Highland Storm (17 page)

“Aye, but I had to see for myself that you were unharmed after such a foolhardy venture. Your brother is lyin’ ill in bed after riding in the rain last eve, and I wouldnae like to see you suffer the same.”

She frowned again, perhaps imagining her son ill, or well and carousing with some unknown, willing lass. It was plain she savoured neither thought.

“Dinnae fash yourself over me,” he replied. “I’m fine.”

Isla draped a cloth over the tray she’d laden with lunch for Alexander—a steaming bowl of broth and several slices of bread, still warm from being baked. Coira had drifted out of the kitchen and presumably back to bed, aided by Mrs Mary. This left her alone with Alpin and glad for an excuse to escape. She started towards the door, but was nearly tripped by Gavin.

The fluffy white puppy stared up at her, whining beseechingly and wiggling in a familiar fashion that Isla had learnt indicated an imminent emptying of his bladder. She set the tray back on the counter with a sigh and scooped him up, holding him carefully away from her body lest he not make it to the door. Though she didn’t relish taking him outside during the downpour, she was eager to complete his house training, and it was still an excuse to escape Alpin’s presence.

When Gavin had completed his business, she picked him up again and they both returned to the indoors, somewhat worse and definitely wetter for wear. He scampered directly for the kitchen as soon as she released him, no doubt eager to see if any scraps had been dropped during his brief absence. Isla paused a moment to repair her appearance, smoothing her damp skirts, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear and deciding that she’d spend a few moments drying in front of the kitchen fire before she took Alexander his lunch.

What she saw when she entered the kitchen nearly made her curse. After scanning the room and realising she was alone, she mumbled, ‘damn’ quietly, crossing the floor to where Gavin had succeeded in spilling the tray she’d prepared for Alexander. He was yet too small to reach the counter under normal circumstances, but a nearby stool looked to have provided a platform he’d been able to climb onto. Cursing herself for her carelessness, she picked up three broth-soaked slices of bread and tossed them into the nearby slop bucket. Gavin joyously lapped up the majority of the large puddle the rest of the broth had formed on the floor while Isla retrieved a rag from the broom closet. By the time she returned to the site of the spill, there was hardly anything left to clean up. She dipped the rag in water and scrubbed the floor until not even the beefy scent of broth remained, then began to prepare another tray.

Just as she was whisking a fresh cloth over the broth and bread, Gavin tumbled underfoot, causing her to bump into the counter, nearly spilling the second tray. Exasperated, she glared down at him, but what she saw caused her reprimand to dry up in her throat.

He lay on his back, fuzzy belly exposed and white paws in the air. His eyes were halfway closed, and a low whine escaped his open mouth. She picked him up, cradled him, and was rewarded by another whine.

“What is it, laddie? Do ye have a sour stomach from all the broth, ye wee glutton?” She tried to sound teasing, but a deep current of worry undercut her words.

He’d never behaved this way before, lying so limp in her arms, looking and sounding so miserable. She would have asked Mrs Mary’s opinion, but she was upstairs. Tucking Gavin under one arm and using the other to balance Alexander’s tray on her hip, she left the kitchen.

Carrying the tray and Gavin at once was a challenge, though the puppy didn’t squirm—a fact that alarmed her even more than his whining. She stepped into Alexander’s room, eager to be rid of the weight of the tray.

Alexander looked up from his pillows, appearing to have just woken. His gaze was hazy, but it gradually cleared as it settled on her.

“Has the wee lazybones given up walking?” he asked, eyeing Gavin.

Isla frowned as she set the tray down on the bedside table. “I’m afraid somethin’s wrong with him. He collapsed in the kitchen, and he hasnae moved a muscle between there and here.”

She laid Gavin on the bed beside Alexander. The puppy might as well have been asleep—or dead—if it hadn’t been for the slight rise and fall of his sides. The thought sent a spike of alarm through Isla’s belly.

Alexander stared down at him, frowning as he stroked the puppy from head to hips, as if he could detect some deficiency and its cause by touch. “Collapsed in the kitchen, ye say?”

“Aye, and he hasnae done anythin’ but whine a few times since then.”

