“Need help,” he said, taking care not to rush his words that the woman might misunderstand. “Need to care for her. She has taken ill of a sudden.”
Enid touched a trembling, wrinkled hand to the lass’s cheek before gesturing in reply. My sister.
Yes. Endorra lived in the woods at the far edge his property, her cottage bordering the easternmost corner of Iona Douglas’s land. “It is dark, though,” he pointed out with a glance toward the window.
Enid merely winked one cloudy eye. I know the way well enough, she replied with her hands, nodding sagely. Could make the trip with eyes closed. He did not doubt it.
“Go, then,” he urged. “Be quick, please.” Enid nodded again, already untying her apron and fetching her shawl from a peg near the door leading out to the garden.
He then all but ran up the stairs, the dogs at his heels. With each footstep, accusations rang out in his head. Your fault. Your doing. Your fault.
This was his fault, indeed. He’d driven her to this sudden illness. He ought to have allowed her to go, to be with Iona where life might be better for her. Whatever had befallen her so suddenly was his doing.
And if she failed to recover, that would be just one more mistake to carry with him for the rest of his days.
10
Tyra turned her head back and forth, trying to escape whatever was being done to her. Cold. Wet. She flinched when water rolled from her temples into her hair, leaving icy trails against her skin.
She opened her eyes with a start, gasping at the sight of an unfamiliar face hovering over hers. It took a moment for her sight to clear, but still she did not recognize the woman. “Wh-who?” she whispered, but that was as much as she could manage. Why was she so weak?
“Quiet, now.” The voice was warm, kind, and not one of a woman who would be argued with. “Ye must rest, lass. Ye have been ill.”
That was not enough for Tyra to accept without further question. She turned her head away from the strange woman with the kind voice, noting the icy rag on her forehead—hence the cold water which had awoken her—and found Enid fussing with something on the bedside table.
“My sister,” the stranger murmured. “She fetched me, told me ye had taken ill, lass. And she didna tell a falsehood, to be certain. We feared ye would not awaken.”
Enid turned to her with a soft, fond smile, and only then did Tyra breathe easier. Enid was a friend. She trusted Enid. “Who are you?” she whispered to the stranger as Enid took a seat on her other side.
“Endorra. Younger sister to Enid,” the woman explained with a smile which revealed only a small handful of teeth. Yet it was a lovely smile, just the same. “She was quite fearful for ye, lassie. It seems she has become fond of ye. Tis not a simple thing, earning Enid’s trust.”
If only Tyra could understand Enid’s gestures, though she’d not been paying close attention long enough to learn. They’d had a few short lessons in the last week while Enid prepared the meals, but when she was not at her task it seemed she preferred to be alone in her attic rooms. Tyra would not disturb her for anything.
She understood enough to know what Enid asked her sister just then, however. How does she feel?
“Weak,” Tyra whispered. “Pained.”
“Pained? Where?” Endorra asked, leaning in again. Her skin was like the finest, oldest parchment. “What ails ye?”
“My shoulder,” Tyra groaned. Yes, it had pained her most dreadfully. She was beginning to recall what had taken place. “I was speaking to Dougal and suddenly, the pain returned. I could scarcely bear it. I wanted to scream, but when I tried…”
“What else do ye feel?” Endorra prompted.
“Hot. So hot.”
“Aye. Ye are warm to the touch. Were ye feeling poorly earlier on?”
“No,” Tyra whispered, more confused than she’d been upon first waking. “I was well until supper. No, after supper. While speaking with…”
“Himself,” Endorra finished for her, nodding. “Aye, he was beside himself when I arrived, convinced he’d killed ye.”
He was? Tyra looked toward the closed door. Was he outside, asking himself what might become of her?
A flash of wickedness raced across her thoughts, and a faint smile touched her lips. Good. Let him fret. Let him blame himself for this. He’d thwarted her at very turn, determined to be immovable, uncaring. He’d been nearly cruel, as well, all but jeering at her when she wished for nothing more than to know him better.
“He did not manage to kill me,” Tyra admitted. “It all came on so suddenly. I felt terribly weak and as I said, the pain came on and worse than before.”
“My sister tells me of your shoulder, though she would not say how ye came to be wounded.” The old women had a keen gaze which she trained directly upon Tyra, unblinking. “Would ye care to tell me?”
Instinct told Tyra not to say. Instead, she turned her attention to the bowl which Enid held in both hands. Steam rose from it. “What is this?”
“Tonic in the broth to bring down the fever.” At least the old woman did not insist on an answer to her question. Perhaps she knew the answer and had merely asked to test whether Tyra would be truthful. “Ye must drink of it.”
