The Highland Secret Agent Page 18

  “I should try,” Henry agreed. You too.”

  “Yes.”

  Henry drew in a rasping breath. His vision was blurry and he could feel his head throbbing. He was cold, so cold. He knew he was starting to get feverish. “Gold. In...pocket.”

  “I'll look,” Amice promised. “I'm sorry, Henry. But we had to take off your clothes.”

  Henry blushed. “Amice! You surprise me.”

  Amice giggled. “I closed my eyes, I promise.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  He heard Amice giggle and he fell back to sleep abruptly, taking the memory of that bright sound into the dark.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  TIME AND REST

  TIME AND REST

  The journey to the abbey took a whole day. It was a day Amice wished to forget. Seated by Henry's bedside in the cold monastic cell, she tried not to think about it.

  I almost lost him.

  Henry had been burning with fever, shivering and sweating, murmuring wordless things as they carried him out to the cart. Farmer Lewis had driven them there and, when Amice gave him and his wife a gold coin from Henry's purse in thanks. He had almost wept with appreciation.

  “I don't know what we would have done without them,” Amice murmured. “I almost lost you.”

  Henry had been unconscious since that day. He was still unconscious, a day later. That made three days of fever. Today, something had changed. Instead of shivering and twitching, he was still. Father Brogan, the healer of the abbey, had given him something the previous night, when the convulsions had started. Amice had truly thought they would lose him.

  Now he's just asleep.

  She looked down at his face. He was restful and his face unlined, but it alarmed her how quickly the flesh had dropped off him. He was gaunt now, with hollow temples and dark rings around his eyes, his mouth bracketed with lines. He hadn't eaten in three days, though she had succeeded in getting a few spoons of water through his lips.

  She heard someone walk heavily across the flagstones. A man with a limp, the wood stave he used as a walking stick clattering on the thick stone floor. She turned.

  “Father Brogan?”

  “My child. How is he?”

  “He's asleep,” Amice said, sniffing.

  The old monk stood beside her. He looked down at the reposeful face. “All we can do, my child, is to pray. The wound is much improved. When I dressed it, it did not smell. I think he will return to us. Let us pray.”

  As he bowed his head, Amice did her best to concentrate. He spoke in Latin and the sound of it washed round her, lulling her senses and soothing her soul. When he finished and shuffled off, Amice looked down at Henry.

  He is so beautiful. She stretched out a hand and touched his cold, lifeless one. She bit her lip. So beautiful. She stroked his hair.

  He stirred. She froze.

  “Father Brogan?”

  She called for the priest in some alarm, half thinking that this was some new ailment, perhaps the return of convulsions. However, Henry did not move. Instead, his eyes flickered then opened.

  “Henry?”

  She beamed at him. He blinked and the blue gaze focused on her face. He frowned. “Amice? But...what..? Where?” He took her hand as she reached for his, gripping her fingers tight. “I was....it was burning. I thought you were dead.” He stared at her, his blue eyes drinking in the sight of her. She laughed.

  “I thought you were dead. Oh, Henry! Thank Heaven! You've returned to us.”

  Henry blinked. “My head. I...” He shook his head, frowning, and then smiled. “I think I'll live,” he said gently.

  Amice was crying now, tears rolling down her cheeks. She was also laughing. “Yes,” she said with a laugh. “Yes, Henry. I think so too.”

  She kissed him, tenderly, and then went to find the priest. He frowned at her summons and then, when he saw his patient sitting up and looking around, apparently awake and well, his big, solemn countenance split on a grin.

  “How many fingers have I?” he said to Henry, holding up three. Henry frowned. He looked sideways at Amice.

  “He said, how many fingers does he have?” she translated.

  “Ten, like everyone else, I hope,” Henry said. Then he saw what she meant. “Oh. Three.”

  The priest looked to Amice, bemused, and she translated.

  “He said three, Father.”

