“Now, don’ go fallin’ to sleep wi’out takin’ yer tea.”
Aileen opened her eyes. She reached forward and obediently sipped the warm drink from one of Sergeant Stewart’s lovely porcelain cups, recognizing the taste of the herbs that made up Dores’s sleeping draught. She didn’t need help falling asleep, of course, but Dores told her the concoction kept the cough from waking her. Both Dores and Catriona agreed that now that the fever was gone, sleep was the best cure for her ailing lungs.
Aileen’s eyelids grew heavy before she finished the tea, the herbs already taking effect. She handed the cup to Dores and sank down into the soft pillows, imagining she heard the creak of footsteps in the passageway. The thought of the sergeant’s concern, fantasy though it might be, brought a smile to her lips, and a comforting warmth wrapped around her heart.
***
Two days later, Dores and Mrs. Ross helped Aileen to bathe and wash her hair. She dressed, giving Brighid a chance to clean her nightclothes. Though the simple tasks drained her strength, she insisted she was well enough to leave the room and wait for Jamie to return from his morning studies. Dores and Mrs. Ross each held on to an arm as they helped her down the stairs. Nearing the bottom, Aileen found herself leaning heavily on the women. Her breathing was labored, and her lungs ached. She gritted her teeth, tired of her body refusing to heal more quickly.
She could feel rather than see the concerned expressions that passed between the women as she stopped in the entry hall, wheezing, and wished she could show them that she didn’t need their worry. But she felt too exhausted to do much of anything but lean on the banister and try to catch her breath.
“Come to the library,” Mrs. Ross said. “There’s a fine view o’ the road. Ye’ll be able to see the lad approachin’. And the sun shines warm on the sofa this time of day.”
Aileen nodded, too out of breath to speak, and allowed herself to be led to the library.
The women sat her on the sofa and, after making sure she was settled with a good view through the window, covered her with a blanket and left her to herself.
Mrs. Ross was right. The sun shining through the large windows felt divine. Aileen leaned back her head and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth on her face. Perhaps once Jamie returned, she’d move to the other side of the house, where the windows faced the orchard. Surely the blossoms were out in full bloom. It must be a glorious view, and the bees would be busily building comb and storing honey. A fretfulness made her open her eyes. She should be tending to the bees. She still had hives to deliver. She must recover.
Once her breathing felt less labored, she looked about the room. During her illness, she’d had plenty of time to think about the man who’d so graciously opened his house to her and Jamie while she convalesced. From her position on the sofa, she allowed her gaze to wander around the shelves, studying the rows of leather-bound books, wondering which were the sergeant’s, if any, and which had come with the house. Did he enjoy reading? she wondered. She herself had never had occasion to learn letters, but she made certain Jamie attended the minister’s lessons. ’Twas important for the boy to be schooled. He would do grand things with his life, she was sure of it, and reading was the first step.
Aileen rose and made her way around the room. She stopped to look at a framed map hanging on the wall, recognizing the shape of the country. She’d always thought Scotland resembled the flame atop a melting candle. She had a general idea where Glencalvie was, of course, on the east coast, but she wasn’t certain of much beyond that. They’d traveled southwest from Strathcarron to Dunaid. That she knew, but she couldn’t locate the village. ’Twas on a deep-ocean firth, but she didn’t know exactly where, and looking at the lines and letters, she couldn’t tell one from another. Not that it mattered. Seein’ one’s location on a map wasn’t necessary when she could look out the window. She and Jamie were safely in Dunaid, away from the Duchess of Sutherland and her factor and, of course, Balfour MacTavish. She looked back to the east side of the map, wondering how far ’twas across the ocean to France. The sergeant’s tales of war only increased her longing to know what had befallen her da.
Footsteps sounded behind her, and Aileen went stiff. The clapping noise on the wooden floor wasn’t made by a woman’s soft shoes. Her cheeks flushed when the steps paused.
“What a delightful surprise ’tis, Mrs. Leslie, to see ye up and movin’.”
