Page 55 of To Winter at Wildsyde

“Always,” she murmured, her voice weary now. “Always love you. Won’t tell about the baby.” She pressed a finger to her lips and made a shushing sound. “Secret.”

“Baby?” He went very still, and suddenly all he could hear was the pounding in his ears. A baby. His baby. She was having his baby. His breathing came very fast and something hot and uncomfortable pricked at his eyes. He blinked furiously and swallowed hard. Well, then. That was that. He’d done his job and Ruth would be free of him. The sooner she was away from his toxic presence the better.

Gordy looked down to see she was sleeping, her breathing deep and even, her cheeks still wet with tears. There was something knotted in his chest, tight and uncomfortable and the urge to hold on to her, to keep her here, with him, battled against the terror of being left behind again. He couldn’t think about it, not in this moment, not with Ruth warm and trusting in his arms. So he curled himself about her, as if he could protect her from anything that might hurt her, even though he knew what would hurt her most of all, was himself.

***

21st December 1814. Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.

Ruth woke and knew beyond a doubt that she was dying. There was no hope for recovery. No one could feel this bad and live.

“Ach, there ye are,” said a vengefully cheerful voice. “I thought ye would sleep all day.”

With a Herculean effort, Ruth cracked open one eye, the sting of daylight searing her tender brain with such force she closed it again.

“Sheenagh,” Ruth croaked, her voice rusty and odd. “Shoot me.”

There was a snort of amusement that Ruth thought most unfeeling as her maid approached the bed. “Nah, missus. Ye cannae die, much as I reckon ye want to. Ye had a skinful, aye?”

“Aye,” Ruth groaned, putting both hands to her head and uncertain if she was trying to keep it attached to her neck or hoping to rip it off.

“I have the very thing for yer heid, so sit yerself up.”

Ruth made a pitiful sound which in normal circumstances she’d have been thoroughly ashamed of. As it was, she whimpered as Sheenagh helped her to a sitting position with pillows banked behind her. Once she was upright—though the way the room was pitching about she was not entirely certain she was upright—Sheenagh held out a glass of something to her.

Ruth stared at it. Then she stared at Sheenagh.

“What’s that?” she asked, deeply suspicious as her stomach was sour and curdled and seemed likely to object to anything she put in it.

“A Highland Fling.”

Ruth squinted at the glass, her suspicion deepening further.

“Ach, ’tis good for what ails ye, missus. My da swears by it. ’Tis only buttermilk thickened with cornflour and salt and pepper.” Sheenagh sighed. “There’s no reason to wrinkle yer nose at it. It’ll make ye feel less like the reaper is standing on the doorstep, I promise.”

With little enthusiasm, Ruth took the glass, forced to hold it with both hands as they were trembling.

“Drink up,” Sheenagh said, grinning at her. Ruth glowered, entertaining dark thoughts of murdering her maid, and did as she was told.

***

To be fair to Sheenagh, five hours later the urge for her own imminent death had receded, and Ruth only felt utterly dreadful, which was a vast improvement. She spent the day hiding in her room, alternately trying to read and wafting perfume about. Somehow the scent of whisky seemed to have soaked into the very fabric of the walls, and it made her want to retch.

A soft knock at the door announced Sheenagh’s arrival to check on her. She’d been popping back and forth at regular intervals with cups of tea and anything she thought might tempt Ruth to eat.

“Are ye feelin’ better?” she asked.

“Marvellous,” Ruth replied, deadpan.

Sheenagh returned a sympathetic look and then pulled a face, folding her arms. “Well, he’s asked to see ye. I told him ye were likely nae well enough yet, but he bid me come and see. Shall I tell him to go and walk off a cliff?”

Ruth snorted at the hopeful note in the enquiry, having no trouble identifying the he in question. “That won’t be necessary.”

She sighed and put her book down. Chewing on her lip for a moment, she considered whether to go down. Though she wasn’t certain she wanted to see Gordy, it was more for his safety than any concerns of her own. She felt bad-tempered and irritable and, added to a sore head and sore everything else, she doubted her own ability to keep a civil tongue in her head. Ah well, it was his funeral.

She made her way down the stairs with care and was greeted warmly by Garrick. Reassuring him she felt better than she looked—which was a bare-faced lie—she headed for the study. Taking a leaf from Gordy’s book she gave one knock and strode in, almost recoiling as she was confronted with the vindictive pink walls. Wincing against the pain of revulsion, she straightened herself. His dogs were curled before the fire and Murdo got to his feet, slinking towards her and wagging his tail as if he knew full well his master was in trouble and wanted to make amends by proxy. She scratched his head and then looked towards Gordy, who stood staring out of the window. He turned as she closed the door and Ruth sighed inwardly as she noted the distant, cool expression on his face.

A memory jostled its way free of the fog which hung over last night, the feeling of his arms around her.