The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(50)

She shook her head. “Nothing.” Or nothing she could put her finger on. But the absence of the skin lesions and swelling bothered her.

Other maladies ran through her mind, but the one that made the most sense was the sailors’ illness. The only other time she’d seen something like this was when one of the villagers had accidentally been poisoned by handling monkshood.

Poison. Here at Dunrobin? Even the suspicion could have horrible ramifications for her family, whose recent submission made them of suspect loyalty as it was. She quickly pushed the thought away.

“There must be something else you can do? Something you haven’t tried?”

She hesitated, and he immediately jumped on that hesitation. “What is it?”

She shook her head. “It’s too dangerous.” The finger-like plant foxglove was poisonous in certain quantities, causing violent vomiting not unlike what the king was experiencing now. Except that sometimes, Muriel said it could effect a cure of the same. The difficulty was in determining the quantity.

He held her gaze, steady. “I think we are past caution, Helen. If there is something you can do—anything you can do—try it.”

He was right. Dunrobin village was too small for an apothecary, but Muriel had always kept the castle well provisioned. “Keep giving him the whisky and try squeezing some of the juice from the lemon,” she said. Fortunately, the trading routes from the East had opened again with the truce, and the availability of foreign fruits had become more plentiful. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

She returned in less than a quarter of an hour with the tincture of foxglove, vinegar, and white wine. Her brothers, Gregor MacGregor, and other high-ranking members of the king’s retinue who were standing vigil in the Great Hall and wanted to know whether there was any improvement had delayed her a few additional minutes. Magnus had given strict instruction that the news of the king’s illness must be kept quiet—Bruce’s hold on the throne was still too precarious. There would be some who would try to take advantage. Undoubtedly he counted her family in that group.

When she saw the king’s stilled body, she feared the worst. “Is he …?”

Magnus shook his head. “He’s alive.” Barely, she heard the unspoken word. “But exhausted,” he finished.

The delirium had weakened him even further. Helen knew she had no other choice. Praying that she hadn’t used too much, she poured the medicine in a small pottery cup. Her hand shook as she held it to the king’s mouth. Magnus lifted the king’s head and she poured it between his chapped lips. His face was as gray as a death mask.

Some of the liquid dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, but most of it went down.

She and Magnus sat in silence, anxiously waiting for a sign. Helen was beset by self-doubt, wondering if she’d done the right thing. For a while nothing happened. Then the king woke and started to writhe. Her fear increased. He started to lash out, calling her Elizabeth—his queen still imprisoned in England—and demanding to know why she hadn’t bought him marzipan for his last saint’s day. He loved marzipan. Was she still angry with him about the woman? She didn’t mean anything. None of them did.

Magnus held the king down, and their eyes met. He looked at her in question.

“Sometimes it makes people see things.” She explained the king’s vision of his imprisoned wife, ignoring the private conversation they’d overheard. But the king’s love of the lasses was well known.

Still, Helen held out hope. But a short while later the vomiting and flux started again. The king was more ill than ever. When at last the terrible barrage ended, his breath was so shallow as to barely come at all.

She looked at Magnus and shook her head. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. It hadn’t worked.

He walked around the bed and drew her into his arms. She collapsed against him, letting the warmth and solidness of his embrace wrap around her. “You tried,” he said softly. “You did everything you could.” She thought she felt his mouth on the top of her head, but she was so exhausted she’d probably imagined it.

He sat in the chair she’d just vacated and drew her down on his lap. She put her head on his shoulder the way she used to do when they were young. And just like then, his solid strength filled her with a sense of contentment and warmth. A sense of belonging. It was the last thing she remembered until she woke to gentle shaking.

She opened her eyes to bright sunlight and winced, immediately shutting them again. “Helen,” he said. “Look.”

Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she became aware of Magnus before her. She was no longer in his lap, but was curled up in the same wooden chair with a plaid draped over her.

Suddenly, she realized what he was looking at. Bruce was still unconscious, but his face was no longer so pallid and his breathing was stronger. He looked … better.

“What happened?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I kept giving him the whisky and the lemon.” A look of shame crossed his face. “I must have dozed off a few hours ago. I woke and found him like this.”

Had the remedy for the sailors’ illness worked?

Her first reaction was relief. Thank God, it wasn’t poison.

She hoped. But a niggle of doubt lingered. Could it have been the foxglove? Some thought the foxglove a remedy for poison. It was impossible to know for certain.