by Ava Stone
The two men stared past her with wide, surprised eyes at the blade sticking out of the wall.
Doctor Alcott pushed his fingers through his hair before looking to Chetwey. “What happened?”
“You threw a blade at me.” Brighid stepped further into the room, eyeing them both with suspicion. “That is what happened.”
“No, he didn’t,” Chetwey insisted. “He was about to cut into my arm when it flew from his hand.”
Dr. Alcott glanced down, turning his hand over and over. “There was a sudden cold breeze and then it was yanked from my grip.”
She stilled, and looked between the two. They were not making this up. Dr. Alcott was a bit pale, as was Chetwey, though she had expected him to be. They were clearly disturbed by what had just occurred—almost as disturbed as she was.
Brighid shivered and glanced about the room. She had heard ghosts haunted Marisdùn, but she had never encountered one during her many visits. “Thank you,” she said to no one in particular.
“Who are you thanking?” Chetwey asked.
“The ghost,” Brighid announced as she came toward the bed.
“Ghost,” Chetwey scoffed. “I am sure there is a reasonable explanation.”
“I am not so certain,” Dr. Alcott mumbled as he walked to pull the blade from the wall. He studied it, and held it in his hand as if testing the weight. “Baffling.”
“What are you doing here, Brighid?”
Dr. Alcott’s head jerked up. “Ah, I was wondering if you knew one another.”
“We do!” Brighid answered brightly.
“She’s the witch who lives in the woods.”
“I’m no witch, Blake Chetwey,” Brighid argued. Each time he called her that name there was a little stab of pain to her heart.
Dr. Alcott chuckled and came forward.
“What would you call someone who believes in ghosts and mixes up concoctions?” Blake demanded of Dr. Alcott.
“An herbalist or healer, perhaps.”
At least Dr. Alcott respected her. It was more than she could say for her sometimes neighbor. Though, if given a choice, she would prefer to have the approval of Blake Chetwey.
Dr. Alcott still held the blade as he approached the bed, but Brighid placed herself between him and Chetwey. “You aren’t going to try and bleed him again, are you?”
He furrowed his brow. “I have little choice…and little time,” he said, looking about the room. Did he also suspect there was a ghost in their presence? His hand shook, unable to hold the blade still. He should be frightened, but not from a ghost. If he came near Chetwey with that blade again, Brighid would do him harm.
“Bloodletting rarely heals.” She turned from him and set the tray on a small table beneath a window. “Besides, are you sure you want to risk it again?” She turned a smiled at the doctor. “This time the ghost might aim the blade at you.”
He shuddered, but gripped the handle tighter. “What would you suggest, Miss Glace?”
“Tea.” She poured the steaming liquid into a cup. The leaves had steeped long enough.
Dr. Alcott’s eyebrows drew together. “What type of tea?”
“I am not sure I wish to drink anything you prepared.” Chetwey eyed her and the teacup with concern.
“Would you rather I leave and let him bleed you?”
Chetwey glowered at her for a moment. “Bring it here.”
“Aren’t we out of sorts today?” She glided over to him. Despite his opinion of her, Brighid was determined to see him recovered.
“Just one moment, Miss Glace.” The doctor stepped between her and the bed. “I will determine what is best after I know what is in the tea.”
The small case that had been sitting on the bedside table that held the items Dr. Alcott needed for a bloodletting clattered to the floor. Nobody had touched it, nor was there an open window or breeze in the room.
All three of them stared at it. A moment later Brighid glanced up at Dr. Alcott. “Wormwood.” She stepped past him but he gently grasped her arm.
Brighid sighed. “It is an Artemisia and has been used for centuries to treat this condition.”
He frowned. “I believe I may have read a reference or two.”
She sighed. “Dr. Alcott, you really should not discount herbals that have a successful history.”
He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, but he held his silence.
“Besides, as we are at Marisdùn and there is clearly someone who does not wish you to bleed Chetwey, we should do things my way.”
