Page 11 of The Highlander Who Loved Me

“Why is she so still?” he croaked.

“’Tis the medicine. They gave her a potion to help her sleep. She was near hysterical this evening when they examined her.”

“Was she . . . did they . . .” James’s voice trailed off. The words were impossible to imagine, let alone say.

“Violate her?” The maid shook her head in sympathy. “It seems likely, though the midwife was unable to complete her examination. The poor lass screamed and thrashed, pushing the midwife and the healer away whenever they touched her.”

“Merciful God!” James bowed his head, hardly believing the pain inside him could get any stronger—yet it did. His mouth filled with the acid taste of coppery blood as he bit the inside of his cheek.

He sat carefully on the edge of the bed and took Davina’s hand into his own. ’Twas cold as ice. He noted her fingernails were torn and jagged, with bits of dried blood beneath them. She had fought fiercely to save herself. For that he was profoundly thankful.

Yet failure and shame gnawed at his gut, the pain so deep it rooted him to the spot. This was his fault. He should have saved her, protected her. He could feel his throat closing tightly with emotion as his mind and heart filled with despair.

Suddenly, Davina stiffened and gasped. Her eyes opened and shifted wildly about while deep, anguished moans spilled from her quivering, bruised lips. His blood ran cold, the sound tearing through him like a knife.

“Hush,” he rasped, trying to soothe away the raw pain that seemed to be radiated from every pore of her bruised, battered body. “Be still, my love.”

She turned her head toward him. James’s hand reached out to cup her chin, trying to offer some comfort. At his touch, her eyes widened in horror. James felt his heart sink to his knees when he realized she had just recognized him.

Her trembling started as a small shudder, but quickly grew. Davina began whimpering, a pitiful, almost inhuman cry of pain. He tried moving closer, needing to soothe away her panic, but she held out her arm to push him away. He gazed into her eyes and clearly saw the fear and distress.

It broke his heart.

The maid pushed to the bed. “Ye’d best take yer leave,” she commanded. “Ye’re frightening her.”

The truth of those words was nearly unbearable. It made him feel as low as the men who had beaten and abused her. Shaking, James stood and backed away from the bed. “I’ll return tomorrow. Hopefully, Davina will be more herself.”

The maid cast him a doubtful, worried look, but James refused to be deterred. He would return in the morning.

Limping slowly, he made his way back to his small chamber and fell into his bed, too exhausted to even groan in pain. Eventually, James slept, waking to a dull and gray morning, thick with clouds.

The gloom fit his mood. An ominous foreshadowing of what was to come. His body ached even more this morning, the pain dull and deep in his bones. There were more people about the hallways as he made the long, agonizing walk to her bedchamber. None spoke to him; many averted their eyes.

When he presented himself at Davina’s bedchamber door, he was told that she refused to see him. Lacking the strength to argue with the determined maid, James retreated, but stubbornly returned the next day. Where he was again given the same message—Davina wanted to be left alone.

Disheartened, James respected her wishes. He returned to his small chamber and rested, allowing his body to heal. He ate the food he was brought, allowed the healer to change his dressings, drank the foul-tasting medical potions he was given.

He had no visitors except for the servants who brought his meals and the healer who tended his wounds. Against her instructions, he gingerly walked the confines of his small bedchamber to regain his strength, determined to hasten his recovery. He was polite, congenial to all he saw. But inwardly, he brooded.

For the next seven days, every morning and every evening, he made the long, slow, painful walk to Davina’s chamber, each time receiving the same response from the stoic maid. But on the eighth day it was not the maid who stood watch at his beloved’s chamber door. Instead he found himself face to face with Davina’s cousin Joan.

“Lady Joan.”

He inclined his head in a respectful bow, then simply stared. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, with expressive blue eyes, golden hair, and refined features. Yet he knew her loveliness was only skin-deep.

“Good morning, Sir James,” Lady Joan replied. “I see that yer wounds are healing. Hopefully, ye will soon be fully recovered.”

James flexed the hand of his sprained arm. His body was slowly improving, yet his mind would have no relief until he spoke with Davina. But Joan stood in his way.

Not particularly caring that it seemed rude, he attempted to push past her, but she placed a restraining arm on his shoulder.

“Davina has asked me to speak with ye. My cousin wishes to be left in peace and begs that ye stop insisting on seeing her. She finds it most unsettling.”

’Twas impossible to miss the gleam of satisfaction in Joan’s eyes as she delivered the message. It immediately made James suspicious. “I dinnae believe that Davina would say such a thing.”

Joan lifted one eyebrow. “Refusing to accept the truth willnae change it,” she replied haughtily.

“I’ll accept it if, and only if, I hear those words fall from Davina’s lips,” James answered. “Until then, I will continue to press my suit.”

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