The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (100 page)

“No. I’m glad you’re here, Philip. You’re here . . . I’ve missed you. Help me, Philip.” Her voice trailed off and he knew that she was more unconscious than asleep this time.

Aunt Arleth had told them all to stay away from the laird’s bedchamber. She didn’t want any of them catching their stepmother’s slight cold. She’d assured them that all was well, that their stepmother didn’t want them to come see her.

It was more than a cold. Aunt Arleth had lied. Sinjun was very ill.

He stood there, staring down at her, wondering what to do.

“You disobedient little boy! Come out of here now! Do you hear me, Philip? Come here!”

Philip turned to face Aunt Arleth, who stood ramrod straight in the open doorway.

“Sinjun is very ill. You were wrong about her condition. She must have help.”

“I’ve been giving her help. Has she said anything? If so, she’s only trying to gain your sympathy, to turn you against me. You see? I’m here yet again to help her, you silly child. I don’t want you to be near her, you might sicken as well.”

“You said she was just lying about because she was lazy. How could I get sick from laziness?”

“She still has just a touch of fever, nothing much, but it is my responsibility in your father’s absence to see that you’re well taken care of. That means seeing to it that you don’t become ill.”

“Sinjun was taking care of both Dahling and me very well.”

“She’s a shallow chit, thoughtless and clearly negligent, or she never would have gone to that wretched swamp with you. Surely you see that she was just playing at being responsible. She cares naught for either you or Dahling. She cares naught for any of us. She merely enjoys telling us all what to do and flinging her wealth in our faces. Oh yes, she sees all of us as mere poor relations she must tolerate. Why do you think that your dear father isn’t here in his own home? It’s because of her; he can’t bear her company because she rubs his nose in his own poverty and lords it over him. She doesn’t belong here, she’s a Sassenach. Come away now, Philip. I shan’t tell you again.”

“The windows were open, Aunt.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! She ordered me to open them. I told her it wasn’t wise, but she just kept
fretting and whining until finally I simply obliged her.”

She was lying, he knew it, and he was suddenly very frightened. He didn’t know what to do. He looked back at Sinjun and knew deep down that if something wasn’t done she would die.

“Come away from her, Philip.”

Slowly, he walked toward Aunt Arleth. He even nodded as he came up to her. He knew exactly what he was going to do.

He turned to watch Aunt Arleth place her hand on Sinjun’s forehead and nod. “Ah yes, I knew it. Hardly any fever at all now. No need for a doctor.”

Philip left the bedchamber.

A
LEXANDRA SHERBROOKE
,
THE
countess of Northcliffe, was napping in the middle of a warm Wednesday afternoon. She was permitted this indulgence, her mother-in-law had assured her, even going so far as to pat her cheek with what could be termed affection, because she was carrying another child for Douglas—as if she were some sort of vessel for her husband’s use, Alex had thought, but nonetheless had slipped off her gown and fallen quite easily to sleep.

She dreamed of Melissande, her incredibly beautiful sister, who had just borne a little girl who greatly resembled Alex, even endowed with Titian hair and gray eyes. It was justice, Douglas had told her, since their own twin boys were the very image of the glorious Melissande, a happenstance that still made Tony Parrish, Melissande’s husband, grin like a smug bastard at Douglas. But in her dream something was wrong with Melissande. She was lying motionless on her back, her beautiful black hair spread like a silk fan against the white of the pillows. Her face was pale, faint blue
shadows showing beneath her skin, and her breath was hoarse and low.

Suddenly, her hair wasn’t black, it was chestnut, and drawn into a long thick braid. It wasn’t Melissande’s face now, either. No, it was Sinjun’s.

Alex blinked, dragging herself from sleep. What a strange dream, she thought, as she closed her eyes again. She’d just written to her sister-in-law, so that was perhaps why she’d taken Melissande’s place in her dream.

Alex quieted. Gently and easily, she dozed, but this time there wasn’t a dream awaiting her, there was a soft voice, a woman’s low voice, and it was near her ear, saying over and over, “Sinjun is ill . . . Sinjun is ill. She is in trouble. Help her, you must help her.”

Alex frowned, then moaned. She awoke with a jerk. There beside her bed stood the Virgin Bride, calm and still, her white gown gently shimmering in the silent bedchamber, and she spoke again, but the words were in Alex’s mind, not coming from the ghost’s mouth, soft and quiet, but insistent. “Sinjun is ill . . . in trouble. Help her, help her.”

“What’s wrong? Please, tell me, what’s wrong with Sinjun?”

“Help her,” the soft voice said, pleading now. The beautiful young woman was clasping her hands in front of her. Odd how her fingers were long and so very slender, yet they seemed to be clear, the bones showing through as dark shadows. Her exquisite long hair was so blond that it shone nearly white in the afternoon sunlight. “Help her. There is much trouble for her.”

