So clever.

“Ye may have bathe every day, Mistress, no matter what weather.”

Ula was making a point of addressing her as Mistress.

“The laird has gone on to help rebuild the home that was burned two nights ago. He’ll return tonight.”

“Of course. It is good to hear that he is seeing to his people.”

So she would see to her duties as well. Jemma took one last look at the bed, smiling when she considered how much she longed for the shorter days of winter because it promised longer nights with Gordon.

She was a wanton. There was no doubt but she was happy. In fact it felt like a bubble of contentment encased her. There was nothing she found distasteful, not even the flapping of the soiled sheet in the wind from outside the chamber window.

She hurried off to the church, and the priest frowned at her for missing service, but he welcomed her into the sanctuary and began a quick service for her. Only the nuns and younger priests were in attendance, but as she was Mistress of the castle, they stopped their duties to stand and observe the service. Jemma took the Mass, sipping from the golden chalice and taking the small piece of bread he offered. She refused to quibble over the fact that such a service was illegal in England. She was married to a Scot, and women often had to be more practical than men when it came to adjusting their thinking. A princess such as Mary or Elizabeth Tudor might be allowed to place their foot firmly on the floor and refuse to bend to the whim of their royal father, but the rest of the country had to live in peace with the favored church.

The great hall was nearly empty, but the maids there lowered themselves when she passed them. The cook began snapping her fingers, and the little popping sounds echoed in the mostly empty hall. Maids brought forth a fine meal of cereal and fruit along with warmed cider that had been mulled with cinnamon. Jemma took a moment to inhale the scent of the costly spice before sipping at the drink. She would have to tell the cook not to use such expensive things on common days. But since the cider was served, she savored every drop and chewed on the small brown piece of cinnamon.

Another snap popped from the long worktables, and Jemma turned to see Anyon gaining the cook’s attention once again. This morning Anyon wore her linen cap correctly. It was tied securely beneath her chin like the other maids’ and her hair was tucked up into its gathered back. Although Anyon’s chemise was tugged up to cover her breasts more properly, the cook was still riding the girl unmercifully. With another snap from the cook’s fingers, Anyon carried a small copper pitcher toward the high table where Jemma was seated.

The girl’s lips were white from being pressed so tightly together, but she lowered herself before carefully refilling the cider mug. Jemma felt her stomach sour, but she clamped down on her own pity. Anyon had spent too many days acting as a better to everyone, and now she would have to face those she had spit in the face of.

But the unease in Jemma’s belly persisted, so she rose from the table and went to find the estate books. It was time to begin the duties of a wife.

Gordon wiped the sweat from his brow and smiled. The afternoon sun was bright with no sign of the rain that had blanketed the countryside yesterday.

“Whoa there, laddie, who’s that dreaming the day away?”

It was Kerry who teased him. His captain tossed up another bundle of thatch before climbing up to help him secure it to the roof supports.

“Ye’re jealous, Kerry, and I’ll tell ye straight, ye have every right to be.”

“Och now, that’s unkind. Just unkind in the worst way.”

Gordon bent over and felt his back give a twinge of discomfort for the number of hours he’d been working on the roof. They were nearing the top of the house now, and soon he’d have the right to ride home to the woman he’d been thinking about since he left. The sound of children drew his attention. He straightened back up to see the family’s four youngest playing in the yard. They wore bright smiles while they watched their new home being built.

“It will be a blessing to have a few of those following ye around.” Kerry shot him a smirk. “Hopefully all girls, because if they’re boys, the poor sods will look like ye, and that would make them ugly creatures for sure.”

“Kerry, I have a fine memory, and ye are going to marry someday.”

“I could never choose between all the lasses that adore me, Laird. ’Tis a fact that I can’t bear to give up any of them in favor of the other.”

Gordon bent back over. “Ye just wait, Kerry, the Church is going to lock ye in the stocks yet and nae release ye ’til ye repent and wed.”

“Not if I keep slipping the priest the wine he likes so well.”

Several men snickered in response because their priest was a plump man in spite of his vows of poverty. His robes were fuller than most of their kilts, but the man was fair, taking what was offered and only taxing those who could afford it. There had been worse clergy on Barras land before.

A sharp whistle drew Gordon’s attention back to the ground.

“Rider coming up fast, Laird!”

Every man stopped to watch the youth riding his horse like the son of Satan himself was chasing him. Dust rose up behind the horse in a dull-colored trail.

“That’s young Travis.”

“Aye.” Gordon climbed down from the roof, his neck muscles tightening. Travis was only twelve and not yet old enough to ride out with the retainers. But the lad could sit a horse and stay in the saddle better than some of his men. If someone had sent the lad out, time was essential.

“Laird, yer bride is ailing!” Travis began yelling before he even stopped his horse. The animal walked in a circle, trying to cool off. The youth pulled hard on the reins to turn the animal so that he was facing his laird again and might be heard.

