15
It was midday and Leila was in the solar, hoping for some hint of Fergus’ return. He was not the only one who felt a portent of doom on this day.
Yet the horizon remained tranquil and devoid of any riders. She turned away from the window and busied herself with tidying the chamber.
Perhaps she looked too soon.
Perhaps she had need of a task to occupy her.
“There is smoke!” someone cried from outside the hall and Leila ran back to the window to look. It was true. A thin dark plume of smoke rose in the southwest, though at considerable distance.
Was it at Dunnisbrae?
Had Fergus set the fire or was he in peril?
She clutched the sill and watched as the smoke grew in volume, until it billowed into the sky in a dark plume that terrified her.
She was more terrified by the movement on the distant hills. The dark cloud of a company approached, all of them on horseback. They rode with haste, dust rising behind them and Leila did not believe their appearance to be a good sign.
“Look!” She ran to the summit of the stairs and called to Enguerrand. “A company approaches!”
He hastened up the stairs and his expression turned grim as he looked upon them. “They ride to Killairic. Is this company from Dunnisbrae?”
“I could not say.”
“I do not think Laird Fergus is amongst them,” the Templar said. “I would recognize his horse.”
“And that of Yvan.”
“There is not a knight amongst them.”
“But still they can do damage.
“Indeed.” Enguerrand left her side and leaped down the stairs. Leila heard him shouting orders to close the gates and see the hall defended, but she was thinking of Fergus’ dream.
Surely Killairic would not be burned in his absence?
Enguerrand returned to her side and they stood together in terse silence, watching the company draw near. Leila caught her breath when she spied the two riders who had pulled ahead of the others. A girl led on a palfrey, her dark hair loose behind her.
“Agnes,” she whispered.
The man following behind rode a larger heavier steed, and the sunlight glinted on his armor. “And I will guess Laird Stewart,” the Templar added.
Leila eyed their course and guessed their destination. “They mean to retrieve the reliquary from her hiding spot,” she said and knew the knight agreed. She pressed the key to the solar into his hand. “I must stop them from continuing to the keep.”
The knight frowned. “But you cannot go alone. And I must remain to lead the defense of the keep in Laird Fergus’ absence.”
“I must go,” Leila insisted. “If he seeks to avenge his wife, only my death will suffice.”
“My lady!” Enguerrand roared, but Leila was already running down the stairs. If the price of saving Killairic was her life, she would gladly pay it.
For Fergus and his future happiness was the only matter of import now.
Agnes was certain of the success of her new scheme.
Laird Stewart had been disinterested in whatever tidings she brought from Killairic, though he had allowed her to remain at Dunnisbrae with Nolan. Agnes had despaired of retrieving the treasure and putting it to use, but the flight of Lady Isobel had changed all. Laird Stewart had mustered his troops all day and made provisions to attack Killairic immediately to reclaim his wife and son.
He had heeded her tale of the reliquary the night before, though found little merit in her suggestion of negotiating with it to take Killairic without striking a blow. The man yearned for vengeance and only the shedding of blood would suffice.
That impulse had visibly multiplied when Lady Isobel’s corpse was brought to Dunnisbrae. She was in the crowd of villagers when Laird Fergus arrived and ducked low to keep from being recognized. Lady Isobel dead? It was one more crime to place at the feet of the whore. She was thrilled when Stewart locked all those arrived from Killairic into the chapel, insisting that justice be done.
His quest for vengeance began at Dunnisbrae.
And without Laird Fergus to defend her, the infidel would finally get the fate she deserved.
Agnes’ own fate had to improve, as well. She knew it when Laird Stewart summoned her to ride to Killairic with the host, the better for her to point out the location of the prize. Nolan had saddled the palfrey she had stolen from Killairic with Stephen’s aid, undoubtedly guessing his laird’s intent in advance.
Laird Stewart would claim both treasure and Killairic, and he was without a wife. The obvious reward to grant Agnes was to make her lady of all.
They rode hard that morning, pushing the horses toward Killairic. Agnes smiled when Stewart roared at her to lead him to the prize, and she pulled away from the company, liking that she was part of a great scheme. Nolan granted her a wave and the ragged company continued toward Killairic. They would surround the keep, by Stewart’s command, but remain out of range of those on the walls.
