Then, abruptly, she collapsed, legs giving way under her.
She shook her head, gritting her teeth. She wasn't going to let this man do this to her! On the other hand, how was she to understand his words?
He had made a threat, for there was no other way she could interpret it. He meant to carry her off and take her back to her own country, and his, by force of arms. How dare he?
She shivered, noticing how cold the wind had become, tearing at her skirts, chilling her. She shook her head and drew her cloak about her, hurrying toward the warmth of the house.
She was cold, the rain still sluicing down icily, the wind tearing through the thin fabric of her wet clothes.
In the hallway, she leaned against the wall, eyes closed, exhausted. She could smell the scent of fragrant herbs, burned on an open fire. Someone was sweetening the air of the parlor. She listened, hearing the sound of a maid, crooning under her breath. She heard feet, hurrying toward her, and someone shouted.
“Frances! Have you seen my...oh! Claudine!”
Marguerite, bustling down the hallway with a bundle of cloth in her arms, looked up at Claudine, startled. Always a head shorter than her, Marguerite's delicate face showed concern.
“Cousin? You weren't outside in this? You'll freeze, certainly!” She looked out of the long windows by the door. “It's soaking out there!”
Claudine shook her head. She was so weary, but she was sure it had little to do with the cold. She was numb inside and out. “I'm...fine,” she whispered.
“Bless my soul, but you're not,” Marguerite whispered. She took her wrist in warm, vital fingers. Felt for the pulse. “Frances?”
“Yes, milady?”
“See my cousin to her chambers and have a warm brick sent up for her bed. She has a dreadful chill. And Frances?”
“Yes, milady?”
“Have Merrick send up a healthful tea. Something to reduce a fever. I am afraid my cousin is getting one.”
“I'm...well...” Claudine made herself whisper. She was tired, so tired. She leaned forward, letting Frances lead her to the stairs.
Then the world spun around her and everything went dark.
CONVERSATION IN A SICKROOM
The rain dripped from the guttering outside, breaking the silence in the hallway. Brogan looked at Douglas where they stood together outside his office.
“Milord Douglas...I trust you're right.”
Douglas nodded, a movement reined-in, like all he did. “I know.”
He simply sighed. “It doesn't make it better though.” He and Douglas had been deep in discussion all afternoon. He felt drained. He and Douglas walked down toward the main hallway.
“Well, the Spring Fort is the only one with the vantage over the moorlands,” Douglas said.
The Spring Fort – so named, presumably, because it had been the summer quarters of some older force who oversaw here – was the fort at the easternmost edge of Duncliffe's landholdings.
Brogan wasn't happy with the idea of posting his men there: it left most of his lands exposed, waiting for attack. However, he had to agree that, were attack to come, it would be along that one road north.
“As you say,” he acknowledged. “Well, then...we'll do that. Let's agree to that.”
“Thank you, McRae. I appreciate it.”
Brogan said nothing, only inclined his head. He frowned. “And then I...Oh! What in perdition..?”
Frances, the head maid, was there, bending down, struggling with a prone form on the hall floor. The form was wearing a blue-and-white dress, and her hair pooled there, long and dark and shining...
“Claudine!” he shouted, the name raw in his throat before he'd even considered that he hadn't used her title, only one name.
He ran to her and bent down, lifting her up in his arms, marveling at how light a person could be. Her face was absolutely pale, her brown hair limp and lustrous across her face, her breathing shallow.
“What happened to her?” he asked Frances. She raised a brow.
“I dinnae know, milord. She was on her feet, and then...” She shrugged. “Then she fell over. I should fetch Merrick. Milady's already gone down to send off a boy to summon a doctor from the village.”
“Aye,” he nodded grimly. “You should fetch Merrick. I'll take her up.”
“Thanks, milord,” Frances nodded. “I'd be grateful.”
“I'll be grateful when the doctor gets here, meself,” Brogan muttered. His heart was tight with worry. He headed left, toward the guest quarters. He realized that he hadn't a clue what room was hers. He looked around, and then noticed a fire burning brightly in the grate of one, the door flung open.
