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“Is this keep cursed?” she asked, daring to voice yet another fear.

“Not by ghostly spirits,” James said.

“Aye,” Malcolm said grimly. “I found a pool of melted wax on the charred staircase. This was no accident. Whoever set the fire, meant to kill ye both.”

The acrid smell of smoke tinged James’s nostrils, bringing back memories of the sieges he had endured while on Crusades. Thankfully, the nauseating smell of burnt flesh was not present; according to Malcolm no one was injured, except for the knife wound James had sustained.

Holding Davina’s hand, he navigated over the thick wooden planks that Malcolm had placed over the charred stairs and landing. Once safely down, they gathered in the great hall.

James’s throat was dry and parched, his lungs sore from inhaling the smoke. He walked rapidly, felt the ground begin to spin, and abruptly sat, not wanting to draw any additional attention to himself.

He downed a tankard of ale and a second tankard of water. The liquids helped to invigorate him and his mind soon began tripping over itself with questions.

Why would someone want them dead?

He turned his head, glancing suspiciously at the soot-lined faces of the people gathered in the great hall. They had worked hard to save him and Davina. Was one, or more, of them a traitor?

“Sit down, James, and let me tend to yer arm,” Davina pleaded. “Colleen has brought medicine from the stillroom.”

Davina lifted a basket and he saw clean linen strips of bandages and a poultice filled with pungent herbs. He sincerely hoped that she did not intend to put that on his arm, as the smell was turning his stomach.

He fidgeted while Davina fussed, holding on to his patience with effort. He could see that she was still shaken and realized tending to him helped keep her calm. His arm stung and throbbed, but he stayed silent, even when she sewed his torn flesh with her needle. ’Twas no question that he would do anything to give solace to his wife, even suffer her medical care.

“There, all done.” She smiled, but he could see a furrow in her brow. “’Tis a nasty gash, though not as brutal as it might have been. I’ve put in a few stitches, which will help stop the bleeding. We must keep it dry and clean to make certain it heals without bringing on a fever.”

Davina’s furrowed brow deepened when she mentioned the possibility of an infection, as if the thought had just occurred to her. Anxiously, she pressed her hand to his cheek and temple.

“I’m fine, Davina. Truly.”

“I’ll prepare a dram, to ward off the fever.”

Heads pressed together, Davina and Colleen started rummaging through her basket. His arm was on fire, but the love and concern he saw in his wife’s face eased his physical pain.

“Where is Lady Joan?” Malcolm asked.

“She couldn’t possibly have slept through all this mayhem,” James commented. “Have someone fetch her.”

It took Joan nearly an hour to answer his summons. By then, James had drunk Davina’s medicinal dram and several tankards of ale. The pain in his arm had finally dulled, but his wits remained sharp.

Joan entered the great hall and strolled regally toward them, her maid trailing dutifully behind her. She waited while the servant cleaned the bench of soot, then perched on the edge of it, crossed her ankles, and arranged the skirt of her gown artfully over her legs.

She was dressed in a formal silk gown that matched the color of her eyes. The neck and sleeves were intricately embroidered with gold threads. There was a long, white silk veil and a jewel-encrusted gold circlet upon her head. Her hair was neatly plaited and pinned atop her head. She was, in truth, the very picture of a wealthy noblewoman.

She was dressed in feminine splendor more suited to a social gathering. No wonder it had taken her so long to make an appearance!

She made no inquiries as to their welfare, nor asked to know what had occurred. Her composure was practiced to the extent that it almost seemed false.

James felt an almost overwhelming urge to grab her by the arm and pull her to her feet, but he refrained. He glanced over at his brother, noting by Malcolm’s annoyed expression that his brother held with a similar notion.

Yet neither would act upon it. They had been raised to respect and revere women. No matter their character.

James took a sip of his ale and regarded Joan steadily for a long moment. “’Tis good of ye to finally join us, Joan. I assume that ye suffered no ill effects from the fire?”

“I am fine.” She let out a dramatic sigh and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “Badly shaken, of course, but unharmed.”

“Truly?” Malcolm drawled. “Ye appear quite calm. Aye, calm and dressed as though ye’re attending court.”

Joan bristled and sat straighter. “Would ye have preferred that I come in my nightclothes, Sir Malcolm?”