“It is here!” she said to Stewart, slowing her palfrey just inside the patch of forest and slipping from the saddle. She led Stewart toward her hiding place. The warrior’s boots left deep imprints in the soil, but it no longer mattered. Agnes would have no further need of the sanctuary and her prize would be moved this very day.
She reached the hollow tree and reached into its interior, her heart in her mouth. She smiled when her fingers brushed the soft cloth of the chemise and she felt the bulk of the reliquary.
“And what is it again?” Stewart asked.
“I do not know. It is gold and covered with letters, as well as large gems,” Agnes said, cradling the bundle in her arms. “They called it a reliquary.”
“A holy relic and a treasure then,” he said, his eyes gleaming.
“One beyond compare,” Agnes agreed and offered the bundle to him.
Stewart did not take the burden, but only brushed aside the cloth, leaving the weight of it Agnes’ grip. He unveiled the prize with haste, then he frowned. Agnes felt her mouth drop open, for she held a rounded piece of wood.
She stared down at it, unable to explain how the gold had changed to wood.
Before she could speak, Stewart struck her. The back of his gloved hand landed so hard upon her cheek that Agnes staggered backward. She dropped the wood and scrambled to pick it up, even knowing it had no value.
“Stupid wench,” Stewart snarled and kicked the wood aside. He raised his hand again and Agnes cowered. “To think that I believed you, a lying, deceitful peasant...”
“But it was here. It was gold. It was beautiful.” Agnes stammered incoherently, even as she realized why the whore had not been punished. “She took it!” she cried, right before Stewart struck her again.
“As if I would believe another lie,” he snarled and spat upon her, then turned to return to his horse.
“You should,” a woman said in heavily accented Gaelic. “For, this time, Agnes tells the truth.”
The whore! Agnes spun to look and found the whore standing in the shadows of the forest, closer to the river. Her arms were folded across her chest and her expression was guarded.
Stewart took a step toward her. “Who are you?”
“She is the Saracen whore Laird Fergus handfasted,” Agnes supplied.
Stewart smiled a little as he surveyed her. “I can see why. Though she is swarthy, she has an allure. Perhaps I will have her next.” He stepped toward the infidel and her eyes narrowed.
“You must speak slowly,” Agnes said. “She scarce speaks Gaelic.”
“And what truth do you claim Agnes tells?” Stewart asked, doing just that.
“Agnes stole the treasure,” the whore said. “I stole it back.” She smiled, looking cunning and confident in Agnes’ view. “If you desire it, we must bargain.”
“I do not need to bargain with an infidel,” Stewart snarled and seized the whore by the arm. She was clearly too small to defend herself against him, for she stumbled and could not shake free of his grip. He flung her to the ground and stood over her, his pose threatening. When she spared him only a scathing glance, he seized a fistful of her hair and drew her to her knees. “Here is my offer, infidel.” Stewart bit off his words slowly. “You will surrender the treasure to me now and I might let you live.”
She parted her lips, no doubt to negotiate, but he struck her so hard across the face that she fell to the ground, stunned.
“Understand that I am not inclined to let Fergus keep his pleasure when he has cost me mine,” Stewart smiled coldly. “Surrender the treasure and I might let you live.”
The whore looked up at him, assessment in her dark eyes. “She said Gavin was the son of Fergus.”
“He is not!” Stewart roared and struck her again. Her lip was swelling as was one eye. Agnes was glad at the limited extent of her own injuries. The infidel did not cede, though, but spat at Stewart in disdain. He grasped the whore’s hair again and forced her to her feet. “I might have need of a whore, but let us see how well you please me first. Give it to me.”
“It is not here,” she said, her manner still defiant.
“Then take me to it!” He flung her ahead of himself with such force that she barely kept her footing, then turned back to Agnes. “Do not imagine that you will remain behind to tell another of this. Mount your horse. The whore will ride with me, the better to ensure that she remembers where she had left the prize.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “You will follow and do as I say, or I will hunt you down, Agnes. You will regret your choice, but not for long.”
Agnes swallowed and nodded, for Stewart frightened her mightily. She would not have been the infidel for any price in this moment, but she also had the wits to ensure she did not draw his wrath.
It was only a matter of time before he had his fill of the whore. Agnes would not be next.
Indeed, her scheme to become Stewart’s wife showed a decided flaw now that she had witnessed his truth.
What she had to do this day was survive.
