“What do ye think ye are about? Annista, why did ye allow him up?”
“She had naught to say in it,” Alan chastised his mother, “and ye will no’ blame her.”
Mother blinked.
Before she could reply, Annista asked, “Is the maid, Cora, still wi’ Bonnie, Mistress MacKallan?”
“Aye, so—and I will leave her there for as long as ye like.” Mother switched her stare back to Alan. “D’ye think your brother will return to the manor?”
“God alone kens wha’ he will do.” God or the devil. Was Evan mad, as Annista suggested? Possessed by a demon?
Other families with members maddened or possessed shut the afflicted into chambers or chained them in attics. The manor had a fine attic, but Alan could not see anything short of a troop of soldiers succeeding in chaining Evan there.
And the shame of it! Having the heir to all MacKallan shackled like a raging bear. Could Father countenance such a thing?
Nay, Alan sometimes thought shame was what had kept Father from admitting all these years that some fundamental flaw lay at Evan’s heart.
And now—now it came to this.
Alan peered down at the lass—his wife—who supported him. He could feel the taut strength of her slender body. He could catch the scent coming off her skin, sweet and yet arousing. He experienced a brief flash of how it would be having that lithe body beneath his own, and stirred.
Would that come to pass? Would it, ever? Likely not. Lending him her shoulder for the sake of necessity was one thing. But they had an agreement, did they not?
They had exchanged both threats and promises.
“Let us go,” he grunted. Before his strength failed him. He felt much worse on his feet than in the bed where he’d thought himself half invincible.
Mother said, “If that wound commences bleeding, I want for ye to come back to your chamber at once.” She switched her gaze to Annista. “I expect ye to assure such, if he will no’.”
Annista replied with a grunt of her own.
They went, but slowly. The stairs took a toll though Alan did not want to admit it. By the time they traversed the corridor past the kitchen where servants stood and stared, Annista had her hand planted against his chest as if holding back any blood that might start flowing from the wound.
He did not question the act, or its innate intimacy.
Jock, the junior of the footmen, stood on guard at the back door, and it struck Alan how odd that was, that the servant stood on guard against his future master. The young man’s face twisted in distress upon seeing them.
“Master Alan? Should ye be up, then? We heard—”
“Stabbed. Aye.” Alan no longer thought it such a good idea to be on his feet, nay, though he still refused to admit it.
“I wish to check on Chieftain and Tempest.”
Jock’s face wrinkled in concern. “Allow me to do that for ye, Master.”
It occurred to Alan—somewhat to his surprise—that the young man held some loyalty toward him. It softened his voice when he said, “Nay, but ye be needed here, Jock. Do no’ let anyone reach the women upstairs.”
Anyone. As if they expected a parcel of outlaws.
“I will no’, Master Alan. I vow it.”
Out in the air, Alan felt marginally better. Soft light blanketed the yard, and he had a confusing sense once more of having lost track of time. Day or night? Anything might lurk in the shadows and, indeed, he started when one detached itself from the rest and came at them.
Only Father. Relief flooded him.
“Wha’ are ye doin’ up, lad?”
“I canna lie there when—” Alan met his father’s stare. “Any sign o’ him?”