  “Good, good.” The priest grinned. He looked very happy. “Right,” he said, clasping his hands. “Now we move onto the next stage.” Amice frowned at him, worried, and he laughed, continuing: “we feed him.”

  “Oh!” Amice felt her heart soar with relief. “Good. I can help with that, Father.”

  “Good, good,” he said, nodding, the same broad grin on his face. “I need to see to my other patients. Ever so many patients. You take care of him, my lady.”

  Amice nodded. “I will.”

  The priest slipped out, leaving them alone together. When he had gone, Amice looked at Henry. She laughed.

  “What?” Henry said. He looked affronted.

  Amice just laughed. “Oh, Henry. It's so good to have you back.”

  “It's good to be back,” he retorted. “Now. What did the fellow say? Am I in working order?”

  “He said you need to eat.”

  Henry laughed. “Now never a truer word was spoken.” He shuffled up to sitting. Amice saw him wince and leaned forward, moving the pillows so he could sit up properly.

  “You might not feel able to eat very much for a while,” she cautioned as the priest returned with a vast bowl of steaming gruel and a pitcher of water.

  “Try me,” Henry challenged.

  She laughed and the monk, only partly understanding the exchange, laughed too. Then Amice took the bowl from him and he went out, leaving them alone.

  “Now,” Amice said gently, holding it and passing him the spoon, “if you are too tired, I shall feed you.”

  Henry's blue eyes looked into hers. She felt heat suffuse her body as she saw the expression in them. She coughed. Henry grinned.

  “If you want me to stay in this bed forever,” he said, smiling, “do that. If you spoil me so much, I swear I shall never leave.”

  Amice laughed, feeling joy, shining and wonderful, fill her heart. Henry was back. “Now, I don't know where to start on such a recalcitrant patient,” she said sternly. “But I'm going to feed you. Sit up straight.”

  Henry obeyed and she lifted the ladle of gruel, holding it to his lips. He sipped at it, his blue eyes looking deep into hers as he did so. She felt a slow tremor start in her body, cutting through the tiredness and the worry and making her want to throw caution to the wind and slide in under the covers with him, her body pressed to his. He smiled.

  “Do I get more of that?”

  “Oh!” Amice laughed, focusing again. “Of course. Here.”

  She raised the ladle to his lips again and he sipped at the gruel. She tried not to focus on those hard, molded lips where they clamped the edge of the spoon, the way his throat moved when he swallowed. She could feel her body shivering and she wanted so much to kiss him and touch him and hold him close.

  They finished half the bowl like that. Henry sighed.

  “Much as I would like that to continue, I feel a little tired,” he said. “If you don't mind, I would sleep a while.”

  “Of course,” Amice nodded, setting the gruel aside. “Sleep my love. And recover your strength. When you are well enough, we'll be on our way.”

  “Yes. Good. To Dunkeld.”

  Amice blinked, feeling her eyes mist up. “To Dunkeld.”

  It took four days. By the end, Henry was able to walk round the room without sitting down.

  “I'm ready,” he said.

  Amice protested. “No, you're not,” she said firmly. “You're not going anywhere! How can you?”

  “I can try,” Henry said firmly. He fixed her with that warm blue gaze. “Please, my dear. We have to try. I have a letter to write to
my king. Then we must go.”

  Amice nodded. She was excited and elated, but she also felt a little sad. Their journey would be coming to an end soon. What would happen when they reached Dunkeld? Would her parents be prevailed on to accept her marriage?

  They left that afternoon, traveling to Queensferry with the cart. From there, they would have to hire horses and take the road to Dunkeld. In the woods, with the first buds and shoots appearing on the trees, the sound of birds chattering and faint glimpses of blue sky overhead, Amice felt joy fill her heart. She was with Henry, and they were going home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  UNCERTAINTY AND DOUBT

  UNCERTAINTY AND DOUBT

  As they rode away from the port, Henry felt his spirits lift, only to feel them sink again with a growing unease. They were reaching the end of their travels, he realized, frowning worriedly.

