He leaned back; I heard the rustle of his bedding.
“You are neither circumspect nor circuitous. In fact, I don’t believe I have ever met anyone more devastatingly straightforward—male or female.”
“Well, it’s not by choice,” I said. I came to the end of the thread and tucked it neatly into the ball. “I was born that way.”
“So was I,” he said, very softly.
I didn’t answer; I didn’t think he had spoken to be heard.
I rose and went to the cupboard. I took down three jars: catmint, valerian, and wild ginger. I took down the marble mortar and tipped the dried leaves and root chunks into it. A drop of water fell from the kettle, hissing into steam.
“What are you doing?” Lord John asked.
“Making an infusion for Ian,” I said, with a nod toward the trundle. “The same I gave you four days ago.”
“Ah. We heard of you as we traveled from Wilmington,” Grey said. His voice was casual now, making conversation. “You are well known in the countryside for your skills, it would appear.”
“Mm.” I pounded and ground, and the deep, musky smell of wild ginger filled the room.
“They say you are a conjure-woman. What is that, do you know?”
“Anything from a midwife to a physician to a caster of spells or a fortune-teller,” I said. “Depending on who’s talking.”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh, and then was silent for a bit.
“You think they will be safe.” It was a statement, but he was asking.
“Yes. Jamie wouldn’t have taken the boy if he thought there’d be any danger. Surely you know that, if you know him at all?” I added, glancing at him.
“I know him,” he said.
“Do you indeed,” I said.
He was quiet for a moment, bar the sound of scratching.
“I know him well enough—or think I do—to risk sending William away with him, alone. And to be sure he will not tell William the truth.”
I poured the green and yellow powder into a small square of cotton gauze and tied it neatly into a tiny bag.
“No, he won’t, you’re right about that.”
“Will you?”
I looked up, startled.
“You really think I would?” He studied my face carefully for a moment, then smiled.
“No,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”
I snorted briefly and dropped the medicine bag into the teapot. I put back the jars of herbs, and sat down with my blasted wool again.
“It was generous of you—to let Willie go with Jamie. Rather brave,” I added, somewhat grudgingly. I looked up; he was staring at the dark oblong of the hide-covered window, as though he could look beyond it to see the two figures, side by side in the forest.
“Jamie has held my life in his hands for a good many years now,” he answered softly. “I will trust him with William’s.”
“And what if Willie remembers a groom named MacKenzie better than you think? Or happens to take a good look at his own face and Jamie’s?”
“Twelve-year-old boys are not remarkable for their acute perception,” Grey said dryly. “And I think that if a boy has lived all his life in the secure belief that he is the ninth Earl of Ellesmere, the notion that he might actually be the illegitimate offspring of a Scottish groom is not one that would enter his head—or be long entertained there, if it did.”
I wound wool in silence, listening to the crackle of the fire. Ian was coughing again, but didn’t wake. The dog had moved, and was now curled up by his legs, a dark heap of fur.
I finished the second ball of yarn and began another. One more, and the infusion would have finished steeping. If Ian didn’t need me yet, I would lie down then.
Grey had been silent for so long that I was surprised when he started to speak again. When I glanced at him, he wasn’t looking at me, but was staring upward, seeking visions once again among the smoke-stained beams.
“I told you I had feelings for my wife,” he said softly. “I did. Affection. Familiarity. Loyalty. We had known each other all her life; our fathers had been friends; I had known her brother. She might well have been my sister.”
“And was she satisfied with that—to be your sister?”
He gave me a glance somewhere between anger and interest.
“You cannot be at all a comfortable woman to live with.” He shut his mouth, but couldn’t leave it there. He shrugged impatiently. “Yes, I believe she was satisfied with the life she led. She never said that she was not.”
I didn’t reply to this, though I exhaled rather strongly through my nose. He shrugged uncomfortably, and scratched his collarbone.
“I was an adequate husband to her,” he said defensively. “That we had no children of our own—that was not my—”
“I really don’t want to hear about it!”
“Oh, don’t you?” His voice was still low, not to wake Ian, but it had lost the smooth modulations of diplomacy; the anger was rough in it.
“You asked me why I came; you questioned my motives; you accused me of jealousy. Perhaps you don’t want to know, because if you did, you could not keep thinking of me as you choose to.”
“And how the hell do you know what I choose to think of you?”
His mouth twisted in an expression that might have been a sneer on a less handsome face.
“Don’t I?”
I looked him full in the face for a minute, not troubling to hide anything at all.
“You did mention jealousy,” he said quietly, after a moment.
“So I did. So did you.”
He turned his head away, but continued after a moment.
“When I heard that Isobel was dead…it meant nothing to me. We had lived together for years, though we had not seen each other for nearly two years. We shared a bed; we shared a life, I thought. I should have cared. But I didn’t.”
He took a deep breath; I saw the bedclothes stir as he settled himself.
“You mentioned generosity. It wasn’t that. I came to see…whether I can still feel,” he said. His head was still turned away, staring at the hide-covered window, grown dark with the night. “Whether it is my own feelings that have died, or only Isobel.”
“Only Isobel?” I echoed.
He lay quite still for a moment, facing away.
“I can still feel shame, at least,” he said, very softly.
I could tell by the feel of the night that it was very late; the fire had burned low, and the aching of my muscles told me that it was well past my bedtime.
Ian was getting restless; he stirred in his sleep, moaning, and Rollo got up and nuzzled him, making small whimpering noises. I went to him and wiped his face again, plumped his pillow and straightened his sheets, making comforting murmurs. He was no more than half awake; I held his head and fed him a cup of the warm infusion, sip by sip.
“You’ll feel better in the morning.” There were spots visible in the open neck of his shirt—only a few as yet—but the fever was less, and the line between his brows had eased.
I wiped his face once more and eased him back on his pillow, where he turned a cheek to the cool linen and fell asleep again at once.
There was plenty of the infusion left. I poured another cup and held it out to Lord John. Surprised, he sat upright and took it from me.