“I willnae be a prisoner in me own castle,” said Archer, calmly yet firmly, to the old man. “I shall roam freely as I please.”
“I’m afraid, me Laird, that ye are too old to be actin’ like a bairn,” said Jenson, much to Archer’s chagrin. “And I should ken. I was here when ye were a bairn. Ye’re hurt...ye’re meant to be restin’.”
“I’m fine,” said Archer.
“What happened to him?” asked River at the same time.
Archer, disinterested in the conversation he had heard several times before, shifted his focus to the room. It felt only vaguely familiar, like a place he hadn’t visited in years, but that couldn’t be true. These were his wife’s chambers. He had to have visited them quite often.
They were fine rooms, though, the sitting room they were currently occupying and the antechamber with the bed behind it. At least he was providing for his wife, it seemed.
“The Laird had an…accident,” said Jenson rather cryptically, as if he didn’t want to reveal too much. “We suspect he fell. And his memory has suffered. I have never seen anythin’ like it, me lady...he seems to remember how to do everythin’...well, he can read and write, he can wield a sword, he even has some earlier memories, but he has forgotten many things. I daenae ken whether he will remember them or when.”
River’s gasp echoed in the room and Archer turned to find her pale, her mouth hanging open ever so slightly. Drawing his attention away from the room, he walked back to her, placing a hand on her shoulder—heavy and insistent like a warning.
“This doesnae leave this room,” he said. “Very few people ken of this and now ye’re one of them. If anyone finds out, they can interpret it as weakness and then...ye can only imagine what such a thing would mean for the clan.”
River swallowed with an audible click. “Who did this?”
“We daenae ken,” said Jenson, and that seemed to drain more blood from her face, until she looked sickly, swaying ever so slightly under Archer’s hand.
How she must love me to be so concerned for me!
“Daenae fash,” said Archer, his lips stretching into a thin, cold smile. “I will find out who did this before long. And I will make sure to make him an example.”
Christ, I’m a dead woman!
It didn’t matter that River was innocent. It didn’t matter that she would never do such a thing, not even to a man who had little regard for her. All that mattered was that Keir suspected her and that Laird O’Douglas was determined to find out who had done it.
Would he not listen to his best friend and closest advisor? Would he not suspect her, too, even if evidence pointed away from her?
Was there even any evidence to be found?
That smile on the Laird’s face chilled her to the bone. She had seen it before, every time the man planned ten steps ahead of everyone else. It seemed that he hadn’t lost that part of him, the one that schemed and plotted and tried to catch everyone unawares.
“I’d like to be left alone with me wife, Jenson,” said Laird O’Douglas, and River’s blood ran cold.
What is he plannin’ to do with me? Does he already suspect me? Did Keir already plant a seed of doubt in his mind?
No, it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t have kissed her if he suspected her.
Or would he? Would he try to blind me with affection only to accuse me and punish me for somethin’ I didnae do?
River caught herself shaking a little too late, and she knew that Laird O’Douglas had noticed it, too. She could only hope he would attribute it to the shock of a loving wife finding out her husband was injured. The Laird didn’t have to know anything else.
“Of course,” said Jenson. “But daenae tax yerself, me Laird. I implore ye to rest.”
“Aye, aye...go now,” said Laird O’Douglas, and with a final bow, Jenson left them.
The room suddenly seemed smaller to River, who had spent an entire year of her life locked up in there and knew it like the back of her palm. Laird O’Douglas was still close—too close. River could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck, the whisper of it on her sensitive skin.
Before she knew it, Laird O’Douglas’ hand was on her face, cupping it ever so gently—just like that first night in his chambers, when they were first married. And yet, where his eyes had been blank, devoid of feeling, with nothing but a hint of sympathy for her on that night, now they held a fire that frightened her. If she didn’t know any better, she would have called him tender.
“I apologize for all this,” Laird O’Douglas said. “I may nae remember ye, but ye’re still me wife. I can only imagine howmuch pain all this has caused ye. I cannae believe nae one told ye that I was unwell.”
River had to school her expression into one of neutrality. What was she supposed to say? Should she reveal the truth to the man or keep her mouth shut and hope for the best? He seemed to have no recollection of their arrangement, and no one seemed to have informed him about it—not even Keir.
“But daenae fash,” Laird O’Douglas continued. “I am well now and though I may nae remember, I will take care of ye.”