Dr. Alcott glanced about the room. “I suppose you are correct…this time.” He bent to pick up the small case.
“Of course I am,” Brighid smiled sweetly.
Chetwey eyed her with suspicion. “Are you certain this won’t kill me?”
“Blake Chetwey, if I wished to do you harm, I would have found a way already.” She settled on the bed beside him. “However, do not tempt me to reconsider.”
Chetwey sniffed at the tea.
“It is for drinking,” she chastised.
With a frown, Chetwey pushed up on his elbows, cringing as if in pain, but allowed Brighid to bring the cup to his lips. He drank until it was gone and then fell back against the pillows, an exhausted sigh escaping from his lips.
“Well, I suppose we will see what happens now,” Dr. Alcott announced as he pushed the case holding the bloodletting tools back into his black bag.
A cool breeze swept through the room and the bed curtain ruffled in the wind before everything stilled again.
Dr. Alcott cleared his throat. “I believe I will take my leave.” With that he rushed toward the door and exited the room.
Brighid couldn’t help but chuckle.
Chetwey drew the covers up to his chin. “This castle is drafty.”
She hitched a brow. “That wasn’t a draft.”
He narrowed his eyes on her. “Don’t start with that ghost business.”
“One would think after what your brother-in-law experienced you would be more willing to believe.” She brushed a hand against his brow. “Someday, Blake Chetwey, you will believe.”
Blake opened his eyes to a darkened room. The only light came from the dying embers in the fire. “What time is it?” He strained his eyes, looking about, but there was no clock that he could see. Though he ached, he wasn’t in near as much pain he had been before Brighid had given him the tea. Not that he would ever admit as much to her.
He was hot, however. So very hot.
He pushed the blankets away so that nothing covered him, but it did little good. If he had the strength to move from the bed he would take a dip in the lake.
Laughter bled through the door and he strained to listen. It was Thorn and Garrick, and they sounded as if they were deep in their cups. If he wasn’t ill, he would probably be in the same condition as his friends. More than likely, they’d feel as rotten as him tomorrow.
There was a light tap at the door before it slowly opened. Thorn held a candle above him. “Are you awake?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” Blake mumbled.
Thorn stepped further into the room. “How are you feeling?”
“About the same,” he grumbled.
Thorn looked him up and down and quirked a smile. “You really should cover yourself before a maid stumbles into the room.”
If it was anyone else, he might be embarrassed, but this was Thorn, who thought clothing was a dreadful inconvenience most of the time. “Bugger off. I’m hot.” Earlier he had a nightshirt on, but couldn’t recall when it disappeared.
“I was surprised you owned a nightshirt.” Thorn picked up the crumpled piece of material from the floor. “I can’t sleep in the blasted things.”
“Only when I am sick because of the chills,” Blake mumbled.
“If you weren’t so sick I would suspect you had been entertaining a woman by the look of things, what with the bed in disarray and your clothes strewn about the floor.”
If only that
were the real reason for his current state of undress. Unfortunately, he had probably pulled it off when he’d become hot. He had done so before. “Help me get it back on.”
Thorn shook it out and pulled the shirt over Blake’s head, helping him get his arms into the sleeves, much like one would dress a child. It was humiliating to be so weak in front of a friend. Thorn pulled the cotton material down so that it covered his knees, and then reached to pull the covers up, but Blake stopped him. “It is too hot.”
His friend frowned and touched his forehead. “You are burning up.”
“It will pass.” Blake sighed and rested against the pillows.
“I should send for the doctor.”
Alarm shot through Blake. “No!”
Thorn pulled back in surprise.
“He doesn’t know how to treat this. He said as much.” Blake wasn’t about to tell Thorn that Dr. Alcott thought bloodletting was the best option. His friend might just allow the doctor to go through with it.
“There is nothing you can take?” Thorn seated himself on the chair beside the bed. “What of the Dover’s Powder Miss Alcott gave you earlier?”