“Will it make me sleep?” she asked before taking a sip.
“Nay, ‘tis not that sort of tonic,” Endorra assured her. “Tis merely to ease the fever and reduce some of the pain.”
Tyra stretched, whimpering as her nerves danced and shouted, making her wish she could jump up from the bed and run about the room and scream. It was as if her skin wished to leave her body. She might go mad from it.
Upon describing this to the old woman, taking pains to speak clearly for Enid’s sake, the sisters exchanged a glance. “Perhaps ye ought to have something to aid in sleep, after all,” Endorra murmured, white brows drawing together over a crooked nose. “Until the worst of this passes.”
“Are you a healer?” Tyra asked between sips of broth.
“Nay, lass. Not a healer. I dinna trust them. I am skilled in herbs and potions, ye ken. I suppose the master of the house remembered this and thought to send for me—besides, I am able to speak, which my sister canna do.” There was a great deal of affection in her voice, just the same, and Enid smiled.
“Do you know Dougal?” Tyra asked, suddenly intrigued by the woman’s presence even more than she’d already been. “The family? How long have you—”
“Shh, now,” Endorra whispered, running a gentle hand over Tyra’s head. “Now is not the time for questions. Now is the time for rest.”
Now that she’d taken the tonic, Tyra thought rest might be possible. The pain which had only just consumed her had begun to ease back until she felt very nearly comfortable. She settled back against the pillows, the tension in her muscles loosening. She no longer felt so warm, either.
There was thin light outside the window. Had so much time passed since she’d fallen ill? “Morning?” she asked.
“Nearly,” Endorra nodded. “Ye slept a great deal. Sleep might be what ye are most in need of.”
Indeed. She’d not rested well for several nights, far too many questions and fears running through her head to allow sleep.
The door opened, revealing a figure large enough to fill the doorframe. “I heard voices,” Dougal announced before striding into the room. “Ye have awoken, then.” So he had been waiting, listening, just as she’d imagined.
Before Tyra could assure him that yes, she was awake—was it not plain to him that she was?—Endorra stood. “That she has, and she is feeling better thanks to a tonic.”
“Many thanks to ye,” he grunted, nodding. Why did he seem uncomfortable, ill at ease? “Ye might rest here before returning to the cottage, if ye wish.”
“There is no need,” Endorra assured him while slipping bottles and vials into a pouch which she wore over one shoulder, hanging by a strap. “If there is more pain, she might take a few drops of the tonic I left on the table in a bowl of hot broth. My sister wi
ll manage this.”
Endorra looked down at Tyra once more, smiling again. “Take care with yourself, lass.” With that, she was gone, just as swiftly as if she’d never been there and without allowing Tyra the opportunity to offer thanks. Only the faint scent of a mixture of herbs remained.
Enid gestured to Dougal, who nodded. “Aye, sleep, by all means. I might fetch my own meal if need be.” After sending a warm smile Tyra’s way, she left the room.
This left the pair of them alone. Rather than following Enid that Tyra might rest, Dougal walked to the window and gazed out, his back to her. “Ye are feeling well, then?”
“I would not say I feel well,” she admitted in a soft voice, still weak. “Though I feel better, thanks to the tonic. What ever made you think to send for Endorra?”
It took time for him to speak. When he did, his voice was low, strained. “I have known her all my life, as I have known Enid. She was to be a healer, sent to learn from a great healer in Inverness. She did not fare well.”
“Why ever not? Her tonic has eased my discomfort tremendously.”
“I could not say. It was not for a lad’s ears, or so I was told.”
Little wonder the woman said she did not trust healers. Something must have come to pass between her and the one with whom she’d been sent to study.
He turned his face from the window, only partway, allowing Tyra to gaze upon him. He had a fine profile, his features strong and proud. The slightly crooked bend of his nose brought a slight smile—he’d had it broken in his youth, the result of a few ill-chosen words spoken to a girl with a rather strong older brother.
She found him handsome in spite of it. She had for some time, she realized now. Was it the tonic causing her to think this way? Or did it merely reveal that which she would rather ignore? For she’d certainly found herself gazing upon him far longer than she strictly needed to do while seated at supper. Admiring the way in which he held his face, the way his eyes softened when paying attention to something Enid tried to tell him.
“She must have learned something, for I am much better than when I first woke.”
“How did ye feel then?” He turned toward her, his brow deeply lined in concern. “Tell me all.”