“Yes, I will,” Alex said, and rolled off the side of the bed to her feet. She saw the ghost nod, then gently retreat toward the corner of the countess’s bedchamber. Alex watched her simply fade into a
pale reflection of herself, lighter and lighter, until there was nothing there. Nothing at all.

Alex drew a deep breath. The ghost hadn’t come to her in months and months, and the last time the ghost had smiled and told her that Farmer Elias’s cow had survived the colic and could now give milk to the ailing baby in the house. And she’d been here when Alex had needed her, when she’d been screaming in labor with the twins, so torn with the agony that she didn’t believe she would live through it. The Virgin Bride had come to her then and told her that she would be all right and she wasn’t to doubt it for a moment. Alex would have sworn that a soft hand had touched her forehead, then her belly, and the pain had lessened. Of course, Douglas informed her that she’d simply been delirious. She never should have told him. He was so stubborn about it, and she knew why. Men couldn’t bear to accept something they couldn’t understand, something they couldn’t grasp by the throat and look at and speak to and throttle if they didn’t like it. The Virgin Bride couldn’t be explained, thus she couldn’t exist.

And now she’d come again to tell her that Sinjun was in trouble and ill. Alex felt a slight spasm of dizziness but it passed quickly. Her heart was pounding hard and she stopped, drawing deep breaths.

Douglas wasn’t here. He’d had to return to London to meet with Lord Avery at the Foreign Office several days before.

Well, he would be of no use in any case. If she told him what the Virgin Bride had said, he’d sneer and laugh and be an ass about it. No, it was a good thing that he wasn’t here because she knew that he wouldn’t allow her to take any action—he’d gone so far as to swear her to near complete inaction during his absence—and she knew she had to.

Alex informed her household that she was going for a visit to her brother and sister-in-law in the Cotswolds. Hollis, their butler, stared at her as if she’d lost her wits instead of her breakfast, but her mother-in-law seemed overly pleased to see the back of her for a while.

Sophie had received her own visits from the Virgin Bride over the past five years. Together they would figure out what to do.

Philip crept out of the castle at ten o’clock that night. He wasn’t scared, not so much that he couldn’t think, anyway. Any fear he did feel was overcome by his worry for Sinjun.

He made the stables without a single bark from George II, whom he saw just in time to scratch behind his mangy ears before the dog could howl the house down.

Philip didn’t pause in the stables. The lads were asleep in their chambers off the tack room. He saddled his pony, Bracken, and quickly led him well down the drive before mounting.

He had a long ride ahead of him, but he was determined. He just prayed that he would be in time.

He’d wanted to tell Dulcie what he was going to do, but he knew deep down that she wouldn’t be able to keep her mouth shut. He told her instead, as he was yawning deeply, all ready for his bed, to please look in on his stepmother, and give her water to drink and keep her covered with as many blankets as she could find.

Dulcie had promised. He prayed as he sent his pony into a gallop that Aunt Arleth wouldn’t come upon Dulcie and dismiss her, or worse, hurt her.

There was a half-moon overhead and the dark rain clouds of the past three days had disappeared, replaced by soft white ones that did little to obscure the moon or stars. He could see quite well enough.

When he heard hoofbeats behind him, Philip thought his heart would burst through his chest. He quickly guided Bracken into the thick brush beside the road and clamped his fingers over the pony’s nostrils to keep him from whinnying.

There were three men riding toward him. When they neared he heard them speaking clearly.

“Aye, ’tis a wee-witted lassie she be, but I’ll hae her non’ the less.”

“Nay, she be fer me, ye louthead, her father promised me an’ th’ laird is fer th’ banns.”

A third man laughed aloud, a smug, triumphant laugh. He spat and said, “Well, yer both off the mark, ye are. Dinna ye ken, I already bedded wi’ her, she’s all mine. I’ll tell th’ laird, an’ ’tis done. I’ll tell ye something else, lads, her tits bain’t be wee.”

There were howls and yells and curses, and the horses were whinnying and plowing into each other. Philip stayed still as a stone, waiting, praying that the strongest of the men would get the wee lassie and the other two would go to the devil.

The fight lasted another ten minutes. Finally, Philip heard a loud curse and then the loud report of a gun. Oh God, he thought, swallowing so hard he nearly choked himself.

There was a yell, followed by a profound silence.

“Ye kilt Dingle, ye fool.”

“Aye, he bedded wi’ her, he deserved t’ croak it.”

The other man groaned, then shouted, “An’ wot if she’s got his seed ’n her belly? Yer a stupid sod, Alfie, MacPherson’ll have our guts fer his breakfast.”

“We’ll nae say a word. ’Tis a bloody Kinross wot
kilt him. Away, then! Away!”

They left the third man there. Philip stood irresolute. Then he left Bracken tied to a yew bush and quietly made his way back to the road. The man was sprawled on his back, his arms and legs spread wide. There was a huge red stain covering his chest. His eyes were wide with surprise, his teeth still bared in a snarl. He was quite dead.

