Page 174 of Wicked Highland Heroes

The girl looked at the innkeeper.

“Go along, Maggie,” he said.

She left and the innkeeper asked if Rhoslyn needed anything else. It was all she could do to keep from shoving everyone out the door, but she politely declined and the man left.

Ross followed him to the door. When the innkeeper descended the stairs, Ross looked back, “Ye will be safe here, Lady Rhoslyn.”

“Thank you, Ross.”

“I will be outside your door.”

Heat crept up her cheeks and the urge to cry rose too close to the surface.

At last, he closed the door and the noise from the tavern below cut to a murmur. Rhoslyn almost tripped in her haste to reach the door. She grasped the key sticking out of the keyhole and turned it. Heart beating, she pulled the key free, then hurried to the tub. Tossing the key on the small table beside the bathing cloths, she yanked the ties of her bodice free, then shoved the fabric down her shoulders and arms. She scooped the dress from the floor and threw it into the fire with such force that sparks sprayed across the hearthstone. She lifted the kettle from the fire and set it atop a cloth on the table nearest the tub.

Her hands shook as she gripped the side of the tub and stepped into the water. Rhoslyn forced herself to ease down, instead of dropping and dunking her head, desperate to remove the feel of Dayton St. Claire’s sweat and blood from her flesh. When the water covered her breasts, she scrubbed her belly and thighs with a cloth until they were red, and washed the place between her legs until she was sore.

She poured the kettle of hot water into the cooling bathwater, ignoring the uncomfortable heat as the steam curled in thick ribbons around her body. Back against the tub, she slid downward until her face submerged. When her lungs neared bursting, she shoved upwards, gasping for air. Despite the blazing hearth fire, gooseflesh raced across her shoulders. She pulled her knees up to her belly and wrapped her arms around her legs, then sat until her teeth chattered so violently that her jaw ached. Still, she did not move. A thunk outside her room jerked her from her stupor.

St. Claire.

Rhoslyn scrambled from the tub, losing her balance and nearly falling in her haste to grab the drying cloth and wrap it around her body. Silence came from the other side of the door, yet she stood several long moments before accepting that no one was going to enter the room. Then she remembered the key on the table. She crossed to the small table near the window, poured a mug of mulled wine, and drank the contents in several large gulps. After refilling the mug, she went to the bed and slipped beneath the blanket, back against the wall, gripping the mug close to her breasts.

How was she ever going to remove the feel of Dayton St. Claire from inside her? What was she going to do when St. Claire eventually claimed his husbandly rights? How was she going to be wife to the brother of the man who had violated her? Rhoslyn recalled her first sight of Dayton St. Claire, how the two brothers were as different as the sun was from the moon. They shared the same father, but not the same mother. St. Claire had forcibly taken her from the safety of her father’s men—and had threatened to avail himself of his husbandly rights. But he had left her unmolested and had, instead, gone to lend aid to her grandfather.

She mouthed a prayer to Saint George. God had forsaken her, and her supplications to the saints had gone unheeded these last two years. What had she done to so displease her Lord? Was it possible to atone for an unknown sin?

Rhoslyn took another long sip of wine. The liquid sent a ripple of warmth through her body. She took another sip. She longed to return to the convent. But if answers lay there, why had God allowed her to be ripped away before she found peace?

The walls at Saint Mary’s hadn’t closed in on her as did the current silence. There, she could turn her mind to God. Staring at the wall of the inn, all she saw was a child with dark hair like Dayton St. Claire’s. What would Sir Talbot do if his brother’s seed had taken root in her? Could she become pregnant so easily when it had taken nearly seven years of marriage to conceive Alec’s son?

Alec’s kindness hadn’t concealed his disappointment. He loved his daughter, but he wanted a son to carry on his name. Daily, Rhoslyn prayed to Saint Anthony, the patron saint of infertility, and Saint Anne, mother of the Virgin Mary, and begged to conceive. At last, her miracle happened, and she missed her flux. Rhoslyn dedicated the next month to prayers and supplications, and didn’t miss a single mass. The second month came and no blood appeared.

Alec joined her in daily prayers, and when the child at last moved inside her, she allowed herself to believe she was going to give her husband the son he so wanted. Then six weeks after she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, Alec became ill and died within a fortnight. Then Dougal began to cough and developed a fever. Nothing the doctors did helped the child, and Rhoslyn’s prayers went unanswered. Tears trickled down her cheeks. The months she’d spent in the convent melted away and she again sat in her chambers, desperately rocking Dougal in her arms, while his breath rattled. And then stopped.

She held him for hours, washing his face with her tears, while the hearth fire burned to ash and the room chilled. As sunlight seeped through the closed shutters, Mistress Miura entered the room, summoned the doctor, and then sent for her grandfather.

Rhoslyn didn’t fight when the old housekeeper took the babe from her arms. She allowed herself to be led to the bed and the covers pulled up over her shoulders. When she finally awoke, she called for her grandfather and begged to go to Saint Mary’s. She had gone ere’ her son was laid in the ground. She had yet to visit his grave in the family cemetery at Castle Glenbarr.

Rhoslyn drank the last of the wine and set the mug on the shelf beside the bed. Her brain muddled and the room blurred. She considered refilling the mug, but the weight of her body sagged against the mattress and she couldn’t muster the strength to move. Perhaps if she rested just a moment...