She beat soundly on the door, calling to Taliesan to open. A few moments later, there was much scuffling heard and then the door creaked open, only the dim glow of a few candles emanating from within.
“Genevieve!” Taliesan cried.
She was enfolded in Taliesan’s hug. Beyond Taliesan, many of the women and children huddled inside the small room, their gazes anxious as they stared at the two women embracing.
Against her will, Genevieve’s heart softened a bit at the fear so clearly written on the faces of the women of the clan. And the children. Eyes so big and wide. Their lives had been turned upside down by the selfish actions of an inept laird.
She didn’t want to feel anything for these people. They’d all been a party to her misery and humiliation. They deserved nothing from her, and yet she couldn’t turn her back on them, even if it was what she wished to do.
“What has happened?” Taliesan asked, pulling away. “Are we safe?”
The other women leaned forward, eager to hear. For once, there were no disparaging looks, no insults hurled, no name-calling. They all looked … vulnerable.
It was a feeling Genevieve was well acquainted with.
“Patrick attacked the keep with the aid of the McGrieves,” she said without emotion.
There were shocked gasps all around the small chamber.
“Did he mean to kill us all?” one of the women demanded.
Her tone was angry, and a quick look around showed Genevieve that there was anger on more than one face.
Genevieve shrugged. “He is without care for his kin or his duty as laird. ’Tis difficult to say how the mind of a coward works. He is dead now,” she said in a dispassionate voice. “He is no longer a threat, but I have sent word to the Montgomerys, because now that Patrick is dead, we’ve sustained one attack and our numbers are lower than necessary to defend the keep from a larger attack. The McGrieves might very well decide to ally themselves with yet another clan in order to take over the McHugh holding.”
There were cries of distress, a series of murmurs, whispers, and louder objections that echoed down the hall.
“You did right, Genevieve,” Taliesan said, crushing Genevieve’s hand with her own. “You have my thanks for looking after our interests so well.”
None of the other women went as far as to express gratitude. Several still looked at Genevieve with consternation in their eyes, as if they were loath even to consider the possibility that she was the one who’d been wronged.
“Where is the new laird in all of this?” one of the women asked, suspicion heavy in her voice.
“He lies injured in his chamber, under tight guard. One of the McHugh men who swore allegiance to the new laird attempted to cowardly attack him from behind. He is also dead, and the laird will remain under guard by those he trusts until he is well enough to be up on his own.”
“Nay!” several whispered. “Who is dead? Who killed him? Who was it, Genevieve? You must tell us if it was one of our husbands.”
The questions peppered her from all directions. Genevieve knew there was no easy way to relate the news. She raised her gaze, seeking out the woman she knew to be the wife of the McHugh man who betrayed Bowen.
“ ’Twas your husband, Maggie,” Genevieve said quietly.
“You lie!” Maggie hissed. “He would never do something so dishonorable.”
Genevieve steeled herself for such a response. It wasn’t unexpected. Who, after all, wanted to believe such of their husband?
“I saw him with my own eyes,” Genevieve added gently.
Maggie stared at her with obvious scorn. “And we’re to believe the word of a whore?”
Genevieve flinched and took an immediate step back.
Taliesan rounded on the woman, her face flushed with fury. “You will cease your insults! Genevieve has done much for us, and I struggle to understand why. She should have washed her hands of us. She should have welcomed our deaths, and yet she saw us all to safety. Even now she has sent word because we are in danger of another attack, and all you can think to do is heap petty, childish insults on her. Enough, I say! Act the adult you claim to be and cease acting like a child. The children of the keep behave better than the women of this clan ever have.”
Several of the women had the grace to look abashed, but others regarded Genevieve with open hostility. She knew she’d gained instant enemies the moment she named the betrayer. But she would not lie. Not to save feelings. Not when the dishonorable person merited no respect or goodwill.
“I must go now,” Genevieve said in a low voice to Taliesan. “I must see to the laird. I know not how seriously he was injured. There is much to be done below. The men will be hungry from their battles, and they must bury the dead. We will mourn our losses this eve, when an accounting is given.”
“You’re a brave and giving lass,” Taliesan said, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “I know not how you manage it when Ian tried every conceivable way to crush your spirit. Your resilience is inspiring. I hope one day to be as you are.”
Genevieve’s response came out more as a sob. “Nay, Taliesan. Never pray for my fate. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”
Chapter 16
Genevieve hesitated at Bowen’s chamber door. It was closed, and she wondered if she would even be permitted entrance. Brodie had looked at her with suspicion, but surely he didn’t believe she had anything to do with Bowen’s injuries.
Thrusting her chin up and scolding herself for being the coward she so easily labeled Patrick, she knocked softly at the door. There was a long moment of waiting, and she was debating whether to knock again when it opened the barest crack and Brodie stood frowning at her.
She thought to explain her presence, when he swung the door wider and motioned her inside.
“Have you any skill at healing?” Brodie asked as she stepped through the doorway.
She paused, blowing out her breath. “It depends on what he has need of. I’ve never done any stitching, and I have no knowledge of poultices or drams.”
Brodie’s lips pressed together in consternation. “He has need of stitching for one of his wounds, certainly, and I would give him something to make him less restless, to ease his pain so the stitching can be done, but I do not trust a McHugh healer with his life.”
Her hand went automatically to rub at the ragged scar on her face. “Nay,” she agreed quietly. “I’d not have the McHugh healer stitch him, either.”
As she spoke, she moved toward the bed, where another Montgomery soldier stood guard. Bowen lay there, eyes closed, but he fidgeted even in unconsciousness. His tunic had been removed, and she could see a ragged cut to his chest. The flesh lay open and was still bleeding, though the soldier wiped at it with cloths.