His voice was the same she’d heard in her dreams, comforting her through her sickness and speaking gentle words in a low tone. She didn’t know what of that was memory or what was fantasy, but the thought of him holding her, murmuring in his deep voice made her stomach do a slow roll and her heartbeat speed up. Get ahold o’ yerself, lass. She turned and curtseyed. “Good mornin’ to ye, Sergeant.”
His expression took her aback. His eyes were soft, and the right side of his mouth pulled up the slightest bit. He reached forward but then pulled his hand back. “Och, but I’m glad to see ye in fine fettle, lass. I didna think . . .” He blinked and shook his head, stepping closer. “And how are ye feelin’ then?”
“Much better. I canna begin to thank ye for yer hospitality. And for comin’ after me in the rain. Jamie told me—”
He raised his hand, cutting off her words. “No thanks necessary.” His tone was too intimate, and he stood too close.
She folded her arms, resorting to practicality to keep her grounded. “Aye, but I’ll be thankin’ ye all the same.” She kept her voice detached, which gave her a sense of control. “Ye’ve done more for me—for us—than I can repay. This house . . .” She thought of the fragile dishes and her worry that one would smash to bits in her clumsy fingers, the soft sheets and bed with down-filled pillows. She’d never before known such luxury. The gap between the elegance of the manor and her simple cottage life seemed a chasm too wide to cross. This book room alone was larger than her entire home.
Sergeant Stewart wasn’t put off in the least by her manner. When she dared a glance up at him, she saw he still regarded her with warm eyes. “But a wise woman once told me ’tisn’t charity when ye care for someone.”
Aileen opened her mouth but couldn’t find words to reply. The man’s gaze held hers so completely that she couldn’t have looked away if she’d wanted to. For an instant, she was suspended, seeing nothing but deep-brown eyes and not fully understanding what she read in their depths.
A shuffling noise came from outside the library door: footsteps and whispers that she realized came from two nosey auld women. Aileen rolled her eyes and saw the sergeant’s expression mirrored her own. The moment passed, and she took a step back. “Be tha’ as it may, Jamie and I will be out o’ yer hair as soon as—”
“Not until yer hale and hearty, Mrs. Leslie. And I’ll brook no argument on tha’ account.”
She gave a small smile, feeling suddenly quite bashful. “Thank ye, Sergeant.”
“Conall.” He raised a brow as if daring her to disagree with him.
Aileen glanced at the door, aware of the listening ears in the passageway. “Conall.” She spoke the name quietly.
He narrowed his eyes and shook his head then shrugged, and she understood his meaning. He wouldn’t allow the meddlers to bother him, and she shouldn’t either. “Ye look pale, Aileen.” His brow tapped upward at the use of her name as if wondering if he’d overstepped. When she didn’t correct him, he continued, “Do ye need to sit?”
“Not just yet,” she said. “Will ye show me yer book room?”
“Aye.” He lifted her hand and pulled it around his arm but didn’t release his hold on her fingers as he led her toward the bookshelf. “’Tis my favorite room. Perhaps because o’ the great windows or the carved wood mantle. But I canna take credit for the furnishings. ’Tis just how I found it when I moved in. The owner o’ the house, a Mr. Roberts, died near ten years ago, so I’m told. His son lived here for a bit. Did ye know him? Hamish Roberts.”
Aileen shook her head. “Nay. The house was empty when Jamie a
nd I arrived eight years ago.”
“’Tis Hamish I’m rentin’ from,” Conall said. “He’d prefer to be sellin’ the auld place, but I wasna ready for a commitment o’ that sort.”
“The village is glad to see it occupied again. ’Tis too fine a home to sit empty.”
“That ’tis.”
He looked pensive as he spoke, and Aileen wondered if it had to do with the possibility that he’d be leavin’ soon. The thought brought with it a swell of sadness. She wondered if his thoughts were on the same path, but she could not discern his feelings and so turned her gaze to the bookshelf. “And have ye read all these books, Serge—Conall?”
“Not even close.” He smiled, perhaps at her use of his name. “I have found a few new favorites though.” He looked down at her, tipping his head. “And what about yerself? What books are ye fond of?”
“I’ve . . . I don’t ken many books. I don’t read.” Aileen felt her cheeks heat at the admission. “I am fond o’ stories though.”