He headed in and laid her on the bed. The place was fitted out in pinkish-orange drapes, the bed covered with silk of the same shade. He stoked the fire and closed the door. Then he realized he was alone with Claudine...in a bedchamber.
“Och...” he murmured and shook his head, too intimidated to so much as move, never mind aught else. What would Douglas think? He looked around, but Douglas wasn't there.
He looked across at her where she lay on the bed. Her long neck was stretched, her hair falling back from it on one side to show the white skin. Her breast rose and fell, steadily, with her breaths. Her skin shone. Her lips were pale. Eyes closed.
“Och, lass,” he whispered. He went to sit beside her. She was utterly still, her breathing shallow. He reached for her hand. It was cold. “Och, lass,” he said again. “If ye get sick, and anyone brought it on ye, I'll...I'll make them wish they hadn't.”
He sat with her, staring at that beautiful, still face, until he heard footsteps in the hallway. He stood, suddenly ashamed of being here.
“Thank you, Frances,” a voice drawled. “And then we...Oh.” The physician, or he guessed it to be him – a tall, broad man with piercing eyes – looked at him. “What have we here?”
“Laird McRae,” Brogan said, bowing and holding out his hand. “At your service.”
“Well, it would be useful if you were, milord,” the physician said mildly. “The name is Doctor Barnwell. Now, if you could move yourself out of the way, I'll see to our patient. Thank you,” he added, as Brogan found himself stepping hastily aside.
Frances was waiting behind him, a frown on her face. Brogan caught her eye. She nodded to him. “Doctor knows what he's doing,” she whispered. “Best go down now.”
Brogan nodded and headed downstairs. He found himself in the hallway, pacing. Douglas was there, too, in the doorway of the drawing room. Marguerite stood beside him, at his shoulder.
“She's well cared for,” Douglas said quickly. “Marguerite thought she'd taken ill.”
“She was so cold when she came back,” Marguerite said, frowning. “But yet her eyes were so bright! Her forehead was warm, too. She has a fever, I'm sure of it.”
“Will she recover, milady?” Brogan tensed. He was surprised at the depth of his reaction. He breathed in harshly, smelling the scent of warm fire and comfortable dust. He felt empty.
Marguerite patted his hand. “Never fear, Milord McRae. It's just a winter-fever. She'll be right as rain before the week is out.”
“I hope so.”
“Marguerite is skilled in these matters,” Douglas assured him, nodding. “She would know if it were more serious than that.”
“Thanks, milord,” Brogan said. He felt as if ice had gripped his heart.
The three of them stood together in the hallway, all a little lost, it seemed. He heard a footfall in the hallway and spun around, seeing Dunstan South.
“I was looking for Milady Claudine?”
“She's in her chambers with the doctor.”
“She's very ill.”
Douglas and Marguerite spoke both together. Brogan looked at Dunstan, judging his reaction. Somehow, in the depth of his stomach, he held him responsible.
“Ill?” he frowned. “She seemed so well.”
“She caught a chill in the gardens earlier,” Marguerite said. “S
he's in good hands now. Resting.”
“Where?”
“I would discourage you from disturbing her.” Douglas spoke flatly.
Brogan looked at Douglas with respect. He might be less well-built and younger than South, but he spoke with iron in his voice.
“As you say, milord.”
“She needs rest, Lord South,” Marguerite said softly. “Nobody should disturb her until she feels well.”
“I understand,” he said, but it wasn’t very convincing.
Brogan stood his ground, holding that flat, ocher-brown gaze. The fellow inclined his head fractionally, then turned and strode away.
“I think Lord South is worried,” Marguerite said, excusing his manners to Brogan as he left. “I don't think he meant any...”
“I think Lord South has no manners,” Brogan said softly. He strode away into the hallway.
As he went up the stairs, he felt his heart thump, nerves returning. He reached the room where Claudine lay. He looked in through the door. He could see Frances. The physician, he could not see.