Enguerrand remained hidden in the forest until the sound of Stewart’s departure had faded. He did not like leaving the defense of the keep in the old laird’s care, but his primary obligation was to the Temple and thus to its treasures.
He no longer could guess whether Leila truly knew the location of the reliquary, but he was charged to defend it. He would follow, at a distance, and intervene to possess it, if possible.
He would also leave a trail that Yvan and Fergus would know how to follow.
And if Stewart strove to kill the lady Leila, Enguerrand would intervene to ensure the secret of the reliquary’s location was not lost forever.
Their horses were gone.
Fergus swore with a savagery that clearly astonished his fellows, but he did not care for their opinion. They had kicked out the back of the chapel after starting the fire, and their sudden appearance had startled those few who remained. Several villagers were trying to put out the fire at the chapel, but Fergus did not care if all of Dunnisbrae burned. There was not a steed in Dunnisbrae’s village. Indeed, there was not a man in the village or the keep. Stewart had assembled an army of peasants and laborers, but if they were sufficiently intent upon their prize, Fergus knew they might win.
Killairic, after all, was thinly defended in his absence.
The few women remaining there retreated into their huts with haste. Fergus seized the sleeve of one woman who was evidently terrified of his intent.
“What of the horses?” he demanded. “Did the laird take them all?”
She nodded and he released her with a curse, then strode to the gates. The sole sign of Stewart’s raiding party was a cloud of dust in the distance.
“We shall never reach Killairic in time to be of aid to anyone,” Yvan said grimly from beside him.
Clearly, this had been Stewart’s plan.
In frustration, Fergus whistled for Tempest.
“Silence,” Hamish said, despondent beside him.
Fergus heaved a sigh and began to walk. His long strides took him ahead of the others and the miller’s son trailed behind them all. He whistled again, with less expectation of success.
He straightened when there was an answering nicker.
To Fergus’ astonishment, Tempest cantered into view, his reins trailing and his step high. The stallion was agitated and fighting the bit, but he came to Fergus.
“I wager he threw whoever was fool enough to try to ride him,” Hamish said, his tone much brighter.
“I wager he did,” Fergus said. It took him a few moments to settle the stallion sufficiently that he could swing into the saddle, and by then, Yvan’s stallion had appeared as well. That horse was just as skittish and had the bleeding mark of a lash upon his rump. Yvan’s lips thinned and Fergus guessed that if he ever knew who had struck his horse with such savage fury, he might well return the favor.
The palfreys did not appear and Fergus could only conclude that they had been taken by Stewart’s party. He was torn between defending the others and riding to Leila’s aid, but Murdoch scoffed at him. “Go, lad!” he cried. “We can walk back in time to hear of your triumph.”
“They can defend themselves better than your lady wife,” Yvan muttered, and Fergus was not so certain the Templar was right.
“Leila is more resourceful than you believe,” he said, but gave Tempest his heels and raced toward Killairic.
If Leila had been harmed, he would ensure that Stewart rued this day forevermore.
Leila had no good scheme beyond compelling Stewart to leave Killairic. He did not bring his company with them, though she would have preferred otherwise, and he was inclined to be rough, which she admired yet less. Leila had been shoved onto the horse before Stewart and he held her captive there. He smelled like wood smoke, meat, and perspiration, a combination which made her stomach churn at such proximity. Agnes rode with them, while those who supported Stewart remained around the walls of Killairic.
Leila doubted they would wait very long for Stewart’s command to attack.
She hoped that some soul saw her situation from the tower, but did not rely upon it. They would be busy, following Enguerrand’s command to defend both village and keep. The smoke she had seen in the distance had dissipated so that fire must have been extinguished. She wondered where it had been, but knew she had more immediate concerns.
When Stewart would have turned his horse toward Killairic’s gates, Leila shook her head adamantly. She directed Stewart away from Killairic and down toward the firth, remembering the day that Fergus had shown her the boundaries of the holding. There had been a stone wall, an old one that had tumbled down in places. Fergus had talked about seeing to its repair after the crops were sown. She would insist that the reliquary was hidden there and pretend to have forgotten the exact place. It could only be better to delay longer, though she had no plan for the inevitable moment when Stewart realized she was lying.
“But it must be in the the hall or the village,” Agnes insisted, and Leila took great satisfaction in pretending to be unable to understand the girl. “Treasure!” Agnes shouted. “You take us to it!”
