Page 51 of Eloping with the Laird
Or perhaps such intimacy was only within his own heart. He sighed.
‘What has your handsome brow in such a furrow?’ Moira asked, lifting a hand to ruffle his hair.
‘Nothing for you to worry about.’
‘Are you puzzling out how you slept through the night?’ She smirked at him.
He propped himself up on his elbow and revelled in her bright blue gaze. ‘I did, didn’t I? I cannot remember the last time that has happened.’
‘Perhaps tending my bedside wore you through.’
He laughed and let his fingertip run the gentle slope of her nose. ‘I think it is knowing that you carry the next McKenna, whether it be our son or daughter, that has granted me some peace.’
Her smile flattened. ‘You mean after you are gone.’
‘Aye.’
‘I will speak with Dr Wilkes. Ask for his most current recommendations for you. I will not give up on you. Please do not give up on us. Agreed?’
He swallowed hard, pressing the lie to the tip of his tongue. ‘Agreed. I won’t, and I’ll drink every horrid tonic you make me.’
‘Good,’ she added, and threw off the bedclothes. ‘No better time than the present.’ She gathered her shift and a simple walking dress before disappearing around the dressing screen.
He lay listening to her chatter away about herbs and research and a new finding in one of the volumes from the library, and he prayed that he’d have more mornings such as this, where he could revel in the beauty of his future and the joy of being alive and part of it, despite how long it would last.
How could she tell him?
Should she tell him?
Thistles.
Moira had fussed and fretted in the library all morning after a thorough and heady search of her clothes and enquiry of Tressa about any found correspondence about her chamber. Where had the letter gone? It could be anywhere. Her hope was that it being soaked in the rain and clutched within her hand had made it a blurry, runny stained mess beyond comprehension. Perhaps a servant had found it as such and thought it rubbish. She worried her lip.
Or someone had read it and kept it.
Her stomach lurched and she pressed her hand to it. Now that she knew she was with child, she was desperate to keep the contents of that letter hidden. Nothing would bring her to the scaffold. She’d never admit what she’d done and what part she had played in Peter’s death.
Not even to Rory.
Denial was her only option, wasn’t it? Telling Rory would only add to his worries, and if she ignored the claims of that one note, wouldn’t they eventually fall away? It was one letter, nothing more. It could be a ruse. Why else would the note be unsigned? If she remained calm and focused on her future, nothing more would come of it. Telling the truth would only put her in harm’s way, as it would be her word against that of a dead man, and she’d not die for Peter Fraser. He’d already killed enough of her spirit and taken years of her happiness. She’d not give him her life or the life of her bairn now.
Worry threatened to overtake her and thrust her into hysteria, so she released a breath and shook off her suspicion. If someone had it or had read it, they would reveal themselves soon enough. All she could do was wait and focus her energies on healing her husband. The irony of being so desperate for her husband to live when she’d married him because she was assured he would soon die was not lost on her.
She didn’t believe in this McKenna curse. There had to be a reason and a cause for his illness and that of the McKennas before him, and she would find it. She would. She and her babe had far too much to lose without him. She found she loved her husband and wished desperately to have the marriage she’d never had with Peter.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Moira rubbed her eyes, stood from the cool windowsill she had sat huddled in reading in the wee solarium, as she affectionately called it now, and stretched her arms high in the air standing on her tiptoes. Staring at the wall clock, she noted she’d lost most of the day reading and making notes for her latest efforts for a tonic for Rory. One of them had to help. Dr Wilkes said it seemed to be an ailment of the gut from some sort of poisoning, but such a broad diagnosis made her work challenging. Propping her hands to her hips, she smiled as she watched the hounds off on a late afternoon walk through the fresh snow. They ran, skidded and collided into one another as Uncle Leo cheered them on. He met her gaze and waved to her. And no one had mentioned the letter. Not yet. She returned Uncle Leo’s greeting and smiled. Such a glorious day she could get used to.
As he walked on, her hand slid over her abdomen. Would that be her walking along with her child alone with the hounds in tow to capture some of the crisp winter air after a new snowfall? She liked to imagine Rory alongside them. Her chest tightened. A foolish dream, she knew. His birthday was drawing nearer and with each passing week, she noted his ailments were worsening, but she didn’t know why. They shared their meals together and had a similar routine, yet his body seemed to be betraying him day after day. His abdominal cramps had worsened and at times he barely touched his plate, despite his efforts to move his food around to make it seem otherwise. A tactic Brenna had oft resorted to at Glenhaven when Cook had made liver.
Moira’s heart still tugged at her siblings’ long absence. She missed them. One day she hoped Brenna and Ewan and perhaps even Father would set aside their disapproval of her choice and come see her, if nothing but to at least see their new nephew or niece. She sighed. But she knew her father would do no such thing. Bran Stewart was not one to concede anything, not even the death of his wife. For days he had denied even that until they had come to collect her mother’s body for internment in the chapel tombs.
Giving her growing plants a last drink, Moira left her lovely new refuge and went in search of her husband in his library.
‘Rory,’ she called, entering the study. ‘Have you come up with any names yet?’ She smiled when she saw him asleep at his desk with his head resting on his folded arms. His favourite chalice sat just beyond his reach and correspondence lay buried beneath him. She shook her head. His multiple afternoon naps had been just another development over the last few weeks, and the early dusk and winter gloom didn’t help matters.
She ran her hand along his arm and pressed a kiss to his cheek. ‘Love, you’ve fallen asleep atop your work again.’