Conall nodded. “I didna learn myself until a few years ago. A midshipman on the Bellerophon befriended me and spent months showin’ me letters and teachin’ me words.” His eyes looked far away as he spoke, and Aileen wondered about the man who’d taken the time to teach Conall to read. Had he survived the war? She was about to ask when he turned to her. “Would ye wish to read?”
She shrugged. “I haven’t given it much thought. I suppose I would one day.” Truthfully, she’d always wanted to learn. Wanted to know the mysteries hidden away in books. The knowledge, o’ course, but the stories were what she truly longed to know. She imagined stories from all parts of the world—Arabian tales with magic jinn, ancient Greek epics telling of heroes. It all sounded so wonderful. But, she told herself, she’d no time for readin’. And though she didn’t want to admit it, she worried she’d not understand it if someone did try to teach her. What if she couldn’t learn?
She looked away from the books, changing the subject. “I am a bit disappointed not to see yer war medals. Didna ye say the library was filled with dangerous weapons?” She gave a smile to show she was teasing. “I don’t see anythin’ more deadly than a sharpened quill.”
He glanced around the room. “I’d intended to display my uniform and weapons and some o’ the treasures I picked up in my travels—a rainstick from Australia, a folding fan from Spain, things o’ that nature.” He shrugged. “But they don’t hold the same importance for me now. I canna explain it.” He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “I suppose I’m a different man in Dunaid than I was in the war, and sometimes I don’t want to be rememberin’ him.”
His expression was serious, perhaps more so than she’d seen before. And pensive. She didn’t know what memories he was trying to evade, but she understood his need to hide them away. She often wished to escape her own. “I ken what ye mean.” She spoke softly and turned toward the window, giving a gentle tug on his arm as an invitation to accompany her.
She looked down the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jamie, but didn’t see him and so turned away, facing Conall. “So yer a farmer now and not a soldier any longer?”
“I suppose I am.” He looked out the window, but she didn’t think he was seein’ anything. He seemed lost in his thoughts. “’Tis strange how life plays out. My da wanted me to be a farmer. Loved the land, he did, and wished the same for me. But I resisted. Fought with him over the topic daily. I wish I could take back those words.” He closed his eyes then opened them with a wry grin. “And now here I am. As much as I tried to escape it, I’ve become just what he’d hoped. Strangely, I understand now why he wanted it for me. It took goin’ to the other side o’ the world to realize what I had right here at home.” He looked down at her, his eyes pained, but a smile pulled up one side of his mouth. “I’m verra stubborn, ye see.”
“He’d be proud of ye, Conall.”
“I wonder if he’ll ever know. I dinna ken if he still lives. And if he does . . .”
“Ye’ll go to him. To yer family.”
He lifted her hand, studying it as he spoke. “I don’ yet know.”
“’Twill be difficult on the village if ye leave. And Jamie. ’Twould devastate him.” Aileen felt bold, speaking so plainly, but she wished for Conall to know he was needed here in Dunaid. Her son needed him.
“And what aboot his ma?” Conall tipped his head. His eyes seemed a deeper brown. He squinted, looking vulnerable. “If I were to leave Dunaid, would ye miss me too, Aileen?”
She blinked, her mouth going dry, and turned down her eyes, unable to look directly at him as her mind became muddled. “Aye, I would.”
His hand tightened, and when she looked up, she saw his crooked smile.
Heat flooded her cheeks. “Now don’t ye go gettin’ conceited.” Scolding seemed the best strategy to keep her feelings from being exposed. She heard another scuffle outside the door and, along with the women’s whispers, Jamie’s voice.
A moment later he burst into the room. “Mam! Yer mended!” Jamie ran toward her, throwing his arms around her waist.
Aileen couldn’t stop her grin. She’d hardly seen Jamie aside from the few short visits to her sick bed permitted by Dores and Mrs. Ross. She embraced him, kissing his curls. That he didn’t struggle away attested to how worried he’d been. He held her tight, pressing his face into her stomach as his shoulders shook. He sniffed.
Aileen’s throat constricted, and she felt her own tears prickle her eyes. “Och, Jamie, ye’ve nay reason to fear any longer. I’m well now.”
