Her people now, too, she had said.
He seethed with rage at the way she was deceiving them into thinking she truly cared. He wanted to warn them that Lady Helen was only playing at being the laird's wife. When she tired of living her princess-and-the-beast fairy tale, she would go scuttling back to civilized England.
But he gritted his teeth and said nothing. Time would prove him right. He was the MacBrut. He could outwait one paltry female.
If lust didn't kill him first.
She never mentioned their two nights together. Yet with every swish of her silk dress or whiff of her sultry scent, she teased him. With every smile, every casual brush of their hands, she reminded him that she was his for the taking. He could lock the doors and have her right there on the cot in his office. He could go to her chamber at night and lose himself in the sweetest pleasure he had ever known. She was his wife, after all.
But coupling held the risk of pregnancy. He could not condemn another child-his child-to a mother's abandonment.
By the time three weeks had passed, he existed in a purgatory of perpetual arousal. Need for her made him irritable and edgy. So did his need to know she had not conceived. By his calculation, she should begin her monthly flow any day now.
One morning, she entered his office looking pale and fragile. It was on the tip of his tongue to inquire about her health when Jamie came knocking on the door. A horse had kicked him. While Alex cleansed the bloody hoof mark on the stableman's shoulder, Helen stood close by to hand him a linen compress, then the basilicum ointment to treat the wound.
He and Jamie exchanged a bit of banter, but she didn't join in as usual. Perhaps she had started her courses. The thought cheered Alex. Women- were often peevish around that time, weren't they?
When he held out his hand for the bandage, she didn't give it to him. He shot her a frown, only to see her swaying on her feet. Her face was milk-white, her hand pressed to her mouth.
The signs of illness jolted him. Even as he took a step toward her, she uttered a little sigh and crumpled into his arms.
Chapter Eight
Helen couldn't fathom why she still lay abed when daylight flooded the room. Then Alex's big form moved between her and the window to block the blinding sun. And it all came flashing back to her: seeing Jamie's injury, feeling queasy and light-headed in the moment before all went black.
Alex must have carried her upstairs to her own bed. She blinked at the square canopy with its plain blue curtains. The sheets felt smooth and cool to her perspiring skin.
His face taut, Alex towered over her. "How are you feeling?"
Her head ached. Her palms felt cold and clammy. Worst of all, her stomach churned. Determined not to show weakness, she pushed herself upright. "I feel perfectly fine-" A rush of nausea overwhelmed her.
Luckily, he had the chamber pot ready. Through her misery, she felt the gentle stroke of his hand on her brow. He murmured something soothing, but she felt too wretched to pay attention. When she was done, he handed her a glass of water. "Rinse your mouth," he ordered.
She meekly obeyed. Then she lay back with her eyes closed, mortified that he had seen her at her worst.
Something deliciously cool came down on her forehead. She groped to touch it. A damp cloth.
The mattress dipped as Alex sat down on the edge of the bed. "Now," he said, "how do you really feel?"
"Better."
"And what do you suppose is the source of this illness?"
She had a suspicion she knew. But he looked disgusted, and she didn't feel strong enough to ward off his attack. "There's a family with the croup-"
"You dinna have the croup." He grimaced as if he'd choked on a dose of bitter medicine. "I would guess, Lady Helen, that you're pregnant."
Pregnant.
Rather than face his ill humor, she closed her eyes again. She had wondered about her unsettled stomach. And her monthly time was late by a few days. She had hoped and prayed, and her prayers had been answered with a baby.
Despite her physical discomfort, she felt a great surge of joy. Their lovemaking had started a new life inside her. They would be a family now, and Alex could not send her away. Because in nine months-no, eight-"she would give birth to his baby. The sheer wonder of it lent her strength.
"In late June," she said, opening her eyes. Her happiness blossomed into a smile. "So much for your knowledge of fertility."
His mouth twisted scornfully. "Aye, I blame myself for this mistake. I should ha' turned you out when you came crawling into my bed. You're the last woman I'd choose to be the mother of my bairn."
His cruelty withered her smile, and she placed her hands over her womb. "I won't have you calling our baby a mistake. Nor will I let you drive us away with your malice."
"Understand this," he said coldly. "Once the bairn is born, I dinna care if you go back to England. But you'll leave the child here with me."
"I will never abandon my own baby."
"So you say. But time will tell the truth."
The frigid contempt on his face chilled her soul. Just love me and I'll stay forever, she wanted to whisper. She had a dismal flash of their future together, a life without tenderness and joy, without shared happiness in the birth of their baby. Alex was determined to push her out of his world.
And she was just as determined to stay.
From that emotionally charged moment onward, Alex refused to allow Helen in his surgery. Flora would assist him when necessary, he said. Helen should not expose herself to disease and risk harming the baby. She felt too ill to argue. Besides, she had developed an aversion to strong odors. One whiff of the herbs and medicinals on his apothecary shelves would send her running from the room.
So she slept late each morning and took a nap each afternoon. In between, she nibbled on dry toast and sipped weak tea until she could get out of bed. She kept her mind off her queasiness by sewing baby clothes, helping Miss Gilbert with the mending, and planning renovations for the house.
Helen also devoted a few hours each day to writing a journal about her travels, describing the delights of touring a Turkish bazaar, the excitement of mountain climbing in Switzerland, the romance of boating on the canals of Venice. Someday, her child would read these adventures and know there was a vast world beyond these starkly beautiful Highlands.
She wished she could share her experiences with Alex, too. But he wanted nothing to do with her-v except at mealtimes when he bullied her into eating a few bites of bland food to keep up her strength.
He spent his waking hours either in the surgery or visiting patients. At times, Helen might have thought she lived alone except for the clothing he left for Flora to launder or the tramp of his footsteps on the stairs at night.
Then, on a cold, crisp evening in late November, he came to her in the drawing room, where she sat reading on the chaise by the fire. Her heart turned over at the sight of his bluntly chiseled features, the muscled body she yearned to be held against.
He announced his intention to leave on the morrow for Edinburgh to attend a series of medical lectures. "The journey is too far for you," he said. "You'll remain here."
The mere thought of riding all day in a jolting carriage was enough to make her stomach rebel. "How long will you be gone?" she asked softly.
"A few weeks. Perhaps longer. And dinna think to run to England. I'll expect a letter from you once a week to prove you're still here."
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask tartly if he would reply to her correspondence, when he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.
Irked, Helen went to bed. After a restless night, she awakened at dawn to the realization that she was playing his game. He wanted to make her angry-so he could prove her to be a heartless lady.