Alexander pulled Gavin onto his chest and gazed critically at his small, white face. The puppy’s eyes were closed.

“Ye’d better fetch Mrs Mary.”

Isla nodded and slipped from the room, relieved when she found Mrs Mary bustling down the hall. “Mrs Mary,” she said. “Will ye come and have a look at wee Gavin? He doesnae seem well, though I havnae the faintest idea what’s the matter with him.”

“Aye, of course.” Mrs Mary nodded and followed Isla into the bedroom, her expression quizzical.

No doubt she was just as perplexed by the sudden change in Gavin’s health as Isla was. She only hoped she’d be able to shed some light on his strange symptoms—the thought of losing the silly but sweet creature Alexander had given her made her stomach twist and her throat tighten.

Alexander still lay in bed, Gavin sprawled across his chest. His blue eyes were grave above an unsmiling face. “I’m afraid the wee fellow’s given up the ghost,” he said as Isla reached the bedside.

Chapter Nine

Dead
? “Are ye sure?” Isla asked, recoiling.

Alexander reached out and took one of her hands in his. “Aye. I’m sorry. He seemed healthy as any pup I’d ever seen when I chose him for ye.”

Mrs Mary leaned over the bed, gently lifting Gavin from Alexander’s chest. The puppy’s head lolled, the tip of a tiny pink tongue protruding from his mouth.

“And he’s been fine every day since,” she said. “This is verra strange indeed.” She paused to press a finger into the hollow of his fluffy neck, feeling for a pulse. Her expression told Isla there wasn’t one.

“Did he get into anythin’ he shouldn’t have?” Mrs Mary asked, frowning. “I cannae think of any great dangers in the kitchen, but perhaps…”

She quieted, apparently trying to imagine what could have caused such quick and devastating harm.

“Only a bowl of broth,” Isla replied. “He knocked the first tray I made for Alexander from the counter.”

Mrs Mary frowned deeply, an expression that made the lines around her eyes and mouth seem deeper than usual. Her gaze drifted to the tray that sat on the nightstand. Without saying a word, she took the steaming bowl, pulled the chamber pot from beneath the bed, and dumped all the broth into its depths. “Better safe than sorry,” she muttered.

“Ye think there was somethin’ wrong with the broth?” Alexander’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at Gavin’s fluffy body with renewed interest, and more than a hint of suspicion.

“I dinnae ken,” Mrs Mary said judiciously, “but I’d rather not find out for sure by riskin’ the same fate for ye.” She nodded towards poor Gavin. “Thank God it was the poor wee fellow that tried it first.”

Isla listened mutely as an icy, invisible hand gripped her stomach and twisted. She couldn’t chalk the feeling up to pregnancy this time, only stark fear and a deep sense of trepidation. It might really have been the broth that killed Gavin—at least, it made more sense than anything else she’d been able to come up with. She thought of Alpin in the kitchen, with his cold, carefully averted eyes and the uncharacteristic way he’d lingered, and it struck her. He’d been alone in the kitchen.

Her stomach twisted again, painfully this time. Could he have poisoned the broth, intending Alexander to eat it? What if Alexander drew the same conclusion she just had? What if he didn’t? Both possibilities were sickening.

She eyed Gavin’s pitiful little body and a white-hot rage seized her. If the broth really had been poisoned, it could so easily have been Alexander. She could be watching him die in his bed now, killed by the food she herself had brought him. And she might have never known—might have thought his death a consequence of his illness. The idea was terrifying.

“Did ye make the broth, Mrs Mary?” Alexander asked.

“Aye, I did.” She nodded.

“Did anyone else help ye, besides Isla? Or perhaps ye had someone else taste it?” The calculation in Alexander’s voice was clearly audible, the edge of growing anger in his tones unmistakable.

Mrs Mary shook her head. “No, I cannae think who would hae touched it, save for Isla and myself.”

It was clear enough where Alexander’s thoughts were heading and where they’d end. Mrs Mary didn’t know that Alpin had been left alone in the kitchen—she’d been upstairs helping Coira at the time. Only Isla knew, and she dared not keep it a secret.