“Treasure!” Leila nodded and pointed down the hill. “Hidden,” she said, then nodded. “Safe.”
Agnes winced. “I thought it was safe.”
Leila laughed, delighting in vexing the girl. She shook her head. “Now safe.”
Agnes gave her a furious look and Leila laughed again.
“Enough,” Stewart roared. “Guide me to it.”
Leila pointed away from Killairic and he slapped the rump of his horse. The beast galloped away from the keep, the palfrey following fast behind.
It took them an hour to reach the wall that Leila recalled, then she insisted upon walking alongside the crumbled wall as she pretended to seek the spot. She touched distinctive stones, and gave the appearance of counting, then looked into more than one gap in the wall, first with hope then with disappointment. Stewart’s impatience rose with every false location, but the sun made steady progress across the sky as Leila stalled him.
“It is not so safe if you cannot find it,” Agnes snapped.
Leila held up a finger as if recognizing the spot and hastened to a deep breach in the wall. She climbed into the gap and moved several stones as if they obstructed her access. She pretended to be unable to move a larger one and shook her head in vexation. Stewart swore and dismounted, flinging down the reins as he strode to her side. He moved the stone with a grunt and peered beneath it. There was naught but a small snake that slithered into the grass.
He seized Leila’s arm and lifted her to her toes. “You lie,” he said, undoubtedly speaking slowly to ensure that she understood. “The treasure is not here.”
Leila heard the sound of racing hoofbeats.
A destrier.
Fast approaching.
She could guess which one it was. She held Stewart’s gaze and smiled.
His eyes flashed in warning, then he cuffed her once again. Her eye was already swelling but this time, his ring cut the skin. Leila cried out and fell, tripping over the loose stones of the wall.
“I will take what is his. I will have vengeance,” he muttered, lifting his hauberk and unlacing his chausses. Leila scrambled backward but he stepped upon the hem of her kirtle, trapping her. Leila tried to tear the cloth without success.
“God in Heaven!” Agnes cried in obvious horror. “You cannot couple with a filthy infidel!”
“I will take whatever she can give to me.” Stewart freed himself, his gaze locked upon Leila. His intent needed no translation. The cloth of her kirtle finally tore and Leila made to flee, but Stewart seized her wrist and held her captive. His grip was bruising and she bent to bite him, but was struck again. She fell from the wall to the grass on Killairic’s side and knew her ankle had been twisted in the fall.
She could not run.
And Stewart knew it. He smiled as he jumped down from the wall and strode toward her. Leila scrambled backward, knowing she was doomed. The hoofbeats had fallen silent, which meant she had erred.
He would kill her and no one would intervene.
Stewart loomed over Leila and she instinctively cupped her belly with one hand, realizing only too late what she had communicated to him.
For Stewart smiled coldly. “Rise, whore,” he said with malice. “I will take something else from Fergus this day.” He laced his chausses again and Leila got to her feet, fearing his intent. She had to stand on one foot, able to only brace herself with the toe of the injured one. “You are a whore, no more than that,” Stewart said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “He has sheltered you for the sake of his child, but once it is gone, he will treat you like the offal that you are.” He spat. “Whore!” he reminded her.
Resistance rose in Leila but she had no chance to argue, for Stewart raised his fist and punched her in the belly. Leila took a step backward at the force of impact, then heard a whistling sound. She was amazed that Stewart had not hit her harder than he had, then she saw the blood, the knife in his throat and the wide stare of his eyes. He fell atop her, his weight taking her to the ground and his warm blood flowing over her. Leila screamed and heard Agnes’ palfrey gallop away. She was inundated by the filthy smell of Stewart, pinned beneath his weight and rapidly being covered with his blood. She panicked as she seldom did but could make no difference in her situation, which terrified her.
Until Stewart’s weight was abruptly hauled away, and Fergus lifted her in his arms. Leila fell against him and wept in relief, though his features might have been carved in stone. He was furious and she could feel the thrum of anger deep within him, but she did not have the audacity to ask him what precisely had provoked his response.
She could not be just a whore to him, could she?
But then, why had Fergus not trusted her with the location of the reliquary?
She could not be of value only for the child she bore, could she?
It was not like Leila to have doubts but she had them aplenty in this moment. Indeed, she wanted to weep, which was not characteristic of her in the least. She closed her eyes, hating her own weakness and surrendered to the pain Stewart had inflicted.
