He’d never been so frightened.

Gordon watched his sleeping wife and ground his teeth in frustration. His sword arm was no use here. The urge to have Anyon whipped until she confessed threatened to boil over, past his logical ability to reason. Although the girl was the likely culprit, they had no proof. He’d never been a laird to condemn without evidence. Barras Castle had never once held the reputation as being a place where mercy was absent. There was no rack in the dungeon or any other foul means of torture. At the moment he felt as if that fact was the only thing holding his hand back from ordering something he might regret.

He wanted to hang her.

Or himself for tumbling her. It had been the rash mistake that many a man made when they’d had one or two ales and the night was cool enough to make the idea of pressing up against something warm enticing.

Aye, a mistake, and one that may have risen up to cut far deeper than he believed he might survive. Jemma was too pale, and dark circles ringed her eyes. Lady Justina would not confirm to him that his wife would recover; instead, the lady offered him only the hope that their action ensured—that no further poison would make its way into her body. He reached out and stroked his hand along his wife’s face. Her skin felt more delicate than before, more fragile. But her breath teased his knuckle, giving him solid proof that she was still the wildcat he’d labeled her. There was fight in her yet.

But would it be enough?

That question tore at the very fabric of Gordon’s soul.

He stood up and left the chamber, moving toward the sanctuary of the church. There had never been a woman who drove him to his knees, but now he knelt willingly in the hope that God might hear him.

For his lament was great and the blessing he sought more precious than he could say. For Jemma, he would fall to his knees.

Gladly, even humbly.

Chapter Eleven

“I am so tired of this bed.” Jemma folded her legs and let out a huff. Claire eyed her from across the room.

“You should spend more time being grateful that you are still alive.”

“I am grateful.” But she did sound like she was whining, and she was very aware of how fortunate she was to be alive. The sunlight looked brighter and the air smelled better than she had ever noticed. Scooting to the edge of the bed, she stood up, but she had to hug the thick banister that held up the curtain to remain on her feet. Weakness still ruled her.

Claire knew her duty well, for the companion was quickly by her side, offering her shoulders to help support Jemma.

“Do you wish to go to the window, my lady?”

“Yes, thank you.”

It was a long journey that frustrated Jemma almost to the point of tears. Now that the pain was gone, she was impatient to return to normal, but her body didn’t seem to agree. She needed to lean on Claire for every step. Her knees felt wobbly, and the activity demanded that her heart move faster, but it felt like the muscle was too weak to keep up with the simple task of walking. Her blood was sluggish, resisting the command to circulate. Along her legs, her muscles protested having to move, but the sunlight drew her forward.

“There now, the sun must feel good on your face.”

“It does.”

And the sight of the yard filled her with happiness. The church was in sight, and she could see the nuns tending to the windows. Off to the other side the boys were once more training with their wooden swords. She could see men walking along the curtain wall and hear the blacksmith working on his anvil, the steady hammering drifting up to her window. She could also hear the water beyond the tower in front of her. Her senses wanted to notice everything suddenly, and Jemma drank it in, absorbing it. But she forced herself to be realistic about how much effort it was going to take to return to the bed.

She might be weak, but she was sick of being carried like a babe.

“I should return now.”

“Very well, my lady.”

Claire lent her strength again on the way back to the bed, and Jemma blew out a tiny sigh of relief when she reached it. Her legs quivered, but satisfaction filled her, too, for being able to do something beyond waiting to be catered to. There was an ache in her legs, but the sort that came from working hard. She felt better, as though the short walk had begun the process of unfreezing her body. Her breathing felt deeper, and she smiled as the increased air cleared up her thoughts even more. The fresh breath banished the haze that seemed to have settled into her for so long. Relief replaced the weakness, and she smiled with satisfaction.

“Shall I read to you, my lady?”

“Umm, that would be thoughtful.” And a test of her newly cleared thoughts.