  The chief worry, of course, was what her family would think of him. He was foreign. Worse than that, he was English. The tensions between the two countries were high. Would her family accept him? Probably not.

  If the duke's attitude is anything to go on, I doubt it.

  The duke had certainly known he was English. That he had discovered while at the castle. He had read a letter the man had sent to the local bishop, denouncing Henry and asking for pardon for the murder.

  He wouldn't have referred to me as a cursed English swine if he thought I was French, I don't think.

  That was what he had written in his latest letter home. He had little else to report besides the fact that his presence had been detected. That in itself was likely enough to see his spying come to an abrupt and decisive end. However, he was happy with that.

  “Henry?” Amice called to him.

  “Yes?”

  “Look. We can see a ship.”

  “Yes.” There was a merchant ship heading out of the harbor, into the bay, the wind stiff in white canvas sails.

  I can be a simple sailor if I leave. I would rather be a simple sailor wed to Amice, of course.

  He looked out of the corner of his eye as they rode together. She was so beautiful, her back straight as she rode, her hair loose and washing about her shoulders like red rain.

  She grinned at him, spurring her horse ahead and he sighed. He knew one thing. His life would be empty without her. He could almost wish that the assassin had killed him in the inn, than think of facing life without her now.

  “Whee!” she shouted, riding along the sea cliffs, her hair streaming back, the blue cloak billowing behind her.

  During their stay at the monastery, she had acquired some plain linen sheets and sewed herself a gown of sorts, a long tunic that she belted at the waist. It was shapeless and creamy-white but it suited her. He watched her, drawing breath at the beauty of her.

  She was like no woman he had ever known. He had met plenty of women, and had many lovers, but none of them had captivated him the way she had. He was hers, and he would love her always.

  “Henry?” she called, riding back to him. She was breathless, her face flushed, and his whole body ached as she looked up at him, her pink lips moist and alluring.

  “Yes?”

  “When I rode up to Queensferry, we stopped at a town called Seafirth. I think we should stop there tonight, yes?”

  Henry shrugged. “You're the one who's done this before,” he said mildly. She grinned.

  “I suppose so, yes. Well, luckily I remember the way.”

  “Yes.” He grinned. “Or we'd be in trouble.”

  She laughed. “Oh, Henry. I can't wait to be home again!”

  “I'm sure,” Henry said. His heart contracted as she said it. He didn't want the journey to end, he realized. He had been on the run for so much of it and now that they could finally relax a little, she was impatient for it to be over. He sighed.

  “I hope the monks deliver my letter,” he said, changing the subject as she rode alongside him.

  “I'm sure they will,” she commented. “With their network of different abbeys, your letter couldn't be in better hands.”

  “Indeed,” Henry nodded. He also had less concern about the duke intercepting it. Why would anyone expect his letter to travel with the monks?

  “What did you find out?” Amice asked. “You don't have to tell me, of course,” she demurred. “I understand if you would rather not.”

  He smiled. “Well, I can tell you that the duke knew who I was.”

  “Oh,” Amice frowned. “How did you discover that?”

  “Well, I don't think he'd call me an English swine if he didn't know.”

  Amice covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, no! I'm so sorry he said that. My countrymen can be rather forthright in their expressions.”

  “Mm.” Henry said, frowning. “If...” he paused. He wanted to ask how he might be received at her home, but he didn't wish to worry her.

  “What, Henry?” Amice frowned. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” he said, smiling. “I was just thinking about...if we have to change horses, where will we do that?”

  “Oh.” Amice paused, considering. “Well, we did it at Gorling. But I suppose we could change earlier?”

  “No, our horses are fresh,” he said, then sighed. “I wish we hadn't had to leave your beautiful horses behind.”

  Amice glared at him. “Don't remind me. I cried for two days about that.”

  Henry closed his eyes. “I'm sorry, my dear. I didn't know that.” He shook his head. “How ill was I?”

  “You were very ill,” Amice said. “Oh, Henry. I thought I would lose you, too.”