“The cook suspects poison.”

Jemma opened her eyes and stared at the blurry haze in front of her. Voices surrounded her, but she couldn’t seem to force her brain to make sense of the sounds. It was almost as if she had suddenly been taken off to a land where no one spoke English. Everything moved too slowly, swirling around her in nightmarish motion. She wanted water, but her hand shook when she stretched it out, her strength failing her before her arm reached out far enough to gain any attention. Instead her body felt like it was falling through the air. Down, down, and still farther down. She waited for the pain that would be hers once she hit the bottom of the abyss but it never came, because she never stopped falling.

Gordon threw someone out of the way and didn’t know who it was. He didn’t care, either. His room was full of people once more, only today they lacked the sense of joy that had been present on his wedding night. No one was doing much but watching and waiting. His attention shifted to the priest, and Gordon felt his mouth go dry.

The priest was already there. His vestments on and his lips muttering the final words of last rites. He finished, and the assembled people all raised their hands to cross themselves. Two of the church nuns knelt near the bedside, their fingers moving on their wooden rosary beads while they concentrated on saying prayers for the woman lying there.

“I’m very sorry, my son.” The priest passed him by with two younger priests in training following him.

Several of the maids began wailing, the sound driving a stake through Gordon’s heart. He staggered, lacking the strength to cover the remaining distance to the bed.

How could she be gone?

“What are ye crying for?” The cook burst through the door, her hands full with a steaming pot. “Get out of my way, ye useless lack wits!”

“But the priest gave the mistress her last rites.”

The cook scoffed and kept moving toward the bed. “Well, that’s well and good, but no one’s dead yet so stop yer whining. I don’t abandon hope so quickly, else I might have sent half of ye back to yer mothers on the second day ye served in this house.”

The cook suddenly noticed him. “Good, a pair of hands that are strong enough to help me.”

“Help?”

“Aye.” The cook reached into the bed and whisked the covers away from Jemma. Her lips pressed into a hard line. “She’s too hot beneath all of this. Poor lass has enough to deal with without being smothered.”

The lack of bed coverings allowed him to set eyes on Jemma. He stared at her and watched her chest rise and fall. It was a shallow motion, barely noticeable, but it filled him with strength.

“Get out! Anyone who isn’t helping, get ye gone from this chamber!”

There was a flurry of motion toward the door. Several shrieks came from those trampled in the frantic crush of bodies trying to obey the laird’s commands. Gordon dismissed them from his mind. He ripped the bed clothing even farther away from his wife, throwing it toward the nuns.

“Gordon?”

He gasped, sitting heavily on the side of the bed. Jemma’s eyes were open just the tiniest amount. He reached out to grasp her hand.

“Aye, lass, I’m here.”

She nodded and opened her mouth, but nothing came out except a dry rattle of breath. Her face was the same color as her chemise and her lips bloodless.

“Sit her up now, Laird, as gentle as ye would a babe.”

Gordon realized that he was afraid to touch her. His hands shook, and he discovered he was grinding his teeth while he reached for Jemma. Her eyes remained on him, giving him the strength to slip his arms beneath her shoulders and raise her up.

“Now support her head. I forgot that ye have most likely never held a babe.”

“I hope to.” He shifted one hand so that it clasped Jemma’s neck. She felt too delicate, too small now. The woman who had wrestled with him had somehow vanished, and left in her place was this mere whisper of life. But it was the most precious thing he had ever felt. Gordon gathered her up, placing one of his bent legs behind her and sitting behind her to make sure she was steady.

“What do ye plan?”

The cook was stirring something into her pot. Steam rose from it and a bitter scent. He suddenly frowned. “And why don’t I know yer Christian name? Everyone calls ye Cook.”

“Because I detest me given name, but to say so would be to disrespect me father, so call me Cook. ’Tis a better name than the one I was baptized with, for sure.”

The cook pulled a small ladle from the waist tie of her apron and used it to measure out some of her brew into a pitcher. It was the smallest pitcher in the house, a pewter one used for serving cream.

“We need to help her drink, or she’ll be a ghost by tomorrow for sure.”

The cook gently placed the dimpled part of that pitcher against Jemma’s mouth and tipped just one spoonful of the fluid against her tongue. Gordon’s wife jerked and lifted her chin.

“Forgive me, Mistress, for I know ’tis a bitter concoction.”

The cook placed another measure of it in Jemma’s mouth, and this time she swallowed it. Gordon felt sweat trickle down the side of his face. Every muscle felt as though it was tight enough to snap. The cook kept placing spoonfuls of her brew inside his wife’s mouth until Jemma sighed.

“Better . . .” Jemma turned her head to rub against him before her eyes slid closed and her breathing became shallow. So shallow it sent fear through him once again.

“That will have to do for the moment.”

The cook stood up and blew out a long breath. Her eyes swept Jemma from head to toe, and her face became clouded with serious thought.