The Lord's Highland Temptation

by Diane Gaston

  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.’

  Chapter Three

  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.

  Voices sounded from outside the room. One voice came closer. A woman. A familiar voice. ‘He is in here.’

  The door opened and the lovely creature of his dreams entered the room. Lucas expelled a grateful breath. She was real. In the daylight from the window he could clearly see she was taller than most women, elegantly so. Her mahogany hair was coming loose from its pins, framing her face with its arched brows, nearly perfect nose and lips and an unmistakable look of intelligence.

  He managed to stand.

  ‘You are awake.’ She sounded surprised. ‘And dressed.’

  He gestured to the chest. ‘I found some clothes.’

  With her was an older man in a black suit, carrying a black-leather bag. ‘This is the doctor, Mr Grassie.’ She turned to the doctor. ‘As you can see, he is much better.’

  The doctor had seen him before? Of that he had no memory.

  His legs weakened and he grasped the bedpost to keep from falling. ‘Forgive me. My strength fails.’

  ‘No need for apology,’ the doctor answered. ‘Please do sit on the bed and let me examine you.’

  The doctor opened his bag and took out a glass tube, which he placed against Lucas’s chest. ‘Breathe in and out.’ He moved the tube to various spots on Lucas’s chest before putting it down. ‘Your lungs are much improved. Almost no congestion. How do you feel?’

  ‘My head aches and my throat feels dry.’ Lucas stole a glance at the young woman, who waited by the door with her arms crossed. There was a warmth in her expression that loosened one of the knots inside him.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ the doctor ordered.

  Lucas complied.

  After looking inside Lucas’s mouth, the doctor stepped back. ‘Your throat is better, too. A little red still, but that might be from lack of fluids. You’ve had a bad case of the grippe. There is too much of it going around. It can be very contagious, you know. Your fever has broken, so that is a good sign, although it will return if you exert yourself and you might not be able to throw it off next time. You need rest.’

  The baron’s daughter frowned.

  Lucas turned back to the doctor. ‘Mr Grassie, I presume I am imposing on this family’s hospitality. Perhaps I should gather my belongings and retire to an inn somewhere.’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘No, no. That you must not do. You could spread this all over the county. Rest here. At least ten days. If your symptoms continue to abate, you will not be contagious by then.’ He turned to the young woman. ‘He must rest. You can accommodate him, can you not?’

  A worry line creased her brow. ‘I suppose so.’

  Had Lucas misread her earlier warmth?

  Lucas directed his gaze to her. ‘I will not stay if I am imposing.’

  The doctor packed his bag again and shut it. He glared at the young woman. ‘Miss Wallace, shall I speak to your father or mother about whether this man may recuperate here?’

  So her name was Miss Wallace. Not married, then. An eldest daughter.

  Her face coloured. ‘You need not trouble Papa or Mama, Doctor,’ she retorted in as sharp a tone. ‘We will not turn away a sick man.’

  ‘Excellent.’ The doctor picked up his bag.

  ‘About payment?’ Miss Wallace sounded uncertain as the doctor walked towards the door.

  Lucas spoke up. ‘I am well able to pay. Assuming my purse is with my clothing.’

  ‘I will send a bill,’ the doctor said. He hurried out of the door without once asking Lucas’s name.

  Lucas’s gaze met Miss Wallace’s and held, but before either spoke, two young people burst into the room.

  ‘You are awake!’ The girl appeared to be a younger version of the beautiful Miss Wallace, this one on the verge of womanhood rather than in its finest bloom.

  With her was a youth, a brother by the family looks they shared. He, also, was younger than Miss Wallace. He reminded Lucas of the young ensigns sent to war when barely breeched.

  ‘How are you, sir?’ the boy asked. ‘Mairi said your fever broke during the night. What did Mr Grassie say?’

  Her name was Mairi.

  Mairi Wallace ignored her brother’s question and shooed them back to the doorway. ‘You two must leave at once. Wait for me. I will be right out.’ She closed the door and turned back to Lucas. ‘My brother and sister. Your rescuers.’

  ‘I hope I might thank them,’ he said, although he wasn’t yet sure whether he was glad he had not perished.

