growing sharp again. "How did you come by it?"
Ian shifted his weight. "‘Twas nothing but accident some days ago as I sliced my meat during evening meal."
Henna nodded, releasing his hand and allowing him to pick up the gift off the small wooden table.
"Odd that it should be straight as that in the side of the finger for an accident," she muttered, loud enough to convey to them both.
Panic exploded in Sorcha’s chest. She bolted to her feet.
"We thank, you, Henna, for the bonnie bairn’s gown. It will come in useful," she said, her words rushed, fueled by her fear.
Ian shot her a quelling glance, which she dismissed. Did he not see how the woman planned to use this gown as an excuse to check her maidenhead?
Henna’s brow furrowed. Ian reached for Henna’s hand, giving it a small squeeze.
"‘Twas a lovely thig, Henna, far more than we deserved. We’ll be sure to bring the bairn so you can see how it fits him." The midwife’s face again smoothed at his words.
"I shall be waiting for him then," she replied.
She watched them leave her cottage, aware of their hushed and agitated voices. The laird’s niece did not trust her completely. Ever since she had reached an age to be mistress of the keep, there was little she could do to keep Sorcha in her place. Her resentment of the girl deepened a notch. Each day the little wretch looked more like Morgana, her mother, the bitch that had stolen the love of Mattias MacIver from her after Mattias had already got her with child.
Aye, she could have returned to the Campbell clan in ruin, but she was made of sterner stuff and had given birth alone and in secret. Once she discovered that the babe’s leg was twisted and deformed, she had dared not carry him back and declare him the son of Mattias MacIver. They would have mocked her and driven her away. So instead, she’d done the only thing she could think of. She’d delivered her son into the care of her cousin and his wife and refused to tell Mattias what had become of his son.
Henna clenched her hands tight against the very thought of the woman who’d taken her place at Lord Mattias MacIver’s side and eventually born her husband a royal bastard among their other children. She’d delivered Sorcha into the world for Morgana only to have her own child, the rightful MacIver heir, pushed aside because of it. It had taken so long to get to this point. So long to get what was hers by right.
The fact that Hunter had not died from her brew told her that Sorcha’s skills in herb blending were improving despite her efforts to keep her from the knowledge of healing Morgana had amassed.
She would have to try something else. If she were to exact her due from the MacIvers, and win the royal favor that would bring things back around full circle, then it would take more than she had anticipated. That stupid Argyll lad though to use her to win Sorcha’s hand, but, just as she intended, when she’d told him of Sorcha’s true birth, the young earl’s appetite for power had been whetted. What better way for him to assure his place in the monarchy than have his child be sired of royal blood? And what better way for her to ensure that the stripling would be removed from power once James took the throne of England, than to have him linked to Bothwell’s treasonous plans?
Henna went round the back of her cottage and took a pigeon from the special cove she kept for herself. She tied the small note that bade Duncan to come to her about the bird’s scrawny leg, then threw it to the air.
It was time Duncan knew his father and his place. If she had her way, her son would sit atop the seat of Lord MacIver as he was, by birth, born to do, and possibly that of Clan Campbell as well once the earlship was without an heir. Until now, she’d kept Duncan’s father a secret from both her son and her cousin in the Campbell clan, who had fostered Duncan as a baby. As far as everyone knew, Duncan was a Campbell. Only she knew the truth. In his
Ian shifted his weight. "‘Twas nothing but accident some days ago as I sliced my meat during evening meal."
Henna nodded, releasing his hand and allowing him to pick up the gift off the small wooden table.
"Odd that it should be straight as that in the side of the finger for an accident," she muttered, loud enough to convey to them both.
Panic exploded in Sorcha’s chest. She bolted to her feet.
"We thank, you, Henna, for the bonnie bairn’s gown. It will come in useful," she said, her words rushed, fueled by her fear.
Ian shot her a quelling glance, which she dismissed. Did he not see how the woman planned to use this gown as an excuse to check her maidenhead?
Henna’s brow furrowed. Ian reached for Henna’s hand, giving it a small squeeze.
"‘Twas a lovely thig, Henna, far more than we deserved. We’ll be sure to bring the bairn so you can see how it fits him." The midwife’s face again smoothed at his words.
"I shall be waiting for him then," she replied.
She watched them leave her cottage, aware of their hushed and agitated voices. The laird’s niece did not trust her completely. Ever since she had reached an age to be mistress of the keep, there was little she could do to keep Sorcha in her place. Her resentment of the girl deepened a notch. Each day the little wretch looked more like Morgana, her mother, the bitch that had stolen the love of Mattias MacIver from her after Mattias had already got her with child.
Aye, she could have returned to the Campbell clan in ruin, but she was made of sterner stuff and had given birth alone and in secret. Once she discovered that the babe’s leg was twisted and deformed, she had dared not carry him back and declare him the son of Mattias MacIver. They would have mocked her and driven her away. So instead, she’d done the only thing she could think of. She’d delivered her son into the care of her cousin and his wife and refused to tell Mattias what had become of his son.
Henna clenched her hands tight against the very thought of the woman who’d taken her place at Lord Mattias MacIver’s side and eventually born her husband a royal bastard among their other children. She’d delivered Sorcha into the world for Morgana only to have her own child, the rightful MacIver heir, pushed aside because of it. It had taken so long to get to this point. So long to get what was hers by right.
The fact that Hunter had not died from her brew told her that Sorcha’s skills in herb blending were improving despite her efforts to keep her from the knowledge of healing Morgana had amassed.
She would have to try something else. If she were to exact her due from the MacIvers, and win the royal favor that would bring things back around full circle, then it would take more than she had anticipated. That stupid Argyll lad though to use her to win Sorcha’s hand, but, just as she intended, when she’d told him of Sorcha’s true birth, the young earl’s appetite for power had been whetted. What better way for him to assure his place in the monarchy than have his child be sired of royal blood? And what better way for her to ensure that the stripling would be removed from power once James took the throne of England, than to have him linked to Bothwell’s treasonous plans?
Henna went round the back of her cottage and took a pigeon from the special cove she kept for herself. She tied the small note that bade Duncan to come to her about the bird’s scrawny leg, then threw it to the air.
It was time Duncan knew his father and his place. If she had her way, her son would sit atop the seat of Lord MacIver as he was, by birth, born to do, and possibly that of Clan Campbell as well once the earlship was without an heir. Until now, she’d kept Duncan’s father a secret from both her son and her cousin in the Campbell clan, who had fostered Duncan as a baby. As far as everyone knew, Duncan was a Campbell. Only she knew the truth. In his
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