Would her child die?
Would her child live but be damaged forever?
A tear slipped from beneath her lashes and Leila prayed silently, even as she feared all would be as it would be.
Inshallah.
Fergus sent Enguerrand after Agnes, for he had no desire to leave Leila. She seemed to be broken as she never had been before, without her customary force of will. He feared that she would die of grief, if not of her injuries.
That Leila had been struck with such force infuriated him beyond any anger he had felt before. Her swollen face, that cut upon her cheek, the sight of Stewart striking her in the belly, all sickened Fergus beyond compare.
She had tried to lead the villain away from Killairic and had paid a high price for defending his holding.
He felt that he had failed her, though she made no such accusation.
He wrapped Leila in his cloak and set her gently in the saddle on Tempest. She sat there without speaking while he and Yvan flung Stewart’s corpse over that man’s own saddle. Fergus would have liked to have left Stewart’s body to be desecrated by predators but he knew the sight of it would scatter the invading army from Dunnisbrae.
Let them take the villain home to be buried alongside his faithless wife.
He led the horse away from the wall, then saw Enguerrand returning with Agnes. The maid had her hands bound and was trussed to the saddle of her palfrey. She swore with sufficient fury to make any man blush.
“She bit me,” Enguerrand said with disgust, displaying the mark of her teeth upon his forearm.
“I would do more than that to you,” Agnes muttered, continuing her diatribe as Fergus mounted his steed and drew Leila into his embrace. She did not speak, did not so much as utter his name, and she did not look into his eyes.
They returned slowly to Killairic, for Fergus did not wish to jostle Leila too much. He knew she had to be badly hurt. When they reached the party that surrounded the keep, it was just as Fergus had anticipated. One glimpse of Stewart and their ranks melted away from the gates, horror in their expressions.
“Bring a cart!” Fergus cried. “Bring a cart and take this offal back to Dunnisbrae to be buried. I would not have our cemetery polluted by one so wicked as this.”
Gazes flicked from Stewart to Leila, covered in his blood and clearly bruised. The people crossed themselves, and Fergus did not wait to see his word done. He rode into the bailey and dismounted. The ostler hastened to take Tempest. The smith came to gaze upon Leila with a worried frown. Margaret came from her hut to cluck and Hamish’s aunt joined her.
“Poor lamb,” Mhairi said.
“She will desire a bath,” Fergus said. “Iain! Can you see that hot water is brought to the solar?”
“It is being heated already, my lord,” that man replied. His gaze flew to Agnes.
“She is too filthy to ever be scrubbed clean,” that girl spat.
“Agnes will be placed in the dungeon. When next there is a court, she will be tried for conspiring against the laird and his kin, and for theft.”
“The dungeon!” that girl echoed with horror. “There are rats there.”
“Indeed, the rats are the least of it.” Fergus gave her a cold glance even as he lifted Leila into his arms. “I beg your forgiveness now, as it may be at least a month before we have a court day. There is so much else to be done.” He walked into the hall as Agnes swore thoroughly, cursing him and all his kind.
“Leila!” His father exclaimed, rising to his feet. She spared the older man a wan smile, which only made Fergus wish all the more that she would bestow a similar one upon him.
“Leila will keep to the solar for now, Father,” he said. “Would you ensure that all who rode with me today have the hospitality of the hall?”
“Of course, of course!”
“I believe Margaret and Mhairi might be glad to assist Leila in her bath.” Fergus held her a little more tightly. “If that is acceptable, Leila? You will need someone to tend to your injuries.” She nodded agreement, but still said naught. He sensed that she did not particularly care, which worried him deeply. He made for the stairs, then recalled another detail.
“Ensure that Gavin is sent here from Dunnisbrae,” he said to his father, feeling Leila stiffen slightly. He reasoned that she was in pain and hastened to the solar. “Perhaps the healer from Dumfries might be persuaded to come to Killairic sooner rather than later,” he called and barely heard his father’s agreement.
Leila sank into the hot water of the bath, glad to be rid of Stewart’s blood and the mire of this day. Her ankle hurt. Her cheek was cut. Her face was bruised and her eye was swollen shut.
But she did not bleed.
At least, not yet.