“Alpin was alone in the kitchen for a bit,” she said. “I left him there when I took Gavin outside. ‘Twas when we came back in that Gavin spilt the tray.”

“And Alpin was gone by then?” Alexander asked.

Isla nodded.

Alexander rose from the bed, pushing the sheets aside. Mrs Mary looked away, presumably for the sake of modesty. Isla stared at him, fear growing in her belly. She kept her gaze locked with his, too fearful to steal even so much as a glance at his lean, hard body.

“What do ye mean to do, Alexander?”

He was already pulling on a shirt, nearly tearing it at the seams as he thrust his arms roughly into the sleeves. “I mean to find out whether Alpin poisoned the broth.”

Isla’s alarm spiked, despite the fact that she too desperately wanted—needed—to know whether Alpin had tried to murder him. If he had, he’d surely try again. It wasn’t that she didn’t recognise the necessity of finding out, but that she feared exactly how Alexander would go about doing so and what he would do if Alpin had indeed poisoned his dinner.

“Please Alexander, you’re ill!” She laid a hand on his elbow as he wrapped his waist in tartan.

“Aye, and I should maybe be countin’ myself lucky I’m only fevered and not dead,” he replied, pulling on his hose with such force that Isla feared his toes would burst right through the ends.

“He may try to do violence against ye if he’s guilty and ye confront him.”

Already a violent confrontation was unfolding before Isla’s mind’s eye. Alexander’s reflexes would be slowed by illness, his endurance crushed. Still, it was evident by the set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes that he did intend to face Alpin.

“Is there not some subtle way ye can go about findin’ out?”

“I havnae the time for subtlety!” he snapped. “If he did indeed kill the pup, you or I could be next. D’ye think he’ll wait until I recover to strike again?” He snorted contemptuously. “Ye know well enough that the coward prefers to kick a man when he’s down.”

The long scar that ran the length of Isla’s forearm seemed to burn as bitter memories assaulted her. Kick a man while he’s down indeed. Women too, apparently. If Gavin hadn’t knocked over the broth, she might even have tasted it to test the temperature before bringing it to Alexander. Such a simple habit might well have ended in her own death, as well as the child’s and Alexander’s. No doubt such a morbid end to their young family would have pleased Alpin.

“I fear for ye,” she said simply, tightening her grip on his arm.

He turned to her after slipping into his shoes, his expression softening. “Aye, and I fear for ye too,
mo chride
, and the child. That is why I must do this, to protect ye both.”

He started from the room, and Isla’s hand fell from his arm and to her side.

Mrs Mary gaped after him and Isla in turn, almost silently gasping, “The child?”

“Aye, the child,” Isla said flatly, starting after Alexander. She wasn’t about to pause to discuss her pregnancy, not while her heart was beating fit to burst with anxiety. She dashed into the hall and Mrs Mary’s frantic footsteps sounded behind her.

“Stay back, dear!” Mrs Mary pleaded when she and Isla reached Alpin’s bedroom door, just a few moments after Alexander.

Isla hung back a little and let the woman hold her arm. Her knees were wobbling ominously, and she welcomed the extra support as Alexander grasped the doorknob firmly. During the brief moment that followed, she noticed everything—the subtle movements of his wrist bones as he turned the knob, the slight creak of hinges that could use an oiling…and the way her heart seemed to stop.

It was all for nothing. As the predatory expression on Alexander’s face faded to irritated disappointment, it became plain that Alpin wasn’t in his room. Isla sidled up to Alexander and peeked around his side, seeing the emptiness for herself. She supposed she wouldn’t have been languishing in her bedchamber if she’d just attempted a murder, either. Likely Alpin had either fled or was somewhere attempting to construct an alibi. She placed a hand on Alexander’s arm once more.

“Maybe we should fetch your father. He’ll know how to handle Alpin.”

Alexander shook his head, his loose hair bobbing around his shoulders.

“I willnae give the weasel time to flee. If he did indeed attempt to kill me, there’s no telling what he’ll do when he realises his failure. He may run or hide. Either that or try again.” His hand went to his dirk, which he wore at his waist, as always.