Page 67 of The Widow Wore Plaid

“Today?” Matthew’s hand shook, a drop of the amber cognac spilling over the glass’s lip like a single tear. “Surely he’s not well enough for that?”

“Well or not, he’s demanding it take place. I think”—she fought to hold back a sob—“I think he’s desperate. So I’m sending for the doctor to ask him how sick Kinellan really is.”

Matthew stared at her steadily. “And if the answer is gravely ill?”

“It doesn’t matter what the answer is. Of course I’ll marry him.” Why, oh, why hadn’t she done it in March? “I just need to know.” She sniffed and wiped at her eyes, willing them to remain dry. There was much to do and no time for tears. “I need to prepare myself. But if he wants us to marry, then we will. I will do anything he wishes.”

Lathbury took the glass of cognac from her hands, set both his and hers down, then enfolded her in his arms.

And the tears came despite her wishes. It seemed her wants meant nothing in the scheme of things. She didn’t want to cry, she didn’t want Kinellan to die, but they seemed to be happening anyway.

The heavy front door slammed and footsteps hurried down the corridor.

Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, Jane stepped back and ran to the door. “Mr. Robbins?” She stepped out of the library as the doctor halted, stopped by her call. “Mr. Robbins, may I have a word?”

The man hurried back toward her. “Is Lord Kinellan worse?”

“I’m afraid you must tell me, Mr. Robbins, for he will not.” Jane clenched her hands, steeling herself. “He wishes for us to marry today, sir. Does this haste have bearing on his condition? Because I rather think it does.”

Matthew appeared beside her. “Is his condition hopeless?”

Robbins paused, taking them in, one after the other. “Lord Kinellan’s wound has become gravely inflamed. If the inflammation cannot be reversed, his chances of recovery are slight.”

The pain in her chest, like a sword cleaving her heart in two, stopped Jane’s breath. The next thing she knew she was on the tiled floor, Matthew patting her hands, rubbing them hard and Mr. Robbins holding a vial of smelling salts.

“There you are, my lady.” The doctor rose and Matthew helped her to her feet. “I am sorry to have caused you such a shock, but you asked me to tell you the truth.”

“I did, Mr. Robbins.” Jane shook her head, still dazed from the horrible news. “So there is no hope?”

“I don’t want to hold it out too strongly, but there is a chance his body will fight the infection off. I have seen it happen, but rarely when they have reached this stage.” The doctor drew on his gloves. “Make sure he rests and drinks the willow tea and broth. I’ll call around first thing in the morning. By then he will have reached the turning point.”

“He’s asked to have our wedding performed this evening and wishes to be moved to a larger room on the first floor for the ceremony.” Despite the distraction of the agonizing ache in her heart, Jane managed to push on. If she could find a way to do this for Gareth, she would do it. “Can he be moved? You said he needed to rest.”

“My lady”—the doctor’s gaze was kind, compassionate—“I do not think moving him will make any difference at all.” Mr. Robbins bowed and hurried to the front door.

Jane stood staring at the black-and-white patterned tile in the foyer, marshalling her strength. “You should go to him, Matthew. He wants you to oversee my settlements. I need to contact Mr. Ross and Mr. Imre, his solicitor in Strathpeffer, to come directly this morning. He can rest in the afternoon and then we will have the ceremony just before dinner.”

“You are a marvel, Jane. I’m not quite sure how you do it.” Matthew kissed her cheek and headed for the stairs.

Choking back the tears she would not let fall, Jane straightened her shoulders and headed back into the library to write the necessary notes. Despite her calm, organized demeanor, she would have been hard-pressed to tell Matthew how she planned to manage this wedding. She wasn’t entirely certain that she could without dissolving into tears. But if this was Gareth’s final wish, she would find some way to grant it.

At least his wishes should come true.

* * *

By late afternoon Jane and her friends had managed to produce a minor miracle in the way of her and Gareth’s wedding. She’d gathered them all together and simply told them about the ceremony and why they were having it while Gareth was still so ill. After the first shocked silence, they had swarmed around her, hugging her and offering to make their wedding a memory they would cherish. Then they’d scattered all over the estate to find the things they needed to make the drawing room a beautiful place to be married.

Now she was on her way to tell Gareth of the plans and to spend a few more precious moments with him. She had to remind herself constantly not to cry, not to upset him, but to let him know how special this evening would be, and that she would treasure it for the rest of her life. A more difficult thing she’d never done, although worse was probably yet to come.

As she approached his chamber door, she closed her eyes and breathed slowly and regularly. Then, putting a smile on her face, and willing herself not to cry, she knocked and went in.

Gareth lay back, propped up on the pile of pillows. Beside him, Matthew sat, an animated look on his face as he told some story. Unfortunately, the close proximity of the friends only underscored the contrast between the round, ruddy face and the drawn, pale one in the bed.

At her entrance Gareth’s gaze moved straight to her. He stretched out his arm and beckoned to her.

“Do not allow me to interrupt your talk, gentlemen.” She moved to the bed and took Gareth’s hand, hot and dry. His face was flushed, his eyes a bit glassy, although that might only be the flickering of the lamp. “I’m sure if it were allowed, you’d have glasses with cognac here to help your tales along.” Jane smiled until her jaws hurt.

“I’m trying to give Lathbury an appreciation for the Scotch that’s produced locally, but the man’s a snob when it comes to sprits.” Speaking that little bit had Gareth panting with the effort.