“Milord McRae?” Frances caught his eye. “Doctor said she'll be well by midweek. Left a tincture and instructions – we're to warm her up.”
“That seems good,” Brogan nodded. He glanced into the room. He could see a dark head on the pillow, hair spread out across the coverlet. He stared.
“If you think company will ease her...?” Frances whispered. “She woke a little, and then slumbered on. Perhaps if ye talk tae her..?”
Brogan went tense. How could he go into a woman's sleeping quarters? It was against all etiquette. He glanced at Frances, dumbstruck.
“I'll be over there, by the fire.”
He nodded. “If you really think...” He trailed off.
At that moment, Claudine stirred. He sat down beside the bed, knees on the carpet. “Milady Claudine?” he whispered. “Are you awake?”
“Hot,” she whispered. “Thirsty...”
He looked around, but Frances was busy by the fire, laying on a pan of coals to warm. He turned back to the bedside, seeing a glass of water on the bedside table.
“Och, lass,” he whispered. Feeling as if his hands had suddenly turned to slabs of wood, he reached for the water, then bent over and lifted her head, very gently, in his hand. Her skull was warm and fragile as china, her hair lustrous and sweet-smelling. He took a slow breath.
“You're not supposed to...” the maid, Frances, began.
He turned round and looked at her. She shrugged, and turned back to the fire.
“Here, lass,” he whispered. He rested the cup against her lip, and gently tipped her head back. Her lips were plump and full, and the glass slid between them. He grunted, feeling a longing to kiss those lips, even as tenderness swamped him.
“Water,” she whispered. Her eyelids flickered.
“Aye, lass,” Brogan whispered. He gently tipped her head back and lifted the cup, wishing helplessly that the doctor or Frances or...well, anyone would take the task from him. He felt so useless.
She swallowed, and her lips opened and she leaned back, taking a gulp of water. He gently held the cup and cradled her head until she'd swallowed, then, hearing her gasp, breathless, he set it down.
“Aye, lass,” he whispered, taking her hand in his. “There, now.”
She opened her eyes and they focused on him. He tensed, prepared for a scream. Instead, she nodded and closed her eyes again. “There you are,” she whispered.
Brogan frowned. The words flooded him with warmth, as if someone had lit a blaze in his chest. He closed his eyes, letting the strange sensation rip through him.
He held her hand, feeling it grow hot and tense and cling. He noticed that she was shivering and glanced across at Frances, who hurried over. “She's shaking.”
“Och, poor lass,” she said. “Here's the warmer. Let me get it to her feet, now...” She lifted the covers at the end of the bed, sliding a brass pan into the bed. She settled the covers again. Brogan saw her feet, aching at the vulnerable pale skin.
Poor lass. She's so gentle and slight. How can she withstand a temperature?
She had a fever, that much was certain. Her hands were hot, though she was shivering. She shook and he kept a hold of her.
“Mm?” she murmured, head turning to the side. She didn't open her eyes, and Brogan guessed that she was not talking to anyone in the room, but to something only she could see. She moaned and cried out, and he held her hand, not knowing what else to do.
Frances was with another maid now, one with pale reddish hair showing under her cap, and a narrow, high-cheeked face. She spoke to Frances in English.
“Poor Milady Claudine,” she lamented. “Get a cold compress on her forehead, do...” She ran to the bowl for water, laying a cold, damp cloth over Claudine's brow. While the two women rushed about the room, fetching blankets and stoking fires, Brogan sat with her.
Once, she opened her eyes. She looked at him, but he didn't think she saw him. Nevertheless, he smiled. He held her hand.
Morning came and found him sitting beside her still, his hand in her cold one, the day clouded beyond the windows.
“Sir?” Frances whispered. “Milord McRae?” She shook his shoulder, none too carefully.
“Och, Frances?” he whispered. His back hurt. His head felt as if someone had stuffed it with wadding. His mouth was parched. “What is it?”
“It's seven of the clock, sir. Almost sunup. The doctor's visiting.”
“Aye...” Brogan got to his feet, legs aching. He staggered to the hallway. He was just heading up to his chamber when the doctor entered.
