Colin said nothing. He wanted to tell her not to be such a fool, but in truth he couldn’t be at all certain that Arleth, from some misguided notion of loyalty, hadn’t tried to hurt her.
He said now, seeing that his son was fairly itching to get the pistol for her, “I will speak to Mrs. Seton about some invalidish dishes for you, Joan.”
“I remember you called me Sinjun.”
“You wouldn’t respond to your real name. I had no choice.”
Sinjun closed her eyes. She felt beyond tired, her bones so weak she knew she couldn’t lift the small pistol even to save herself. The fever was rising and she was shivering. She wanted some more water badly.
“Papa, you stay with Sinjun. I’ll talk to Mrs. Seton. Here’s the pistol, Sinjun. See, it’s right under your pillow.”
Colin gave her water to drink, then sat down beside her and watched her. She felt the flat of his hand on her forehead, then heard him curse quietly.
The heat became cold from one instant to the next and she knew that if she moved, her body would crack, just as ice would crack. She felt brittle; she knew that if she blew her breath out, she would see it, for the air was frigid in her lungs.
“I know,” Colin said. He stripped off his clothes and climbed into bed beside her. He drew her against the length of him, pressing her even closer, trying to give her all his warmth. He felt the tremors, the convulsive shaking, and it hurt him, this pain of hers. He wanted to know many things, but now wasn’t the time.
He held her close even when he began to sweat. When she finally slept, he still held her, his hands stroking up and down her back.
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“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he whispered against her hair. “I’m so sorry.” He was very aware of her breasts pressing against his chest, her thighs against his, and her belly . . . no, he wouldn’t think of that. Oddly enough, even though he was hard, he felt more protectiveness toward her than lust. It was odd, but it was so. He wanted her well again. He wanted her yelling at him when he again took her to bed, only this time she wouldn’t mind at all when he came into her. He would see to it that she welcomed him. He wouldn’t be a clod.
The fever broke the following day.
Colin, more exhausted than he’d been in his life, smiled at the doctor. “I told you she’d survive. She’s tough.”
“Most odd,” said Childress. “She’s English.”
“What she is, sir, is my wife. She’s now a Scot.”
That night one of the crofters came to the castle. MacPherson had stolen two cows and killed MacBain and his two sons. Colin felt such rage he shook with it.
“MacBain’s wife said the brutes told her to tell ye that it was t’ pay fer Dingle’s life ye took.”
“Dingle! Why, I haven’t seen that miserable lout in longer than . . .” Colin cursed soundly. “I don’t know when I last saw him. What is it, Philip? What’s wrong? Is it Joan?”
“No, Papa, but I know all about Dingle.”
When Colin heard the story he felt his guts knot at how close his son had come to disaster on his journey to Edinburgh. However, he managed to pat his son’s shoulder, and retreat to his tower chamber.
He could see no hope for it. He wanted the feuding to stop. He would have to speak to MacPherson. But tell him what? That he truly couldn’t remember a thing about Fiona’s death or how he came to be unconscious by the cliff edge?
Sinjun was sleeping fitfully. There was a strange light at the edge of her mind, a soft, very white light that was soothing and clear, yet somehow shadowy and deep, filled with meanings buried in mysteries that she wanted very much to understand. She tried to speak but knew it wouldn’t help her. She lay still, her mind and body calm, waiting. A flicker of darkness appeared in the white light, then faded only to glitter again, like candlelight flickering in a breeze. Then it seemed to grow stronger and shimmer in its own pale way. And then there was a female figure, a very ordinary young female figure, her expression good-natured, and she was all gowned in pearl-covered white material. So many pearls—never had Sinjun seen so many pearls. Surely the gown must be very heavy with all those pearls.
Pearlin’ Jane, Sinjun thought, and smiled. She’d left the Virgin Bride to come to another ghost and now this one must needs make her acquaintance. She felt no fear at all. She’d not harmed this ghost nor had Colin. She waited.
The pearls glittered in a light that strengthened, growing stronger and brighter until Sinjun’s eyes hurt from the intensity of the light. The pearls flashed and sparkled. The ghost did nothing at all, merely looked at her, her expression studious now, as if she didn’t know what kind of person Sinjun was and wanted to.
“He tried to buy me off,” she said at last, and it seemed to Sinjun that her lips moved. “He did indeed, the betraying fool, with naught but a single cheap pearl, but I knew what he was about. He’d kilt me, hadn’t he? Not a brow he raised when he ran me down in his carriage, his lady love beside him, her nose in the air, like I was nothing more than a bit of trash beside the road. So I demanded enough pearls to cover my gown and then I would leave him alone.”
That answered that question, Sinjun thought, and she thought again, But you were already dead, weren’t you?
“Aye, dead as a mousie rotting in the wainscoting, but I took care of that demned blighter, aye, I did. Made his life a misery, I did, and his little wifey, aye, I tormented that bitch until she couldn’t bear the sight of him. I see my portrait’s gone again. Fetch it back; it goes between the two of theirs, always in the middle, between them, separating them in death as it did in life, that’s where my portrait must hang. See that you do it. I don’t know why it was taken down. Put it back up. I will trust you to see that it stays in its rightful place.”
“All right. Please come again whenever you wish.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be afraid of me. ’Tis good you’re here.”