Diane Gaston – The Lord’s Highland Temptation (страница 6)
‘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.
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.’
Lucas woke to daylight and a strange room. It took a moment to remember. He was in the house of a Scottish baron and had been cared for by his angel of a daughter—or had that merely been another fevered dream? His head pounded, his mouth tasted foul and his throat felt parched.
He sat up in bed, waiting for a moment until his head stopped spinning, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. When his bare feet touched the cool slate tiles of the floor, he looked down at himself. He wore only his drawers. Where were his clothes? Where was his satchel? His money?
Folded on a nearby chest was a nightshirt. Lucas tossed it aside and opened the chest. There were some clothes in there, but not his own. He rummaged through the chest and found a shirt and breeches that had been made for a more corpulent man. They would fit, especially with the set of braces at the bottom of the chest. Still seated on the bed, he put them on, having to rest at intervals from the exertion. When he gathered strength again he rose and took a step towards the door. His legs wouldn’t hold him and he collapsed on to the bed again.