  He tried to stand, this time bracing himself against the side of the bed. ‘Miss Wallace, no matter what the doctor said, if you prefer I leave—’

  Her expression softened again. ‘No. No. We will not turn you out. You must forgive me if that is what you thought.’

  He looked around the room, which seemed plainly furnished and devoid of decoration. ‘Whose room am I in? I gather this is not a guest room.’

  She nodded, but her expression seemed...uneasy. ‘This is our butler’s room. He...he left our employ recently, so this room was not occupied. The silver is kept in another room, not here. And, for now, the housekeeper holds the keys.’

  Why mention the silver? Did she think he might pinch it?

  He looked down at himself. ‘Are these the butler’s clothes I am wearing?’

  ‘They were in the chest? We did not realise he’d left anything behind.’

  Had the man left in haste? Lucas wondered. ‘And my clothing? My satchel?’

  ‘They were washed and brushed,’ she replied. ‘Possibly they are dry now. I will check. I charged Niven with keeping your purse.’

  ‘Niven?’

  ‘My brother.’

  The intruding youth, no doubt.

  She turned to leave.

  He stopped her. ‘Miss Wallace, wait.’

  She turned back.

  ‘You should know who I am.’ It was on the tip of his tongue to introduce himself as Lucas Johns-Ives, son of the Earl of Foxgrove, but was he not now Viscount Bradleigh—his father’s heir—his brother’s title? He could not bear to be that person, could not bear taking his brother’s name and rightful place. Disappointing his father. He wanted none of it.

  ‘I am... Lucas. John Lucas.’

  That was who he would be, plain John Lucas.

  She nodded and smiled, albeit sadly. ‘I will bring you something to eat, Mr Lucas. You must be hungry.’

  He smiled back and fancied his smile a reflection of hers. ‘I am ravenous, Miss Wallace.’

  * * *

  Mairi’s heart raced as she stepped into the hallway. In daylight, without the pallor of illness, he was quite the handsomest man she’d ever seen, even with three days’ worth of beard. Even more disturbing was the connection she felt with him, as if nursing him through his fever had somehow linked him to her in a way she did not understand. She shivered, trying to shake the feeling away.

  Davina an
d Niven accosted her.

  ‘Is he recovered?’ Davina asked. ‘What did Mr Grassie say?’

  Niven chimed in. ‘What was wrong with him?’

  What was wrong was that he was a stranger—an Englishman—who would now be a guest in their house for at least ten days.

  She pushed past them. ‘I need to speak with Cook. He needs food and water.’

  They followed her to the kitchen.

  ‘At least answer us!’ Davina cried.

  Mairi held up a finger to warn them to give her a moment.

  Cook was busy stirring something in a pot over the fire.

  ‘Mrs MacNeal, our patient is hungry. What might I bring him?’

  Mrs MacNeal’s wrinkles creased into a sympathetic look. ‘Oh, the poor lad. I take it he is feeling better?’ Cook had kept her supplied with broth and tea for him the last three days.

  ‘He is much better,’ she replied. ‘His fever has broken.’

  Cook winced as she tottered over to a shelf where the servants’ dishes were stacked. The poor woman’s arthritis must be paining her. She ought to be given a nice pension and a little cottage on the estate, not running the kitchen with only one kitchen maid to help.

  ‘Let me help you,’ Mairi said, hurrying to her side.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Mairi.’ The old woman pointed to a high shelf. ‘One of those bowls and a plate will do. The soup is ready. I’m keeping it warm for dinner. And there is fresh bread.’

  ‘I’ll cut some bread,’ Davina offered. She skipped over to the bread box and took out a loaf.

  ‘He’ll want some ale, I expect,’ Niven added. ‘Shall I get him some?’

  Mairi nodded.

  ‘I’ll slice some cheese for him, as well,’ Davina said. She carried some cheese to the worktable.

  Cook, Davina and Niven arranged a very generous tray for the Englishman.

  ‘Now tell us about him,’ Davina demanded. ‘Who is he? What did the doctor say?’

  Of course they would be curious about the man she’d rescued.

  Mairi replied, ‘His name is John Lucas.’