Читать книгу The Lord’s Highland Temptation - Diane Gaston - Страница 12

As the night stretched on, the man’s condition worsened. His breathing turned raspy and he often seemed in the throes of some delirium. He kept calling for Bradleigh, reliving something dreadful over and over. There in the middle of the night, all alone, deprived of sleep, Mairi, too, relived something dreadful. Rescuing this man—this Englishman—had cracked open memories she always tried to keep at bay. Now those memories assaulted her and she relived that day when a strange man—another Englishman—had seized her arm, dragged her out of sight of the village road and ruined her life for ever.

Sometimes she could go for days without thinking of it. Then a sound, a word, even a smell, would put her right back in that shrubbery, that horrid man on top of her—

She pressed her fingers into her forehead.

Stop! Do not think of it.

It had been five years ago. It was over. No one knew and she could keep pretending it had never happened.

Mairi turned to the sick man in the bed. He was still. Quiet. Her heartbeat quickened. No. No. He could not die!

She glanced over at Niven, who was still sound asleep. She wanted desperately to wake him so she would not be alone with a dying man, but how cruel would it be to put her brother through what she feared to endure herself?

Finally, the man took a deep, rasping breath and sat up, startling her so much she almost tipped over in her chair.

His feverish eyes fixed on her, but without indication he really saw her. ‘Let me die,’ he begged. ‘Me, not him. My fault.’

His tone was bereft. Mournful. A wave of incredible sadness washed over her. She shook herself. She did not wish to feel sympathy for this man, this stranger. This Englishman.

But she also did not want to witness him dying. She stood and gently pushed on his bare shoulders. ‘Lie down. No talk of dying now. You must rest.’

He lay back against the pillows, breathing hard. ‘No. Better to die.’

The pain in that statement washed through her again. She remembered wishing she could die. After what had been done to her, she’d felt too ashamed to live. She’d once stood on the red sandstone cliff, determined to throw herself over the edge, but then she’d thought of Davina and Niven, and her mother and father. They needed her. No matter her unhappiness, she would not desert them. Gradually, she’d learned to live with what had happened to her.

The stranger rolled on to his side, facing away from her. She strained to see that his chest still moved. She shifted her chair to a better vantage point and tried to stay awake.

* * *

She did not succeed.

She woke to Niven shaking her. ‘Wake up, Mairi! The doctor is here.’

She straightened in the chair and her gaze shot to the stranger. Still breathing, thank God!

He lay on his back, the bedcovers flung off, revealing his undressed state.

Mr Grassie, the doctor, a stocky man who seemed perpetually in a rush, strode into the room, stopping abruptly at the sight of her dishevelled appearance and the half-naked man in the bed nearby.

‘Miss Wallace!’ He eyed her disapprovingly. ‘You are tending to this man?’

She stood and lifted her chin. ‘Niven and I watched over him during the night.’ At least the doctor would not presume she’d been alone with the man.

Mr Grassie’s gaze swept over the stranger as he approached the bed. He felt the man’s pulse, then opened his black bag and pulled out a glass tube. He pressed one end of the tube to the man’s bare chest and the other to his ear, moving it to various spots. He frowned. He put the tube away and opened the man’s eyes with his thumb and looked inside his mouth. The Englishman did not rouse.

Finally Mr Grassie stepped back. ‘His chest is not clear. He is gravely ill. How did he come to be here?’

‘Niven and Davina found him at the standing stones,’ Mairi told him. ‘He’s not been sensible enough to tell us anything more.’

Mr Grassie gestured to the scars on the man’s chest. ‘He was a soldier, I’d wager. Those are sabre cuts. I’ve seen the like before.’ Mr Grassie had once been an army surgeon.

‘A soldier!’ Niven’s eyes kindled with interest.

Mairi’s brows knitted. ‘What was an English soldier doing on our property?’

Mr Grassie looked up at her. ‘English, is he?’

‘In his ravings, he spoke with an English accent.’ He’d called for whisky and wished he would die. ‘What are we to do? Is there some medicine for him?’

The doctor shrugged. ‘I’ll have the apothecary mix up something. It might help his breathing.’

‘Might help?’ This was not very encouraging.

He gave her a direct look. ‘If the fever doesn’t break soon, well, there is no hope for him.’

‘Do you mean he could die?’ cried Niven. ‘He must not die.’

Mr Grassie patted Niven’s shoulder. ‘Only time will tell, son.’ He picked up his bag. ‘Give him broth or tea. He’ll need the fluids to flush out the fever. And limit who tends to him. I’ve seen this grippe in the village. It is highly contagious.’

That did it. Mairi would tend to him alone and no one besides Niven would enter the room.

‘Shall I stop above stairs and report this to your father or mother?’ the doctor asked.

