Page 59 of Eloping with the Laird
He turned and left, his men falling in step behind them to mount their horses. Ewan paused and came to her. Moira’s heart twisted at the sight of him. He took her hands in his own and kissed her cheek. ‘I am glad to see you get what you wanted, sister. Even if it was Laird Death,’ he whispered. He pulled back, winked at her and squeezed her hands. ‘We will come visit once the babe is born. I will bring Brenna too, no matter what Father says.’
She choked back the emotion welling within her. ‘I look forward to it,’ she mangled out in a mixture of strained tones. She longed to hug him, but she knew he’d not do so in front of Father. He was soon to be laird and such softness was frowned upon.
Ewan walked away and pulled up easily on his mount. She watched the line of soldiers retreat down the drive until they disappeared through the tree line, and all she could think was that she’d not said what was on her heart.
That, despite it all, she missed them.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The weather improved over the next few days, but Moira’s nerves sharpened to an edgy point as Rory drifted in and out of consciousness, often awake for only a handful of hours at a time. Usually just long enough to be given tonics, some sustenance and to walk about the halls for a few minutes before needing to rest and drifting off once more to what she hoped was a healing sleep. She’d spent hours every day looking through his belongings excluding one item after another until they were down to one table of possibilities. As each item was removed, so was a parcel of her hope that she would discover the cause of his sickness and he would soon recover.
She’d scoured books and journals, and even begged to rummage through Uncle Leo’s study, which he had obliged with good humour. Her mind felt sluggish and jumbled after all she’d read, but she was no closer to discovering the cause of Rory’s illness.
Raw energy abounded in Blackmore. Servants bustled about as if their sheer wilfulness to keep Blackmore clean and crisp would keep their laird alive. Moira wished it were so simple and that she had a shred of control over anything. After another night of fitful sleep, she had Tressa help her dress and left for the outdoors. Fresh air had to help her. Nothing inside did.
She climbed along the winding hillside towards the cliffs, but veered off to the woods to visit the chapel. Perhaps some quiet and prayer would help clear her mind and steady her spirit, which had been flagging as of late. She slid into the third pew, the same one they had sat in that morn long ago, and stared at the simple alter before her. They’d been married only a short time, and yet she longed for him and cared for him in every way, far more than she ever had for Peter during their years of marriage. Now, as her marriage was growing stronger, Rory was growing weaker and edging towards the demise she had once hoped and planned for. Her face heated with shame and she rubbed her hands together. How had she ever been so callous? He was a man, a good man, and she had initially married him because he would die.
And now he was.
‘Are ye unwell?’ Tressa’s timid voice rang through the empty chapel.
Moira wiped at her eyes and smiled as Tressa fidgeted with the edges of her cloak. ‘Aye. Just feeling a wee bit sorry for myself, that’s all. And ashamed. And helpless. Did you have need of me?’
‘Nay. Yer uncle asked me to come check on ye. Make sure ye were not alone in case ye had need of anyone. Due to yer condition. With the babe.’
‘Please. Join me. I am lost as to what to do.’
Tressa slid into the pew next to her. ‘We have finished with the last of the items. The doctor says they are not the cause either. I am sorry.’ She looked down at her hands.
Moira sighed. ‘I feared as much. It is hard to fathom why we cannot discover it.’ She rested her head back against the pew. ‘Is there anything else that Angus or one of the other servants prepare for the laird that I do not have? That no one has. If it is not a thing Rory is using that is poisoning him, it must be a food or drink.’
Tressa was silent for countless minutes. ‘Oh, my lady! Why did we not think of it before? Angus makes him a drink each night and sets it in his study. In that chalice, the one all the McKenna lairds have drunk from.’
Hope rose and then evaporated. ‘Aye, Tressa. But we checked the chalice. It was one of the first items we suspected, remember? The doctor said it was not the cause. And the wine does not seem the cause either. I tried it myself just after I arrived, and Uncle Leo drinks from that same wine decanter, does he not?’
‘Aye, he does.’ The wisp of a girl deflated and sagged back against the pew.
Moira squeezed her maid’s hand. ‘But it was a thought. A fine thought.’ Then her fingers tingled and she sat up straight to face Tressa. ‘Wait. What do you mean by Angusmakeshim a drink? Doesn’t he just pour him a cup of wine or dram of whisky?’
Tressa twisted her lips and furrowed her brow. ‘Angus always says he’smakinghis evening drink for the laird when I see him in the kitchens late at night. I always assumed it was some sort of sleeping tonic. Ye would have to ask him.’
‘Then we shall do that at once.’
She smiled, hope puffing up her chest and making her steps back to the castle light and quick. They reached the main hall, and Tressa disappeared in search of Angus. Moira removed her cloak and went to Rory’s chambers, their chambers, and settled into the all too familiar chair pulled up to his bedside. She clutched his warm, still hand between her own.
‘Do come back to me, my love. All of those days of wishing to be without a husband are behind me. I want to have you with me always.’
He never answered when she whispered this prayer to him, but she never stopped saying it whenever she sat with him as he slept.
The door opened and Angus hurried within with Tressa trailing right behind.
‘Ye have need of me, my lady?’
‘Aye,’ she answered as her heart thudded against her chest. ‘Tressa told me that you make a drink for the laird each night. What do you mean? Don’t you just pour a whisky or chalice of wine for him?’
‘Nay, he likes me to pour him a glass of wine along with the sweetener he prefers.’
‘Sweetener?’