She hadn’t left any, nor had the doctor. What he needed was more tea, but Brighid couldn’t help him now. It was late and she was probably asleep in her grandmother’s cottage.
“You’re awake.”
Blake turned to find Brighid peeking her head through the door and relief swept through him. He hated being sick, especially alone in the middle of the night. Of course, Thorn was here, but he didn’t really count. However, Brighid caring enough to check on him this late brought a measure of peace. Not that he wanted to examine the reason very closely.
Thorn came to his feet and chuckled. “It’s a good thing I arrived when I did.”
Blake wasn’t sure if it was because Brighid would have found him in a complete state of undress lying in bed, or that Thorn saw yet another woman he could charm. He eyed his friend suspiciously. He had better not think of trying to charm, or doing anything else with Brighid.
“I’ve brought more tea.”
“Why are you still here?” he asked out of curiosity.
“To see that you get well.” She smiled as she approached the bed, a cup in her hand.
“Shouldn’t you have returned home by now?”
“I sent word that I would remain at the castle until you are well and had some of my things brought over.”
Thorn stepped into her path. “Allow me to introduce myself.” He gave a slight bow. “I am Mr. David Thorn.”
“It is nice to meet you. Are you a friend of Blake’s?”
Thorn hitched a brow as he turned to him and mouthed Blake?
He shouldn’t be surprised that Brighid’s use of his Christian name would intrigue his friend. Perhaps it would dissuade Thorn from pursuing her. “Miss Glace is from the area. I’ve known her a long time.”
Thorn nodded knowingly. Did he assume there was something between them? “She is a witch that lives in the woods,” Blake explained.
Brighid stepped around Thorn. “I’ve a mind to dump this over your head, Blake Chetwey.”
“Witch?” Thorn asked. “You are welcome to bewitch me.”
Bloody hell. The last thing he needed was Thorn seducing Brighid. She was an innocent young woman and would not be prepared for whatever debauchery his friend might attempt. “Leave off, Thorn.”
His friend chuckled. “If you insist.” He backed away from the bed.
“Drink.” Brighid held the cup to him.
Blake pulled himself to a sitting position and did as she ordered. He shouldn’t call her a witch. It was safer to think of her in those terms instead of a lovely, enchanting young woman with black-as-midnight hair, porcelain complexion and silver-grey eyes. And those lips, so plump and rosy, meant to be kissed often.
He blinked. Why the hell was he thinking of Brighid in such terms? It was surely the fever. Witch, he reminded himself silently.
Once he had drained the contents from the cup he lay back down. Brighid reached to pull the covers over him. “Too hot.”
She smiled gently. “You won’t be for long.”
He dearly hoped not, but he could always remove the blankets when she was gone.
“Get some rest and I will check on you later.”
“Allow me to escort you out, Miss Glace.”
She stopped and studied Thorn. “I believe you need to find your bed, Mr. Thorn. If your head is paining you too much in the morning, seek me out for a remedy.”
Thorn gave her a disarming smile. “I would be happy to seek you out, though I won’t need a remedy.”
She snorted. “By the ale on your breath, you surely will.” She turned to Blake. “Rest.” With that she glided out the door leaving Thorn behind.
“Stay away from her,” Blake warned his friend.
Thorn studied him. “Ah, so you wish her for yourself.”
“I want no such thing.” Blake scrunched his brow and pushed back into the pillows. “She is not for you. I know your type and she is not it.”
Thorn smiled broadly. “Perhaps my tastes are changing.” Turning, Thorn sauntered from the room and closed the door behind him. Blake could hear his friend whistling until he was out of earshot.
Blake closed his eyes and hoped Thorn would not attempt to seduce Brighid before he was well. Not that he cared for the witch, but he didn’t want her ruined by Thorn either.