She knew he was in a hurry. ‘I will tell them.’ Or some version of the doctor’s report. She did not wish her parents to fret. In any event, they were likely still abed. The morning was not yet very advanced.

‘I will come tomorrow if I can.’ Mr Grassie shook his head. ‘But there is a lot of this sickness about.’

‘Come when you can, sir.’ She walked him to the door. ‘I’ll have Niven or one of the footmen collect the medicine from the apothecary this afternoon.’

The doctor nodded and took one more glance at the patient. ‘I wish I had more to offer.’

So did Mairi.

As he was crossing the threshold, Davina appeared in the hallway. ‘Good morning, Mr Grassie,’ she said brightly. ‘How is he?’

Mr Grassie hesitated to answer her.

Mairi broke in. ‘Let Mr Grassie be on his way, Davina. I’ll fill you in.’

The doctor nodded gratefully and hurried away.

Niven came up behind Mairi. ‘He said the man could die, Davina!’

‘Oh, no!’ Davina cried.

Niven couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Why alarm Davina that way?

‘We will not let him die,’ Mairi assured her, although the truth was more uncertain. ‘We will take care of him.’

Davina gave her an earnest look. ‘I will help. What can I do?’

Mairi certainly would not risk Davina becoming ill. ‘The doctor said he is very contagious and that we must limit who is in contact with him, so I do not want you in his room.’ Even if there was no chance of contagion, she did not want Davina in the presence of a half-naked Englishman. ‘I’ve already been exposed, so I will continue to care for him.’

‘I can help, too,’ Niven said. ‘I’ve also been exposed.’

‘Yes, you can help,’ she agreed. ‘But I must be the only one who touches him. No sense you getting sick.’

‘I must do something, too!’ Davina insisted.

‘Help Mrs Cross. She really needs help and I won’t be able to assist her,’ Mairi said. ‘Or go with Niven to pick up the medicine.’

Davina pursed her lips. ‘Oh, very well.’

She stormed off, and Mairi, still very weary, returned to the bedside of their patient.

* * *

After the doctor left, Mairi sent MacKay and John out to look for this other man the Englishman kept raving about. Had he called him his brother? No one was found, but they did retrieve a satchel she presumed belonged to the Englishman. She and Niven searched through it and discovered a purse full of money, but nothing that told them anything about the owner. At least there would be money to pay Mr Grassie, which was one worry off Mairi’s shoulders.

* * *

The Englishman remained feverish for two days straight. Mairi fed him the medicine the doctor had ordered. She pushed him to drink broth and tea. She bathed his skin with cool cloths and remained by his side with only short breaks to eat and change clothes. She no longer insisted Niven stay with her. The man was no threat to anyone in his state and she was long past any limit propriety would dictate. She did ask Niven to fetch things for her and to sit with the man while she caught a little sleep, but that was all.

The doctor returned on the second day and declared it a hopeful sign that their patient was still alive, but he also cautioned that the fever needed to break soon.

The hours of care Mairi devoted to the man played havoc with her emotions. He was still a stranger, an Englishman—a whisky drinker—young and strong enough to be an object of fear, but, at the same time, he was so very ill. His life depended on her care. She swung from feeling great compassion for his suffering to wishing he had never entered their property. His ravings both disturbed her and piqued her curiosity. What had he done that tormented him so?

She discovered the Englishman’s ravings dissipated if she talked to him. So, even though he lay insensible, his breathing still laboured, she rattled on to him, about how they’d found him and brought him to the house, about how they’d found his satchel, about how they did not know who he was or where he belonged.

She also scolded him for wanting to die.

‘You must not die, you know,’ she told him. ‘Not after Niven and Davina saved you. It would hurt them greatly to think their good deed had such a terrible result. They are so very young, you see. Too young to know how difficult living can be. It would hurt them badly. So you must not die.’

He shook his head back and forth, as if he’d heard her.

‘Do not disagree with me, sir!’ she went on. ‘If they had not come upon you, you would have got your wish.’ She yawned. Talking helped her stay awake as well. ‘You owe them your life.’

To her surprise he turned towards her and opened his eyes. They still looked as feverish as ever.

‘Should have left me,’ he murmured.

‘And have your death on their consciences?’ she countered. ‘You cannot wish that on them.’

His expression turned even more bleak. ‘Should be me to die,’ he rasped. ‘Do not want to live.’

She leaned closer. ‘Listen to me! Such a feeling passes. I know. You must live for Niven’s and Davina’s sakes. Mr Grassie thinks you are some sort of soldier. If so, you should fight now to live, just as you would do in battle.’

Whether he heard her, she could not say. ‘Thought you were an angel. Thought I was already dead.’

