, and when she pulled these tricks, she would go into the corner and laugh with them. The truth, of course, is anyone's guess. Something else, she would put burrs under the men's saddles so when they rode, their horses would throw their riders. She would rip an article of clothing in a strategic place so when an individual would bend or stoop over, there would be an embarrassing rip. Sheâ”
Grant couldn't help but feel Alan's shared events were things a child would do. Perhaps the Burns's men were not as thick-skinned as the Camerons and Sinclairs. Now if the new laird wanted to discuss torturing a keep or an individual, the things Lyall had done to Cainneach would raise the hair on a man's arms. Instead of arguing he said, “I understand. Bryce and one of the other men will sit with her.”
“Ye realize, we never got to question Lyall.”
“Aye, I do. But surely ye don't think the wee lass had anything to do with her father's death. Why, she seems distraught over the laird's demise. While she could be fakin', I don't think she could do it so well.”
“Aye, I agree Lyall does seem distraught.”
“Yet ye don't seem convinced.”
“I don't know about much, but I do know Lyall was born for the stage, and I wouldn't trust the lass as far as I could throw her.”
Leaving Alan, Grant retrieved two men to stand guard. With them in position, Grant and Alan helped the waking physician to unsteady feet; then they walked out of the room together. The physician stumbled away, claiming unfinished business. Alan left to plan the burial, while Grant contemplated his next move. Should Duncan be informed of the delay? Or should Grant wait until there was more news? Right now, there were too many questions and not enough answers.
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The three men left the room, and Lyall's eyes popped open, a slow maniacal grin splitting her crazed face.
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The thoughts of writing a letter to Duncan reminded Grant of the letter he'd intercepted in Aberdeen. His father, Laird Cameron, had never been good about writing, but Grant's younger brother, Samuel, loved to write. The only time word was received from the family, it came from Samuel. Resting on a quiet grassy knoll outside the keep walls, he pulled the letter from his sporran and began to read:
Grant, my dearest brother, I hope this letter finds ye well and in good spirits. Father and the girls send their love. Everyone misses ye, and we all hope ye don't wait until Father perishes to return home for a visit.
Grant sighed. Every letter began the same way. Samuel was forever trying to get him to come home. He held nothing against home. In fact he loved every member of the Cameron clan. He had a very natural, healthy relationship with his father.
Slowly memories resurfaced as to why he'd left home.
Cainneach had married Maisie, a frail Scottish girl he'd met while he and Grant were squiring. Cainneach hadn't gotten his father's permission to wed and had been terrified to take the lass to the Sinclair keep. When the couple discovered they were expecting, Grant convinced Cainneach of his need to return home.
Cainneach went home, and the Sinclair's had accepted their new daughter-in-law and the impending grandchild with enjoyment. Unfortunately the joyous reunion with their son and the new additions to the family didn't last long because Maisie passed away from this world as Cainneach's son entered into it. Grant had been visiting the Sinclair keep and saw the devastation his friend experienced with the loss of his wife. Cainneach had overcome his loss to raise his son. He said, “He is part of her.”
Once Cainneach was settled, Grant had gone home and developed a regular routine. Then news arrived of the little boy's passing. Cainneach requested Grant's presence. Without a second thought, he'd left home and family and went to Cainneach's aid.
When Fletcher, Cainneach's father, passed, and Cainneach became the new Sinclair Laird, he asked Grant to stay on as second-in-command. Grant had never regretted staying with his friend. But now Duncan was laird. If the new leader turned out to be capable, perhaps it was time for him to return home. Duncan should be allowed to pick his own second.
A strong wind blew and picked at the letter resting idly in his hands. Since the rest of the day was uncertain, Grant finished reading.
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I have news for ye. Ye are an uncle yet again. Rona and the other girls just keep pushing them out, and Papa couldn't be happier. But even in his happiness, he never fails to mention how his two sons have yet to reproduce. I have assured him our time will come, but he is more concerned with his time than ours.
Alas, I come to the point of my missive. I am leaving, Grant. I have felt the tug to travel and witness to the lost souls of Ireland. By the time ye receive this letter, I will be there and starting my new life.
As soon as I arrive at my destin
ation
, I will send another missive ye
r
way, so ye will know how to reach me. Lastly, know this: I will always be ye
r
most faithful and loving brother, Samuel.
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What was the lad up to?
thought Grant as he refolded the parchment and placed it in the leather sporran. Father had surely tried to dissuade Samuel from going. They had to know about the trouble Queen Mary was causing for the Protestants of Ireland. How could his brother, a young Protestant minister, believe he could waltz into this environment and come out unscathed?
As soon as Grant was able, he would pen a missive to his father with his temporary location so he wouldn't miss any news of Samuel. Perhaps this would be a good time to pen a missive to Duncan as well. The laird would need to know of Lyall and her deteriorating condition.
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Arbella searched for Duncan. Since he'd taken his sword, she assumed the lists would be a practical place to look, but upon arrival, he wasn't there.
Picking a spot in the yard, Arbella made a complete circle, spinning on the tip of a soft-soled slipper. As she twirled around and came to a stop, she saw him. He was standing in front of a small hut, bare from the waist up. An ax rested beside him, chopped wood littered the ground. He was bent over, conversing with a little girl.
“Lass, ye must run along and play.”
“Whatever for?” she asked.
Duncan laughed at the freckled face girl. “Because I am chopping wood, and I don't wish for ye to get hurt. And because I told ye to do so. I am laird.”
Lips pursed in a rosy pout. “I never get to enjoy myself.”
“May I ask what do ye find enjoyable about me chopping wood?”
“Aye, ye may ask. I was enjoyin' lookin' upon ye. Yer wife is a lucky woman.”
Arbella snickered under her breath as Duncan's faced mimicked a red apple.
“Now, little lady, where did ye hear such a thing?”
“My sister. She says it all the time about the boys who come to the house.”
“Humph, I think ye need to go inside and check on yer mother.”
With a low bow, the lass added, “Aye, my laird,” before skipping inside. Duncan watched the girl leave, shaking his head.
Arbella watched from a distance as her husband picked up the ax, placed a piece of wood straight up, and proceeded to split more logs. Arms and back rippled with activity as the ax went up and came down. The little girl was correct; his wife was lucky indeed.
She wanted his attention. But how could she get it without startling him? Gnawing at her lip with worry, she attempted to think of the best approach when a yell was heard. The sound was coming from somewhere behind her.
“Get out of the way!”
In slow motion, her gaze drifted upward. A large, full wagon careened toward her. Arbella wanted to move but was frozen to the ground with fear. This was it. The bad luck and death that always followed her was here. Only this time, she would be the one to exit the world. With her eyes closed, she waited for the impact of the wagon, but instead she went sailing through the air, landing against the hard ground. Something warm and heavy lay across her. A struggle ensued for breath.