Gillian snatched it away and gathered the rest of her things. “Don’t look at me like that. Weareto be married. In three days.”
“He seems to have resigned himself to the drudgery of marriage, aye?” Rose grinned. “This is cause for celebration! He’s set a date—and,if not a love match, it is surely a lust match.”
Gillian sighed, despondent suddenly. “No, not really.” She filled her sister in on her acquisition of the love philter. “So you see, he doesn’t really wantme,it’s the love philter.”
Rose frowned thoughtfully. “That was unwise.”
“Why? If he thinks he’s in love with me, he’ll not back out of the betrothal.”
“If he doesn’t even like you, there’s not much chance he’ll kill you in a fit of jealous rage, is there?”
“What?” Gillian said, perplexed, as she sometimes was by her sister’s logic.
“The late countess?” Rose said, exasperated. “Hemurderedher—threw her from a cliff for cuckolding him. I’ve heard he once loved her before she became loose of morals.”
“He pleaded innocent and the king found him so,” Gillian said tartly. “Besides, I don’t think a man has to love his wife to become wroth with her infidelity . . . in fact, I would think that if he thought himself in love with me, he’d be more inclined to believe my lies.” She looked heavenward and took a deep breath.“Notthat I have any plans to either lie or cuckold him, but you see my meaning.”
Rose nodded sagely. “You’re right. Wives are chattel, and regardless of what a man feels, he doesn’t like others to touch his possessions. Well, then! Good show, Gilly! A love philter is just the thing.”
Gillian sighed, wondering why she no longer felt so excited about her brilliant idea. If that kiss was any indication, it was clearly working.
She lay back on the bed, hand to her forehead. She had another headache, though this one—a dull throbbing at the back of her skull, accompanied by mild queasiness—was different from her others.
“More headaches?” Rose asked, passing her hands over Gillian’s head, then lower, over her torso. “Och, well, that one’s simple. You’ve had too much wine. Not much I can do for that, but I do have an infusion that will help you sleep and keep ye from bocking.”
She turned away to fetch her wee wooden box of remedies.
Gillian sat up abruptly and cringed as her headspun. “The headaches,” she moaned. “Did you learn aught about the curse?” She’d told Rose about Hazel’s suspicions right after her visit to the village, though she’d left out the part about the love philter until tonight.
Rose set the box on the bed beside Gillian. “No, but I did discover something interesting. Lochlaire has not a single servant that was here twelve years ago. Everyone is either dead or gone, though no one seems to know where.”
Gillian could see the wheels turning in Rose’s head. “Really? What could it mean?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you saw who was responsible for Mother’s murder? So a curse was placed on you. And that same person made certain no one was left at Lochlaire to remember anything.”
“But who had the power to do such a thing?”
“I dinna know. Can you stand the pain enough to try to think through the memories?”
Gillian shook her head. “If I dig at it, it becomes so fierce I faint.”
Rose chewed her bottom lip, hands now moving automatically through her box. “We need Isobel. She should be here any day. My magic is healing, but Isobel has Mother’s magic. Perhaps she can divine something.”
Rose handed Gillian a cup full of foul, thick liquid. Gillian swallowed the contents, grimacing at the taste, then lay back at her sister’s insistence.
She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind for sleep, but found she couldn’t stop thinking aboutKincreag and the way he’d kissed her. Would he have ever kissed her in such a manner if not for the love philter?
Back in his chambers, Nicholas cursed his bad luck with women. He removed the lid of the crock. It held a slab of butter swimming in wine. It was not some rare delicacy served at Lochlaire: Nicholas had poured his wine in it when Gillian’s back had been turned. He studied the butter closely but saw no evidence that the wine had harmed it.
Could the wench actually mean to poison him? He could hardly believe it, and yet it was clear this wine was tainted. He’d been suspicious when he’d seen her hovering about the table, but he’d not expected this. Then he’d noted that his knife was damp, and the linen stained, so he’d sniffed the wine carefully. He did not take medicinal wine, yet this was rife with herbs and the faint odor of ash.
He’d been deeply disappointed, more so than he’d thought possible, but he’d said nothing to her. After three days in the saddle and dealing with the Campbells, he’d found that when he returned to Glen Laire he was not only anxious to see Alan and assure himself that his friend still lived but also preoccupied with thoughts of Gillian. He’d come to some conclusions on his little trip, the most important one being that Gillian was not Catriona, nor any of the other women he’d had relations with, and it was unfair to expect her to be. The least he could do was give her a fair chance. He truly did not wish for a cold marriage. And so he’d decided to give this union between them the opportunityto be something more than a contract to be fulfilled.
He shook his head, disgusted with himself. It seemed that even after all these years, he’d learned nothing. He’d been the same way with Catriona at first, wanting to believe her and trust her. He would not be Gillian’s fool.
It troubled him that he’d begun to weaken without even realizing it. He would have to be more vigilant—ifhe married her at all. He’d intended to, prior to this evening, and not just because he’d promised her father. After all, even the Lord counseled that it was better to marry than to burn, and she’d nearly turned him to ash tonight. But now . . .
Three days. That’s how long he had to discover what she was up to. He’d been forced to set a date. Not that he’d truly minded at the time. In fact, it had worked out quite well.