The fever took three days to break. Brogan stayed away for two of them, but on the last day, he could keep away no longer. He knocked at the door.
“Prudence?” he called – for by now he knew both maids quite well. “Is it you?”
“Aye, sir,” she whispered. “It's me. She's still asleep.”
“Can I come in?”
She opened the door a crack wider and looked round. When she had seen the coast was clear, she nodded. “Come in quick, sir.”
He followed her inside. He stood at the doorway, looking at the bed. Lady Claudine lay there. She was pale – even paler than he recalled, her hair spread around her damply – her hands limp. He went to his chair by the bedside.
“She seems better with you here,” Prudence said, her back to him. “We wouldn't let you in, else.”
“Thanks.”
Brogan would have smiled, but that he knew it was true. The two women guarded their charge fiercely, letting in only the doctor and Marguerite. Somehow, they seemed to have guessed something about Dunstan South, for neither of them let him see her, though he had visited, on the second day, demanding a report on her welfare.
That ponce doesnae care for her.
He held her hand, stroking it. She was so cold! He turned to the fireplace, where the two women who cared for her were in hushed consultation. They seemed to be drying bandages or clothes before the fire.
“...and we need those to be ready by the evening...”
He listened to their whispers, the crackle of the fire, the sigh of wind in the trees, just beyond the windows. He tried to make his mind blank of worries, but it was hard. She looked so ill!
She shivered, head turning toward him. He reached out a hand and gently touched her brow. The fever raged there, hot and dry. As yet, there was no sign of a healing sweat.
“Och, lass,” he said softly. “I dinnae ken what tae do fer ye.”
He sat and held her hand and told her stories. It was all he could think of. Racking his brains, sending his mind back down the channel of time to when he was a small boy and his maidservant told him tales of mages and dragons. He figured it was worth a try, so he began one of his favorite tales.
“So, the farmhand set out on his journey...”
He was just getting to the exciting part, when the farmhand, who was actually a prince disowned, was going to wrestle a dragon,
when something changed. Her hand, so hot and dry and nerveless in his grip, suddenly clung.
“Och, lass...” he whispered.
She was moaning now, shivering. He reached a hand for her forehead. Her head was hot, much more than it had been. She twisted away, groaning.
“Lass,” he called for Prudence or Frances. “Help me..?”
Prudence appeared, pale, serious face drawn. She reached a hand to her forehead, and smiled. “Fever's breaking, milord.”
Brogan touched her hair, amazed. Prudence was right!
“Those herbs I got from Mrs. Merrick. That's what did the trick!”
Brogan grinned at her, elated. “Och, lass! I cannae thank ye enough. The both of ye! She's getting well.”
“Uh...” Claudine stirred again, and the two maids retreated hastily to the place beside the fire, talking together.
Brogan held her hand while she shivered and tossed. “Och, lass,” he whispered, stroking her skin. “Och, lass...”
He was focusing on the story, trying to tell it slowly, piece by piece, or to remember what happened next – the prince gone, or the wizard appeared – when he slowly realized something: she wasn't moving.
He stared. She was lying facing him, her eyes open. She held his hand. She looked into his eyes, and knew where she was.
“Brogan,” she whispered. Her hand fastened around his fingertips, squeezing them. Her other hand reached for his own. He took it.
“Lass,” he whispered, amazed. “You're here.”
She chuckled. “I should think I am,” she said. Her voice was worn and hoarse, as if she hadn't used it for a very long time. She sounded weak.
“Lass, we were so worried...” He trailed off.
She reached for him, resting her hand, for a brief moment, on his shoulder. His heart nearly stopped. Her hand dropped to her side, exhausted.
“Mistress? Och! Mistress!” Frances was staring at her now in amazement. “Prudence! She's here!”
Brogan sat back as the two women, radiant with delight, gathered around the bed. They lifted her pillows, rested her back on them more comfortably. Cleared away things from the bedside table.
The Highlander’s Runaway (Blood of Duncliffe Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 9