Philip threw up. Then he ran back to Bracken and sent him back onto the road.

He’d recognized the man. It was a bully whose name was Dingle, and he was one of the MacPhersons’ meanest fighters.

His father had pointed him out once to Philip on a visit to Culross Palace, telling him that the fellow was a cretin and an excellent example of the caliber of MacPherson’s men.

Philip rode until Bracken was winded and blowing hard. He fell asleep astride his mare. It was Bracken who nudged him awake. Philip, not knowing how much time had passed, panicked. But his pony couldn’t sustain a steady gallop and he was forced to slow. He saw more men and several peasant women. What they were doing up and about in the middle of the night would remain a mystery. He avoided them, though he heard one of the men shouting after him.

He was on the ferry to Edinburgh at four o’clock in the morning, paying the ferryman every shilling he had taken from his father’s strongbox save one. He nestled down between two bags of grain for warmth. He reached his father’s house in Abbotsford Crescent just past six o’clock in the morning. It had taken him a good hour to find the house, and he’d nearly been in tears when, finally, he’d spotted it.

Angus opened the door, yawning deeply as he did so, and stared down at the boy, mouth still agape.

“Oh och, ’tis ye, th’ young master! By gawd, bain’t this be a treat fer th’ laird. Who be wi’ ye, laddie?”

“Quickly, my father, Angus. I must see my father.” While Angus was gaping at him, trying to gather his wits together, Philip ducked around him and raced up the stairs. He didn’t stop running until he reached the laird’s bedchamber and flung open the doors, banging them loudly against the walls.

Colin came awake in an instant and bolted upright in bed. “Good God, Philip! What the devil are you doing here?”

“Papa, quickly, you must come home. It’s Sinjun; she’s very sick.”

“Sinjun,” Colin said blankly.

“Your wife, Papa, your
wife.
Quickly, come now.” Philip was pulling back the covers, so frightened and relieved that he’d found his father that he was shaking with it.

“Joan is ill?”

“Not Joan, Papa, Sinjun. Please hurry. Aunt Arleth will let her die, I know it.”

“Blessed hell, I don’t believe this! Who came with you? What the devil happened?” But even as he spoke, Colin flung off the covers and jumped off the bed, naked and cold in the gray light of dawn.

“Speak to me, Philip!”

Philip watched his father pull on clothes, watched him splash water on his face, watched him wave Angus away when the old man appeared in the doorway.

He told him about the Cowal Swamp and the rain on the ride back to the castle and how Sinjun had taken off her riding coat and made him wear it. He told him about the cold room and the open windows and the lies Aunt Arleth had told them. He stopped then, stared with frightened eyes at his father, and started to cry, low deep sobs that brought Colin to
his son instantly. He enfolded him in his arms and hugged him close. “It will be all right, Philip, you’ll see. You’ve done very well indeed. We’ll be home soon and Joan will be all right.”

“Her name is Sinjun.”

Colin forced his exhausted son to eat some hastily prepared porridge. Within a half hour, they were on horseback and off. He’d suggested that his son remain here because he was so weary, but Philip wouldn’t hear of it. “I must see that she’s all right,” he said, and in that moment Colin saw the future man in the boy, and he was pleased.

Sinjun felt strangely peaceful. She was also incredibly tired, so very weary that she just wanted to sleep and sleep, perhaps forever. There was no more pain, just this sweet desire to release her mind from herself, to give in to the gentle lassitude that tugged persistently at her. She moaned softly, the sound of her voice odd in her ears, far away really, as if that sound came from someone else. Tired, she was so very tired. How could she be so tired and not sleep? Then she heard a man’s voice, echoing in her head as if it came from a great distance, and wondered if it was her own voice she was hearing and if it was, why she was speaking. Surely there was no need to speak, not now, not forever. No, his voice was strong, deep, impatient, and commanding, surely a man’s voice, a man who wasn’t pleased about something. She’d heard that tone of voice enough times in her life from her brothers. But it wasn’t Douglas or Ryder. It couldn’t be. Now the man was speaking more closely to her, next to her ear, but she couldn’t understand his words. They weren’t important, surely not. She heard another man speaking as well, but his voice was old, softer, blurring at the edges of her mind, not intruding, bumping gently
against her consciousness, then rolling away, harmless and indistinct.

The hard man’s voice was retreating, at last. Soon she would be free of it. It was gone now and her head lolled to the side, her mind eased. She felt her breath slow and slow yet more.

“Damn you, wake up! I won’t tell you again, Sinjun, wake up! You shan’t give up like this. Wake up, you damned twit!”

The shouting brought her back with a lurch of pain. Douglas shouted like that but she knew it wasn’t Douglas. No, he was far away. She felt as if she were teetering on the edge of something that was very close to her but still unseen; she was drawn to it, yet still wary of it. It was strangely seductive.