No. She was definitely not an angel, not despoiled as she was. ‘You must fight to stay alive.’ As she had. She’d fought her attacker, but he’d overpowered her. She’d also fought her own death wish. And won.

‘Fight,’ he said so softly she was uncertain she’d heard him.

She went on, trying to push away those despairing times. ‘You are not the only one, you know, who must fight to live. Or the only one who has regrets.’

‘Regret,’ he repeated.

She went on. ‘You may not realise it, but there will be ways you are still needed. There are people who will suffer if not for your help. You must simply endure and persevere.’

She was sitting close so he could hear her. He reached over and grasped her hand. Her impulse was to pull away, but if he needed that small comfort, who was she to deny it to him?

‘Angel,’ he murmured.

His eyes closed again and soon he slept as fitfully as before.

* * *

That third night it seemed as if the Englishman’s fever worsened. Mairi despaired. She’d done all she could, but he thrashed even harder in the bed, calling always for Bradleigh. Bradleigh. She was exhausted and near tears when he finally quieted. He would die, she knew it. Now she needed to stay awake so he would not be alone when that moment came.

But in spite of her resolve, her eyelids drooped.

* * *

When she woke herself, she had no idea how long she’d slept. How could she have dozed off at such an important time? One of the lamps had burned out, and in the dim light of the one remaining lamp, the man looked very still. Was he breathing? She could not tell.

Tentatively she extended her hand, preparing herself to find him cold to the touch. She pressed her hand to his forehead.

Not cold. Not hot, either!

She touched her own forehead. Same temperature. She touched him again. The fever had broken!

‘Oh!’ she cried aloud. ‘Thank God. Thank God.’

* * *

Lucas opened his eyes at the sound of the voice that had echoed through his dreams, that entrancing voice that was the lifeline he’d grasped on to. Next to him sat a dark-haired young woman whose pale skin and blue eyes seemed ethereal in the lamplight.

She broke into a smile. ‘You are awake!’

He had just enough energy to nod.

She jumped up from her seat and came even closer. ‘You should drink something. Are you able to sit? Let me help you.’

She placed her hands, so warm and gentle, on his bare skin and helped him pull himself up. Where were his clothes? Why was he half-naked in front of this exquisite creature? He couldn’t speak.

She turned to a table and picked up a cup, bringing it to his lips. One sip convinced him he was very thirsty. He drank all of it.

And could finally speak. ‘I don’t remember—’

‘What happened to you?’ she finished for him. ‘You have been very ill with a fever, but it has broken now. You’ll soon get well.’ She sounded very relieved.

He remembered now. Remembered fevered dreams. Dreams of Bradleigh, impaled by the French cuirassier. Dreams of an angel. ‘You.’ His voice rasped. ‘Do I know you?’

‘No. You are not from here,’ she responded. ‘My brother and sister found you. We brought you here.’

‘Here?’

‘Scotland. Ayrshire.’

That was right. He’d wanted to get as far away from Foxgrove as he could and he’d not cared where. He’d headed north into Scotland and ridden from inn to inn, drinking enough whisky to keep him so constantly in his cups he didn’t have to think about...anything.

‘Village?’ Not that it mattered.

‘You are not in a village,’ she explained. ‘You are in the home of my father, the Baron of Dunburn.’

She was a baron’s daughter? Not a tavern maid? He’d assumed this was an inn. ‘How did I get here?’

She sat again. ‘My brother and sister found you on our land, insensible from fever. We have taken care of you.’

He had a glimmer of a memory. Of leaving an inn where the stranger with whom he’d shared a room had coughed and hacked the night through. Of somewhere losing his horse and climbing hill after hill in the rain.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his words caught. ‘More. Drink,’ he finally managed to gasp.

She rose and poured more tea into the cup and brought it to his lips again. This time he wrapped his hands around hers and held on while he drank.

‘How long have I been here?’ he asked.

‘Three days,’ she said.

Three days?

He stared at her, the angel whose voice had called him back. She’d stayed by his side for three days? A baron’s daughter?

She poured him another cup of tea. ‘You were very feverish.’ She handed him the cup this time.

He drank gratefully.

‘You kept calling out for Bradleigh.’ Her lovely brow knitted. ‘Was he with you? We searched, but could not find him.’

He glanced away from her. ‘My brother. He was not with me.’

‘Thank goodness.’ She sighed. ‘I was quite worried.’

No need. Bradleigh was beyond worry.

Lucas wished there was whisky in that cup. He slid back down in the bed.

‘Sleep now,’ she said and lifted his blankets to cover him up like his mother used to do when he was in leading strings. ‘Now that your fever is gone, I’ll leave you to sleep. But I’ll be back in the morning.’

She extinguished the lamp and the only light in the room came from the glowing coals in the fireplace.

When she reached the door she turned back to him. ‘Goodnight. Sleep well.’