Claire opened up a small book and sat down on a stool near the bed. Her voice was even and soft as she began to read. Jemma reached over to pick up the newest piece of heather Gordon had brought her. Holding it up to her nose, she inhaled the fragrance, allowing it to chase away the depression that was attempting to settle into her.

He hasn’t told me he loves me.

Which was not to say that he didn’t, but it wasn’t to say that he did.

I love him.

She knew it now and even found herself being thankful for the poison because it had forced her to see what she had. When time grew short, everything became dearer. It had been that way with her father, too. She smiled at the memories, able to recall them without sorrow now. She would never regret the years she had spent with him, for that was what made her into the woman she was. It was what had taught her to love. If that was insanity, so be it. She wanted no cure, only time to spend loving the man who was her husband. There was never enough time to love the ones you held dear, but always plenty of days to mourn your mistakes.

A soft knock landed on the door. Claire stopped reading and stood up, but the door opened before she reached it. Jemma turned her head to see one of the nuns standing there in her wool robe. The garment was undyed, only the light cream color of the wool. Her head was covered with another piece of wool; this one had a black band that tightened around her forehead. The black signified that she had taken her final vows. There wasn’t a hint of her hair showing, the head wrap tightened down to help her preserve her chastity and modesty vows. She even hid her hands inside the wide cuffs of her sleeve by crossing her arms in front of her body and clasping her own wrists. Jemma wondered if the girl had a true calling, for she appeared to take the duty of being a nun very seriously.

“Forgive me, but the laird wishes to see ye in the church sanctuary.”

Claire frowned and looked at Jemma.

“The laird bid me care for his wife while you attend him.” The nun was meek and her tone mild. She even lowered herself when she finished speaking.

“I see. Yes. Thank you.” Claire walked toward the wall where her length of rust and orange Barras wool was hung. She placed it over her shoulder and belted it at her waist as she had been instructed to do. There was nothing to show that she was anything but another girl brought into the castle to work during the busy harvest season.

“I will return, my lady.”

The door opened and closed softly behind Claire. The nun seemed to be frozen in place for a long moment. She stared at her with eyes that were impossible to read. She suddenly stiffened and walked to the window. Reaching out she placed her hands in the opening and rested them on the thick stone of the wall.

“I saw you looking out of the window.”

Jemma felt a shiver go down her back. There was something in the tone of her voice that seemed cold. “Yes, the sunlight drew me toward it.”

“No, that is not what drew you toward the window.” The nun spoke sharply.

Jemma jerked and pushed herself up off the pillows. The nun turned slowly and watched her while shaking her head.

“It was God who drew you to this window. God.”

“Yes, of course, since God made all things.”

The nun had a smile on her lips that looked strange. It was almost as if the woman enjoyed seeing how much Jemma had to strain to sit up. She turned and looked out the window before turning back around to aim her attention at Jemma.

“God sent you to the window so that I might find you and finish the duty that He charged me with.”

The chill went down her back again, this time much colder because the nun was moving slowly toward her.

“What duty is that?”

“To help my husband live a pure life.” The nun’s voice turned sweet. “We shall be blessed in too many ways to count just like Abraham if we remain free of sin. But he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t trust in the gift that God can grant to those who listen to him.”

“Your husband?”

The nun moved closer and nodded. “Gordon, my husband. My father made me swear to wed him in spite of my devotion to God, but I see now that I may serve both God and my husband.”

“Imogen?”

“I am Mary Job. Sister Mary Job, and God sent you to that window so that I might know where you were and finish removing ye from tempting my sweet husband away from me.”

“Sweet Christ.” Jemma scooted across the bed, horror filling her. The woman was mad; Jemma could see the insanity burning brightly in her eyes.

“Yes . . . why yes . . . You understand. I am going to send you to our sweet savior where there shall be no earthly sin.”

“Imogen, no! This is not what God wants.” Jemma swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

Imogen didn’t like hearing her name. She frowned, her face turning red. “It is, and you are naught but a usurper! Trying to take my husband, oh whore! Ye shall not sully him! I shall smother you and remove ye from his path!”