  “That bad, eh?” he shuddered. He could still feel the way the wound tugged at his chest and he could remember some incidences of waking, his head in thudding torment, his body iced, and sweat dripping from him. However, it was all lost under the delirium of fever.

  “Father Bruce was very skilled,” Amice commented. “I wish I could have thanked him properly.”

  “Well, mayhap we will have a chance to thank our helpers,” he said. “I wish I could find Ainsley and thank her, too.” He had told Amice about the woman who had helped him escape the brawling.

  “Yes.” Amice nodded. “Mayhap my father could find her somehow when he is next in Edinburgh.”

  Henry frowned. Was she already seeing a future when he was in England? He shook his head. If he had half his wits, he would too.

  The wind blew in from the sea, cold and salty. He breathed it in. It would be good to be back on a ship again. He made himself focus on that, and forget about the immediate difficulties of parting.

  That night, they stopped at the village of Seafirth. Henry followed her to the inn and they requested a room for the night.

  Upstairs, they entered the room cautiously. It was a small one, with a single vast bed dominating the space. A window looked out onto the horizon. Amice closed the door behind them and fussed at their packs, seeming distracted.

  Henry looked out of the window, looking at the sunset, trying not to think about her and the fact that they would, again, be sharing a bed.

  I don't know if I can keep myself away from her.

  She gasped and he turned round, his loins aching with his need for her.

  “What is it, dear?” he said, but his voice was tight in his throat and he had to cough to clear it.

  “I just had a thought,” she said. “I have your handkerchief. “H.Q., it says. I just realized that I do not know your family's name.”

  Henry stared at her. He laughed. “Quinn,” he said. “I'm Captain Quinn.”

  Amice nodded. “Quinn,” she said. Then she laughed. “I can't quite believe it! I've been traveling with you all this time, and we are only just introduced. Pleased to meet you, Captain Quinn.”

  He grinned. “Lady Amice. I am pleased to be able to make your acquaintance, finally.”

  They were both helpless with giggles, then. Still laughing, he leaned forward and kissed her, gentle and slow. She sighed and her lips parted. Her arms folded ro
und him and he felt his whole body responding to hers. He drew her against him, his loins hard with his need. She leaned forward and he tripped, collapsing onto the bed.

  They lay together, surprised and breathless. She was beside him and he looked into her eyes. She leaned down to kiss him, her soft breasts pressing against his chest. He groaned and embraced her, pulling her against him.

  His tongue thrust into her mouth and his whole body tensed with desire as it did so, the sweet warmth of her mouth on his making him mad with longing. His body was taut with need and he wished he could turn over and lie atop her, take off that beautiful, shapeless dress and move into her.

  She was pressed against him, her mouth locked with his and her arms were round him. He stroked her hair, kissed her, and let his hands stroke her back, running down her spine to her soft buttocks. He could feel them through the linen, the muscles firm and he wanted to touch them, to feel them against him.

  He groaned and sat up, his whole body pulsing. He shook his head.

  “I'm sorry, Amice,” he said sadly. “You cannot imagine how much. But I cannot.”

  She looked at him with wide brown eyes. “I know,” she whispered. Her own voice was tight. He sighed.

  “We should have our repast,” he said ruefully. “And then sleep.”

  “Yes.”

  They were both subdued when they slipped downstairs into the dining room. A supper of fish and ale soon restored their spirits, however, and they were talking and laughing again before long.

  Amice told him a bit about her family – it seemed she lived with an unfathomable number of aunts, uncles, and cousins.

  “That's remarkable,” he said. “It was just me and Father, almost all my life.”

  “Oh,” Amice said, covering her mouth sorrowfully. “That's terrible.”

  Henry laughed. “Not really. I mean, I didn't know any better, did I?”

  She laughed. “Oh, Henry.”

  “What?” he said.

  She just grinned and his hand found hers and squeezed it. He sometimes thought that if he lost her, he would lose his heart. She was so much a part of it already.