“It is so blasted hot.” He moved to push the blankets away but remembered that Brighid said he would not be hot for long. It was better to suffer now than be awakened because he was chilled. He knew better than anyone that only sleep helped him get through these episodes.
A moment later cold air brushed his cheek and then seeped into his body, as if he was blanketed in a cool cloud. Either there was a welcome draft in this room, or Brighid’s tea was his cure.
Brighid washed the cup and prepared the items for the next cup of tea. She was the only one in the kitchen and just a few lamps were lit since the rest of the servants had found their beds. She should as well. She glanced back at the door leading to the herbarium. It was difficult to go in there during the light of day, but she certainly couldn’t sleep in there as her ancestors had done. Luckily, a room had been provided in the servants’ quarters but she wasn’t tired. She could return and check on Blake. If he were awake they could visit, but she didn’t wish to disturb him. Besides, why should she want to sit with a man that repeatedly called her a witch?
Did he truly believe she was one or was he only mocking her? Either way, it hurt. Would he ever see her differently?
Oh bother, she had to get over her infatuation with that man. She had been holding a tendre for him since she was fourteen, but enough was enough already.
With a sigh she sank to the stool. What to do?
Perhaps she should brew herself a cup of chamomile tea, but she didn’t want to go out into the herbarium just for a few leaves. The room frightened her, if she were being honest with herself, especially at night.
A book?
No, she wasn’t much in the mood for reading.
Brighid stood. She had always wanted to see more of Marisdùn and this was the perfect opportunity. She might even encounter a ghost.
A grin pulled at her lips. Everyone else had encountered them, maybe she would finally get the privilege as well.
Lifting the lamp, Brighid glided out of the kitchen intent on finding at least one spirit wandering about. It was the middle of the night—wouldn’t this be the most likely time to find one?
The first room she entered was what, she assumed, was the parlor. Holding the lamp high, she stepped further inside until she stood in the center. The door closed and she whipped around to see who was there, but she was quite alone. Blast. She had hoped it was a spirit.
Perhaps she should rethink this plan. She really shouldn’t be wandering about the house when she hadn’t even met the owner. And, as he had five bachelors with him, she shou
ldn’t risk encountering them. Of course, she knew Blake was harmless, but the same could not be said for Mr. Thorn. He had been flirting with her. Even though no one had ever done so before, she recognized his brazen attempts.
A giggle bubbled up. As if she would wish to bewitch him. If it were in her power to bewitch anyone, it would be Blake.
With a heavy sigh she left the parlor and searched the other rooms on the floor. There were no ghosts. At least none that she could see, and it was quite disappointing. With a hand on the railing, she walked up the wide stairs to the second landing. Blake’s room was only two doors down. Should she check on him before retiring to the third floor?
Brighid paused in the middle of the corridor, not certain what to do.
He was ill and she had given him tea, but what if he needed something else?
Yes, she should check in on him one last time. Her concern was that of a healer only, of course.
She walked quietly to his door and lifted her hand to knock but stopped. If he was asleep she didn’t wish to wake him. Instead, she turned the handle and slowly opened the door. The room was brighter than it had been earlier and she assumed someone had come along and built up the fire, but if there were a maid or footman about she hadn’t seen them.
Brighid lifted the lamp higher. As she turned toward the bed in the center of the room, her heart lodged in her throat and the stab of pain in her gut nearly crippled her.
Draped across Blake’s slumbering form was a young woman in a nightdress. Her blonde hair cascaded across him and her head rested on his chest.
Where had the woman come from? Nobody told her that Blake had brought a woman with him. It wasn’t his wife because Brighid would have learned if he had married. Was it his mistress? Did the other gentlemen bring mistresses as well?
And, if she was Blake’s ladylove, why hadn’t she been treating Blake during his illness?
The more she looked at them the more it hurt. Tears sprang to her eyes as she backed out of the room and closed the door. She always knew Blake would never be for her, she just never expected it to hurt so much to find him in another’s arms.