Page 16 of Highlander's Captive Bride
Immediately, she felt its warming, restorative powers as it slid down her dry throat. The Laird seemed to give her an approving glance as he leaned towards her in his chair, resting his muscular forearms on his knees.
“’Tis good to hear it, for she has trouble sleeping because of the pain,” he told her. “But what I want to ken is what’s the cause of the sickness. Have ye found that out yet?”
“Nay, not yet. ’Tis too early to say,” Daisy began, pausing when she saw the disappointment in his eyes. For some annoying reason, she felt the urge to offer reassurance. “But I’ve only just begun. I’ve examined her and got a lot of information about her symptoms. I need more time.”
“Aye, that’s what I thought ye’d say. Can ye hazard a guess?”
“Nay, there are too many possibilities for what it could be. But I ken she’s never been sick like this before, so that seems to point to something new—maybe a condition or ailment that’s only recently come to light.”
“I see.” He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, looking gloomy.
“Is there any history of any illness in yer family that could explain it? Sometimes, there are things that are passed down in families,” she added, wondering if it could be a hereditary condition.
Daisy was surprised when he gave a small, mirthless laugh and said, “Naething that I ken of. Most of the Murdoch men die in battle, and the women usually expire from something to do with childbirth. Or a broken heart.”
She could not help but nod her head. “Aye. That sounds about right for the family of a laird,” she agreed, blaming the whisky for her gradually receding nervousness.
“Well, I have a task for ye to perform before ye retire,” the Laird told her, rising from his seat and going back to the chair behind his desk. “Come, ye can sit here,” he urged, gesturing that she should come and sit at his desk.
“Oh, what is it?” Daisy asked, her nerves resurfacing as she did as he bid her and went to sit in the enormous chair. He stood over her as he pushed the chair in, trapping her firmly. She could hear him breathing behind her, and the heat from his body burned her like fire.
“I want ye to write some letters. One to yer braither, and one to yer sister, the Lady Rottrich.”
As he spoke, he arranged several sheets of parchment in front of her on the desk before sliding forth the nearby inkpot and quill.
Of course. He’s going to get me to cover for him.
Daisy listened, her lips pursed, as he explained what he wanted her to write.
“I want ye to tell yer braither that ye cannae come to see yer sister-in-law just yet, for ye have a very sick child to treat. Then, ye’re going to write to yer sister and tell her that ye’ve arrived safely at Castle McGunn, and all is well. Is that understood?”
Daisy’s anger flared at the lies he expected her to tell her siblings to cover his misdeeds.
“Well, I’m nae deaf, if that’s what ye’re driving at. Nor am I simple. And since we speak the same language, of course, I understand, ye big dummart!” she cried.
She froze as the last word slipped out of her mouth, half expecting a blow to knock her off her seat. It did not come, but there was a sound, very slight, behind her. It sounded very much like he was stifling a snort of laughter.
Furiously, she whirled on him, as far as she could, imprisoned as she was. But though she craned her neck to scrutinize his face, she could detect no sign of levity on his face.
“I’ll nae tell such lies,” she said in retaliation, still suspecting him of mocking her behind her back.
“Well, it’ll be a long night, then, for ye’re going nowhere until I have those letters in me hand,” he growled in her ear, his warm breath tickling her neck and sending shivers through her body.
Apparently satisfied, he returned to the armchair on the other side of the desk, crossing his legs and fixing his dark eyes warningly upon her.
“Write,” he commanded, stabbing a finger at the writing gear.
Silently, knowing she had to obey, Daisy picked up the quill, chewing at the end thoughtfully as she suddenly realized this might be her chance to alert her siblings that all was not well with her.
But how to do it without the monster guessing me intentions?
“Ach, dinnae chew me pen, will ye? That was me faither’s,” the Laird protested, grimacing at her.
“Oh, sorry,” she said automatically, her thoughts on what she could write to secretly tell of her plight. She took one of the sheets, dipped the quill in the inkpot, and began to write.
Dear Braither,
I’m so sorry to hear that Violet is ill. I hope she’s feeling better by now without me, and I promise to be with ye as soon as I can. But there will be a delay, for at present, I cannae leave the place where I’m staying. ’Tis a castle inland that stands in a loch, and I’m treating the child of the—
