Through the Veneer of Time by Vera Bell

Author:Vera Bell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: time travel medieval, time travel fiction romance, irish romance historical, fbi serial killer fiction, suspense romance series, mystery romance thriller, mystery suspense romance
Publisher: Timebound Publishing LLC
Published: 2029-09-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Three

A Ride on the Mainland

November 10, 1559, Ulster, Ireland

A month had passed, but nothing changed. Terrified to close my eyes at night, I struggled to stay awake until overtaken with weariness—trying not to think of him, trying not to think at all. When sleep came, it was brief and restless, filled with fragments of agony and terror, halted by my screams and Aedan’s desperate attempts to soothe me. But he was powerless against the invisible monster. So I relived the horrors night after night, stifling my screams, then giving in and screaming in the end.

My mother brought medicines from Ida: a tincture to calm my nerves and rosemary sprigs to ward off night terrors. The tincture made my gorge rise, and the sprigs’ odor stirred up memories of the leper-wood. My morning queasiness, too, served as a constant reminder of the plunder. For the mist had lifted. The babe thriving in my fouled womb could only be the monster’s spawn—a leech devouring me from within.

But I hadn’t the courage to tell Aedan this last bit of the devastating truth, and he mistook my state for the additional after effects of my ordeal. I did nothing to dissuade him, unable to bring more bad tidings down on him and fancying there would be time enough to tell him. My figure yet unchanged, some days I could almost affect an empty womb. Other days—especially when the queasiness lingered—I loathed the babe more than I thought possible, bitter and remorseful for not drinking the brew.

For the full month, Aedan idled in the house with his officers, occasionally leaving for no longer than dawn-to-dusk and always returning at nightfall. Each night, I remained on my side of the bed, and he on his, our marriage reduced to only the briefest and the most necessary exchanges.

His ardent vows notwithstanding, my aversion to his touch had to be a blow to him. So a question plagued me without hope of resolution: how long before our lack of intimacy extinguished the flame that once was us? For I’d not delude myself. A man such as Aedan O’Neal wasn’t born to be celibate. He stayed his nature now, but how long before he grew impatient, then distant, then gone? My numbness was my answer as its thickening veil obscured these thoughts and kept them at bay.

Today was no different. As had become my habit, I remained in the spacious chamber upon waking, staring, sightless, at an exquisite footed urn of gold, enamel, and filigree atop the garment chest. I was drifting off to sleep when Aedan walked in.

“Meet Betha, my Neave, your new waiting-woman.” He beckoned to someone behind him. “She’ll get you ready.”

“Ready for what?” She wasn’t Aine. None could take her place.

“I mean to bring you along on a boat ride to the mainland and for a bit of riding after.”

“Would that I could.” I turned from him and Betha.

“You’ve impounded yourself long enough, a mhuirnín,” Aedan cajoled. “I would that you joined me today.”

He left without waiting for my reply.

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