Page 84 of Outlaw Ever After

“Ye near swayed off yer feet yestereve, too. When ?”

“I carried a pot of water up three stairwells.”

“Yer ale, mi lady,” Gertie said, holding out the tankard, but Peigi grimaced and held her belly.

“My thanks, lassie, but I fear I feel a bit unsettled.”

“When last did ye eat, mi lady?” Joslyn hedged while packing away her herbs and wiping clean her table.

“This morn.”

“A bit of bread, aye,” Joslyn replied, nodding to herself. “The eggs and pheasant did nay appeal to ye.”

“Sakes, a bonny prize I’ll make, retching into a chamber pot as I handfast…”

Alex’s jaw pumped furiously at the thought of her hand tied to another.

“And the day before?” Jossy urged.

She chewed her lip now, cutting it. “The same. Some porridge.”

“That’s all ?” Alex said, face twisting in anger. “Marg—Peigi, ’tis nay nearly enough.”

Peigi looked askance. “The tournament has made me nervous.”

This tournament was an excuse. A shield covering something uglier than a spoiled reputation.

He planned to needle the sore spot to get some bloody answers and doubled down. “Why will ye nay tell—”

A hand rested on his shoulder. Jossy? He glanced up at her cool and collected face.

“Try this instead, dear lass,” Joslyn crooned. Peigi looked up, eyes tormented and glistening, then took the herbal drink with a shaking hand. “An infusion of ginger and chamomile.”

Peigi brought it to her nose and smelled carefully. Sipped. Set it down, but Alex picked it back up with a murderous glare.

“If Jossy says drink, ye drink.” His hands enveloped hers, holding the cup there, white knuckled and shaking as he returned it to her lips, tipping it, feeling that knot finally ease an increment as he watched the column of her throat undulate with each swallow.

Joslyn smiled, patting Peigi’s cheek, though it was cryptic and vague, for she eyed him, too. But for him, her mouth was a firm, tight expression, the one she’d once worn when he and Aulay were summoned to fess up to a wrongdoing. Silent, which for her, always imparting pearls of wisdom, was odd.

Tears kept wavering on Peigi’s eyelids. He brushed them away with his thumb, his gut twisting to not be able to take away this mysterious pain.

“Tell me. Jossy said ye’ve been unweel.”

He took her face in his hands, splaying fingers into her hair. Wanting to shake the answers out of her lips like flour through a sifter.

She shook her head, shook harder, holding in whatever sadness had tied her tongue. But the dam was cracking, threatening to break free.

“I’m fine now—”

“Christ, if ye say ye’re fine once more…” he gnashed out. “Lasses who cry are nay fine. When last did ye fall faint?” Was she avoiding his question? Not on his guard. “At the abbey?”

Her eyes widened. Her argument ceased. And those tears vaulted down her cheeks. She drew her knees up to bury her face in them as a sob wracked her frame.

Joslyn swept the bairns from the cottage in his periphery.

“Why did ye agree to this tournament?” He gnashed out the frustration, snagging her fingers and bringing them to his stiff lips to kiss.

Her other hand curled around her middle.