“I worried for ye, Mam,” he said in a tight voice.
Conall touched the small of her back, and she glanced up to see his expression filled with affection as he looked down at the lad.
“Well, there’s no need to worry any longer, mo croí,” she said.
Jamie nodded. He pulled away, wiping his sleeve over his eyes. She thought he looked a bit embarrassed that Conall had seen his emotions. He cleared his throat, swallowing. “Mrs. Ross says we can all take luncheon together if ye feel well enough, Mam.”
At the sound of her name, Mrs. Ross entered, followed by Dores. Both women looked as though they were endeavoring innocent expressions but could not fully keep from smiling at what they’d overheard.
A wave of exhaustion washed over Aileen. ’Twas difficult to remain standin’, and she knew she hadn’t the strength to sit for a meal. “I think I need to rest, love.”
“Perhaps later this evenin’, ye can read a story to yer ma, Jamie?” Conall said. “But only if she’s properly rested.” He winked at Aileen.
“Shall I, Mam?”
“I’d love that.”
Dores came forward, arm outstretched to assist Aileen back up the stairs.
Aileen bent and gave Jamie a kiss on the cheek, quickly before he could move away. She took a step toward Dores then stopped, feeling brave. She turned and kissed Conall as well, feeling the scratch of his whiskers as her lips brushed over his cheek. The rush of courage passed, leaving her horrified at her impulsive act. She took Dores’s arm and hurried from the room, not daring to look back.
Chapter 14
Conall breathed in the crisp morning air, watching the tendrils of fog dissipate from the hills above him as he folded the paper and slid it back into the envelope. He’d read the letter from Mr. Douglas in Fort William enough times that he’d memorized the words, but he kept reading it, perhaps in hopes that he’d know what to do with the information. His parents’ names and he believed his sister’s—if Elspeth had truly married Dougal Fraser, the blacksmith’s son—were listed on a copy of a ship’s manifest. The Dorothy had departed from Greenock more than a year earlier destined to land in Quebec, Canada. Mr. Douglas knew the ship arrived safely but had no further information on the passengers.
There ’twas. The answer he’d waited for. But now his course didn’t seem so clear. He tapped the letter against his leg as he paced back and forth over the rocky ground. Nellie looked at him curiously then returned to munch
ing meadow grass beside the creek. Conall had thought once he discovered where his family had gone, he’d join them, but things had become complicated here in Dunaid. And the majority of the complication could be attributed to a lovely beekeeper and her ginger-haired son.
When he thought of Aileen and Jamie, warmth filled him like a cup of peppermint tea. Aileen’s healing had been a relief, a miracle if he was to believe his housekeeper. He and Jamie had sat up late night after night, worrying. Conall had paced the upstairs passageway in the wee hours, hearing the boy’s weeping and the woman’s body-wracking cough. Day after day, Catriona MacKay and Dores Campbell had mixed and administered herbs. Mr. Graham prayed for her in kirk on Sunday. For those weeks, a heaviness had hung over all of Dunaid. ’Twas as if everyone held their breath, cringing as they awaited news, worrying for one of their own.
But when he’d walked into his library a few days earlier, there she was. He’d been taken aback by the sight. She’d stood before the window, her honey-colored hair glowing in the sun. Her creamy skin had looked a bit pale, and her cheekbones were more pronounced, but she was recovered and smiling, her eyes bright and more beautiful than he’d remembered. And he’d felt . . . something. Something different than the fondness he’d felt before. Something deeper. Perhaps the feeling came because, in her fevered state, he’d seen past the sensible, strong woman to the frightened lass she kept concealed. The seein’ triggered his instinct to protect her—though he didn’t think she’d be pleased if she knew. Aileen Leslie wasn’t one to appreciate a man thinkin’ she needed watchin’ over.
A small twist of guilt pulled inside as he wondered if she’d appreciate the inquiries he’d written to Inverness and Fort William on her behalf. Or would she be irritated at his interference? She’d been incoherent, cryin’ out for her da, burnin’ with fever, and Conall had felt desperate to do anything to help, even if, in the end, the efforts might amount to nothing.
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