His Bonnie Bride by Hannah Howell (the beginning after the end read novel .TXT) 📕

much she did want him. It was inconceivable to him that he could burn so strongly for her and she not feel the same. He felt sure that, once he got her into his arms, her repulses would prove to be a sham.

Katerine ceased trying to stir Tavis. A more direct approach was needed, but that could not be put to use before an audience. She allowed Janet to take her to her room, although she had no intention of staying there. As soon as Janet was gone, Katerine made her way to Tavis's chambers, shed her clothes and made herself comfortable in his bed. He'd not remain cold and, perhaps, the combination of drink and passion would make him less careful. Although she had no desire for a child, she felt she could suffer the trial once in order to secure her place in Tavis MacLagan's bed.

* * * * *

Storm lay abed with little chance of finding any sleep, her mind too full to allow her any rest. She now had a clear understanding of the cause of most of her anger, and it was not to her liking. That kiss had shown her that she was a lot nearer to loving Tavis than she had thought, if not already at that point. As a result, her desire now carried on a raging battle with her morals. Her innocence should be a gift for her husband, which Tavis MacLagan could never be, yet she knew he would not have to fight very hard to gain that prize. Even the knowledge that she would return to Hagaleah dishonored while he stayed at Caraidland to play with another did not still her wanting him. Telling herself that Katerine could see to his needs only brought her pain. All she could see ahead was a great deal of trouble, even the pleasure bringing grief in the end.

"The laird does not look well," commented Phelan from her side, the pallet not used once since it had been made up for him. " 'Tis as if he is wasting away."

Glad to leave her thoughts of Tavis, Storm replied, "Aye, 'tis an odd affliction."

"How so, cousin? I have heard of a wasting sickness before. 'Tis not so rare."

"True, yet I have seen it, and 'twas not really like this from which the laird suffers."

"Let us think on what symptoms we have seen. I know he is prone to fainting and nosebleeds."

"Ah, I did not know that. I have seen that he is increasingly listless, his skin grows drier each day, he eats little for he cannot keep it in his belly and oftimes I do not think that he has much feeling in his hands."

" 'Tis indeed an odd affliction," Phelan mused aloud. "Ye know the art of healing. What could it be an 'tis not a wasting sickness? Enemy he may be, but I cannot like to watch a man die in such a way. A man such as Colin MacLagan should die fighting, not fading away slowly."

"Nay, 'tis sad. I believe even Papa would feel so. I must think on it a bit. Something is not right, not right at all," she murmured.

Phelan lay quietly, letting her turn the matter over in her mind. The more Storm thought on Colin MacLagan's ailment, the less she liked it. Put all together, his symptoms indicated that there was treachery afoot in Caraidland, a plot aimed at the removal of the laird. She shivered as her thoughts crystalized.

"He is being poisoned, Phelan. I am sure of it," she said very softly.

"But by whom?" he asked, not questioning her conclusion, for he trusted her judgment completely in such matters.

"I do not know. We must needs watch everyone, Phelan, and I mean everyone. Even his sons. I find it hard to believe one of them is guilty, but I know them little. Sons have been known to murder their fathers."

"What do we watch for?"

"Mother of God, I do not know. Someone is slipping it to the man." She rubbed her temples as she struggled to think of things. "I think we must watch for someone who always performs the same task. Mayhaps always serves him his ale or wine, gives him a potion, such as that. Even rubbing it onto his skin."

"That makes for a lot of watching. Still and all, we have little else to do whilst being kept here."

"True. 'Tis one he trusts, as well. We must not speak of this yet."

"I thought the same, Storm. We could well give a warning to the scoundrel." Phelan thought for a moment. "If we do uncover treachery and the laird regains his health, we could gain our freedom."

"So we could. An only 'tis in time. For him as well as I," she added softly, but Phelan heard her.

"Aye." He took her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. "Tavis grows tired of waiting for ye. I will do me best to keep ye safe, cousin," he added, although he knew there was little he could do.

"Phelan," she began hesitantly, needing to speak her thoughts to someone, " 'tis not really rape I fear."

"I know. Nor dishonor. 'Tis your own feelings for Tavis MacLagan. Am I right?"

"Ye are too perceptive for a lad. Aye, 'tis exactly what I fear. I have ne'er felt drawn to a man before. Ah, Lord, 'tis my wicked luck to be drawn to a MacLagan. 'Twas just a fear 'til the man kissed me. 'Tis still a fear, but now I cannot ignore it for 'tis a fact as well. All of which means that if he comes to me, is gentle and loving, I am lost. In all honesty, I'll not be able to cry rape, and my dishonor will all be upon my shoulders, for what man pulls away from a willing maid?"

"Nary a one that I have heard of."

"Mayhaps he would take ye to wife."

" 'Tis not to be thought upon, Phelan. I am an Eldon and he is a