"Methinks 'tis a good thing me brother's men dinny ken that or they'd have me canonized."
The thought made Gilby laugh. The sound bounced off the hard stone walls of the hall like resonant claps of thunder.
The serving wench returned, and gave Gilby an odd glance as she set the two fresh mugs of ale in front of them. Just as she was about to turn away, Connor reached out and gently grasped her wrist, stopping her short.
She glanced down at him, puzzled. An impatient light shimmered in her eyes, and it was obvious she was anxious to get back to the kitchen and finish telling the other servants what had just transpired in the hall.
"Has the lass come 'round yet?"
She nodded her dreary brown head. "Aye, m'lord, aboot an hour ago."
Connor let go of her slender wrist and sat back in surprise. "An hour ago? Why dinny anyone come and fetch me?" he demanded.
"She asked us not to disturb ye."
"not to disturb—?! Saints alive, wench, dinny I tell ye to get me the second she awoke?" Connor's scowl was dark and fierce. He'd lifted his mug to take a deep sip, but the girl's words stopped him short. He set the mug back down on the table hard enough to make a goodly portion of the foamy contents spill over the side, down his hand
, and onto the scarred oak tabletop.
The girl opened her mouth, shut it, then opened it again. Her gaze shifted briefly to Gilby, but she found no help there. This time when she spoke, her lower lip trembled, and her voice was weak and edged with hesitancy. "A-aye, ye did, but..."
"Tell me something, Alice. Do ye now obey a Carelton's orders over my own?"
Alice's eyes widened and she shook her head vigorously. "Nay! Ne'er!"
"Then why was my order not carried out, whilst hers was?"
"I-I—"
Alice was saved having to answer the question by the sound of more footsteps stomping on the stairs outside the hall. They grew louder instead of softer, indicating an approach instead of a retreat.
The relief in the girl's eyes was tangible. When Connor gestured tightly for her to leave the room, she did so without a trace of reluctance.
"A messenger, m'lord," a gruff male voice announced from the arched doorway. "From King James."
Connor lifted his mug, his fingers tight around the handle. He drained two thirds of the tepid contents in a single gulp, all the while wondering how many more messengers were to come, and how much worse the day was destined to get.
* * *
"Will ye not be a good lass and open yer mouth a'fore the broth spills all o'er the covers? As ye nae doubt can see, me hand isn't so steady as it once was, and I've nae desire to be changing the bed simply because ye're to stubborn to open yer mouth."
Gabrielle sat back against the pillows cushioning her back from the hard wooden headboard. "I keep telling you, madam, that I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself. Give me the spoon and I'll happily prove it to you."
The old woman laughed; to Gabrielle's sensitive ears, it sounded more like a harsh cackle, harder and colder than the stone walls off which it bounced. "Och! 'twas a good try, lass, but not good enough to slip past the likes of me. Now, open yer mouth."
Gabrielle clenched her teeth together and shook her head. The gesture made her head pound, even as she eyed the old woman speculatively.
Mairghread was the old woman's name. At least that was what the woman had claimed, loud enough to make Gabrielle wince, the instant she had regained consciousness, before she could even open her eyes. The woman had been sent by her nephew, Connor Douglas, to nurse Gabrielle back to health. Judging by the tone of that stern voice, nothing would stop her from doing exactly that.
Gabrielle had pried open heavy, gritty eyelids and found herself staring up into a stern face that resembled nothing so much as a juicy apple that had been set to dry under a hot summer sun and left out for days too long. Beneath a cloud of unruly, wispy white hair, the woman's features were wrinkled and crooked, sloping to the left. From the bridge down, her nose leaned toward her ruddy left cheek. That side of her mouth drooped, while her left eye was nothing more than a slit. With the exception of an unnaturally bulging blue eye, the right side of the old woman's face looked normal.
Mairghread was glaring at her.
Gabrielle held the woman's attention for a second, then her own dipped with silent defiance to the spoon. Mairghread was right, her gnarled old hand was shaking badly, threatening to tilt the spoon's contents onto the blanket at any moment.
Gabrielle sniffed the air tentatively. There was a whiff of faded lavender scent clinging to the old woman, the mossy scent of rushes strewn over the floor, and above all that...
Her stomach muscles clenched around a hungry grumble. Her mouth watered. Compared to the dry, overcooked rabbit meat and thick, tasteless porridge the Douglas men had been feeding her, this savory-smelling bowl of soup seemed a veritable feast!