Margaret and Mhairi spoke quietly to each other, and their presence was unexpectedly soothing. There was kindness in their voices and their eyes, and they were gentle as they helped her from the bath and eventually into bed. It was just time for the evening meal, and Leila could hear activity in the hall below. She wanted only to sleep, to forget, to heal, and maybe to dream.
She did not hear the two women leave, and she did not hear Fergus come into the solar much later. She did not hear his sigh or feel the kiss he placed upon her cheek, the one that was not bruised. She did not feel his weight as he sat on the side of the bed, nor the weight of his gaze as he watched her all the night long.
She did not even know he had been there, for when she awakened, Leila was alone.
Just as she feared she would always be.
Fergus had not even come for the next increment of Scheherazade’s story.
And he had summoned Gavin to live at Killairic.
The combination was disheartening. She had tried to win his heart and she had failed. Though he said Gavin was not his son and that he did not love Isobel, his actions spoke louder than his words. Like Duncan, his heart was lost and would be so for more than what remained of their year and a day.
Leila stared at the ceiling, choosing her course.
She would stay, until she knew Radegunde’s fate, until her friend stopped at Killairic. She anticipated that would be before September. If Leila carried Fergus’ child, she would bear him the babe. If she did not, or if she lost the child now, she would no longer welcome him abed. Inshallah. If there was no child now, she would not strive to make one.
She would continue to act as his wife and complete her scheme with the pigeons, but there would be no more tales.
No more intimacy.
When Radegunde arrived, Leila would accept Duncan’s offer of a home. The choice was made, but the timing relied solely upon the presence of a child in her womb.
Either way, Killairic would not be her home.
Leila rolled over and buried her face in the linens, allowing herself to cry as she never had before. She had tried but she had failed, and she knew better than to give more when there was no hope of success.
“She has been injured,” Calum said in the hall below, but Fergus shook his head.
“It is more than that. I sense it.”
His father shook his head. “She has been beaten,” he reminded Fergus. “And doubtless was frightened. Let her sleep and all will be better in the morn.”
Fergus shook his head and drummed his fingers on the board. “I do not think so.”
“You could be wrong, boy.”
“It is not like Leila,” Fergus insisted. “She does not sulk and she does not weep. She shares her thoughts and is honest above all.” He shrugged. “I feel that she has hidden herself from me, that there is an obstacle between us.”
He did not tell his father that even though his nightmare of Isobel had very nearly come true, his sense of impending doom had not lifted. It was unsettling and he tired of it. He wanted all to be resolved and happily. He wanted Leila to decide to stay, whether she chose to be baptized or not. He wanted to hear more of her stories. He wanted to make love to her.
Most of all, he wanted her to open her eyes and look fully into his own.
But he sensed that she did not desire his company on this night and feared that unhappy situation might last.
“Then there is some detail she does not wish to share,” his father said easily.
“Something changed on this day,” Fergus said, shaking his head. “Stewart said something to her, or Agnes did, something that changed her thinking.” He sighed. “I hope the healer comes with all haste. The bruises upon her face must hurt.”
“She is stronger than you guess, Fergus. She will heal.”
But Leila had chosen and Fergus knew it. Was it because he had left her undefended on this day? He feared he had failed her and knew she would never accuse him outright.
But if she did not confide in him, how could he reassure her?
He would do as much with his deeds, Fergus decided. He would make every effort to let Leila know that she was welcome and that he did not wish her to leave.
Because he did not, and he was startled by the vigor of his conviction. He had long admired Leila but as Fergus sat in the hall with his father, he realized that he loved her. He loved Leila as he had never loved Isobel, and the prospect of losing her—even of being denied her companionship—was devastating.
Yet all the same, he would not hold her captive at Killairic, not if she desired to be elsewhere. He wanted her to have whatever she desired, whatever it was.
Whoever it was.
“We will not go to Iona,” he said to his father. “For I fear she might not be strong enough to make the journey, and I will not hasten her conversion.”
“Let her choose in her own time,” Calum agreed. “That is more kind.” He patted Fergus’ shoulder. “Let us send Murdoch. He can gather such tidings as are to be heard there.”
Fergus nodded agreement, more interested in how he might regain the trust and goodwill of his lady wife.
If she desired time, he would give it to her. Eleven months remained of their handfast and though he was impatient to see matters resolved between them, he would give Leila all the time she needed, in the hope she would choose to stay.