“Think you are up to the task?” Brodie asked. “Your hands are smaller and you would perhaps be more adept at a needle and thread than I or one of the other men.”
She swallowed hard, still staring at the open wound. Then she squared her shoulders. “Aye, I have skill with a needle and thread. Surely ’tis not more difficult than laying stitch to material. I can sew a tight seam. But I dare not sink needle into his flesh if he’s had nothing to calm him.”
“I’ll have the materials you need fetched to the chamber. If we give him enough ale, it will dull his senses enough for you to do the task.”
Genevieve wasn’t as convinced as Brodie was, but she didn’t argue. She didn’t want to anger the warrior, and if he saw no use for her, ’twas likely he’d bar her from Bowen’s chamber.
Brodie pulled a chair from the window and positioned it directly beside the bed before motioning for Genevieve to sit. He gave terse instructions to the warrior attending Bowen, and then quit the room abruptly.
Genevieve leaned forward, her hand going to Bowen’s forehead in an automatic gesture of comfort. He shifted beneath her touch and then quieted, rubbing against her palm.
“Bowen, are you feeling any pain?” she asked.
“He’s remained unconscious, mistress,” the warrior explained.
Genevieve turned her gaze on the warrior. “Aye, I know it. I’m trying to determine if he’s aware of anything happening around him.”
The warrior fell silent, abashed by her response.
She took the cloth that lay on Bowen’s chest and gently wiped at the blood still seeping from the wound. Upon further inspection, she found a long gash in his upper arm, though it wasn’t as deep or flayed open as the one on his chest.
Remembering the chain mail covering Bowen’s chest, she realized that the sword must have sliced through armor and flesh. Thank God he’d been somewhat protected. With a cut this deep, the blow would most certainly have been fatal were it not for the protective covering that was sliced through.
“Has the wound been washed?” she asked, taking note of the dry cloth stained only with blood.
The warrior looked uncomfortable. “Nay, mistress. We were concerned only with halting the bleeding.”
She nodded. “ ’Tis good, that. But fetch me water from the basin so that I may cleanse it before we set needle to flesh. It will help to remove any dirt or part of the armor that is embedded.”
Looking relieved to be assigned a duty other than standing within Genevieve’s view, the warrior hastened to fetch the pitcher by the window.
A moment later, he returned with a fresh cloth. He plunged it inside the clay jug and wrung it out, extending it toward Genevieve.
“By what name are you called, warrior?” she asked as she carefully began to cleanse the inside of the wound.
“Geoffrey, mistress.”
“My thanks for your aid, Geoffrey.”
He looked surprised by her thank-you, and he nodded solemnly.
Before long, Brodie returned with one of the Armstrong warriors. They both carried supplies in their hands, and Geoffrey scrambled to make way for them.
“I brought needle and strong thread, suitable for stitching. Deaglan prepared a dram for Brodie, so that he’s not combative when you apply the needle.”
Genevieve sent Brodie a grateful look. She knew well the threat a man could pose when he was in his right head. One delirious with pain and only half conscious wasn’t someone she wanted to risk placing herself in the path of.
She rose to allow the two men access to Bowen and hovered on the perimeter while they coaxed the potion down Bowen’s throat.
When Brodie was satisfied that Bowen had taken all that he would, he took a step back and directed his attention to Genevieve.
“Give it a few moments to take effect before you set yourself to your task. Geoffrey, Deaglan, and I will remain to ensure that Bowen is still for the entirety of you tending the wound.”
“You are kind,” Genevieve said quietly.
Brodie stared at her a long moment. “And you are unused to such, are you not?”
She flushed and turned away, refusing to voice her agreement, though he well knew the answer to his own question.
“I know that Bowen champions you,” Brodie continued. “You needn’t worry that while he is recovering I’ll allow any harm to come to you.”
Guilt gripped her chest, tightening until it was hard to breathe. Bowen must not have discussed his concerns with Brodie, or the Armstrong warrior would not be so gallant toward her. What would he do once he learned the terrible truth that Bowen had discovered just minutes before the attack?
“Thank you,” she managed to choke out, praying that her guilt wasn’t clearly written on her face.
He gestured for her to take her seat next to Bowen, but cautioned her to wait a moment longer, until he was certain Bowen had succumbed to the effects of the potion.
She settled down, wondering how she’d ever control the shaking of her hands. Fear, such a constant companion, had risen sharply at the thought of discovery. Brodie Armstrong would loathe the very sight of her. He’d likely think she deserved whatever fate befell her at the hands of the McHughs—if he didn’t decide to exact justice for his sister on his own.
She gripped her hands tightly together in her lap, concentrating her entire will on calming her scattered nerves.
After a time, Bowen quieted and ceased his restless fidgeting and turning. His breathing became shallow and his head lolled to the side, his body going lax.
Brodie leaned over, pushing at Bowen, attempting to rouse a response, and when Bowen remained still and silent he nodded at Genevieve.
She sucked in a deep breath and took up the needle and thread held out to her by Deaglan. After making certain a sturdy knot was at the end of the thread, she tentatively put the needle to the middle of the wound and pinched the flesh together with her free hand.
Warily, she watched for any reaction from Bowen and then, holding her breath, she plunged the needle into his flesh, pushing it through to the other side of the wound.
She breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t so much as flinch.
Leaning forward, she focused intently on her task, setting stitches close together to effectively seal the wound. She barely even breathed the entire time she sewed together one side. By the time she reached the edge, sweat rolled down her temples and dampened the tendrils of hair at her nape.