His intensity all but took her breath away. It never occurred to her to soften the truth. “As if my skin were all afire or being pricked by thousands of pins all at once. I could not lie still. Before I fainted, the pain in my shoulder and back returned as fresh as it was when I first was wounded. Endorra spoke of a fever—I did feel hot all over, as well. I nearly screamed.”
His features twisted in… what? Guilt? Concern? Dismay? “Ye might have died. I believed ye had died,” he admitted.
Perhaps she’d said too much. “I do not believe it was as serious as that.”
He raked his fingers through his hair, and Tyra noticed for the first time how disheveled he appeared in general. As if he’d performed this gesture many times, until his hair all but stood on end. “Ye did not see yourself. Ye were not aware.”
Why did she feel sorry for him? She was the one in the bed, the one who’d wished to tear her skin away from her flesh earlier. Yet it was Dougal she pitied—the circles beneath his eyes, the way he rubbed his hands over his trousers as if he knew not what to do with them.
“Sit,” she urged, gesturing to the chair beside the bed. “You look dreadful. Worse than I feel.”
He sat, but not without casting a doleful look her way. “I worry until I am nearly ill and ye have the gall to make light of it.”
These were not mere words. He meant what he said.
On one hand, this was gratifying. He deserved to feel sorry for what he’d said, for how cruel and cold he’d been. To think, she’d reduced this hulking beast of a man to such grief.
On the other hand, there was such a thing as too much grief. She did not wish to cause him pain—how could she have imagined he would react this way? Was it truly all for her? Because of her?
“I did not mean to make light. Forgive me,” she murmured, looking upon him with new eyes. What a startling person he was. Possessed of emotion she would never have imagined coming from a man such as himself.
“Forgive ye? When it is I who needs forgiveness?” He looked at her as if she’d lost her senses.
“You did nothing to cause this.”
“Aye, well, the healer I sent for shall say for certain.”
“A healer?”
“Aye, though there is no telling how long it shall be before she arrives. Another day, perhaps more.” He bent forward, his elbows on his knees, and placed his head in his hands. For one brief, mad instant, Tyra imagined reaching out and cupping the back of his neck, stroking the fine, short hairs there. Comforting him.
Instead, she clutched the coverlet tight, as if this might push aside the sudden yearning to touch him. “Do not worry yourself so,” she whispered. “Please. You make me feel guilty.”
“I am the one who bears the guilt in this. Myself, only me.” He seemed set upon punishing himself. It seemed he was possessed of deeper feeling than she’d ever imagined.
“There is no guilt to be borne.”
“Ye dinna understand,” he sighed, sitting back. “If I’d allowed ye to go, this might never have befallen ye. Ye might have been better suited, more comfortable…”
Tyra shifted on the bed, wincing when stiffness in her arms and legs caused her a brief flash of pain. Dougal nearly flung himself from the chair. “What is it? What can I do?”
The poor man. She might have wept for him, knowing how terribly he worried. “Nothing. It passed. I did not mean to upset you.”
“I am not upset.” Yet he did not sit, choosing instead to walk back and forth before the window. “I have never taken care of anyone before. Only myself. I’m afraid I am not accustomed to it.”
“You care for Enid,” she reminded him with a smile. “None of the others did. They left her alone, but you give her a home and something to do. Work to turn her hand toward. Everyone needs that.”
“It was only right.” He all but scoffed. She knew he would never understand how she saw him. How very important it was that he allowed Enid to remain, that he provided for her and allowed her to provide for him.
“You seem to be the only one who cares about the right thing.”
“I did not always. I once cared only for what I wished, for what amused me. I cared nothing for this house, for my family—or so I told myself, as caring would mean being of a mind with my father.” He glanced at her, frowning. “I did not intend to say it, but that is the way of it.”
“It seems I must fall ill more often,” she observed with as much of a smile as she dared. “If I ever hope to learn more about you, that is.”
He chuckled, stroking his whiskered chin as if deep in thought. “I might have known ye would go to such lengths.”
“Truly, it is not so bad as that,” she insisted. “I would not see you worry yourself over me. You did nothing to cause this—though you might be more forthcoming from now on, and less determined to thwart my curiosity.”
She hoped he would smile at this, that the warmth which had flickered to life between them might be enough to soften him. She was disappointed.
He stared at her from beneath lowered brows. “Perhaps ye would do best to not be so curious.”
11
What was keeping that damnable healer?
Dougal paced his study until it seemed he would wear a groove into the stone floor, yet no amount of movement eased him. Not when his every thought was upstairs, in that room, with Tyra.
She was resting, and he knew he ought to do the same. He’d hardly closed his eyes for two days. Yet whenever he so much as entertained the notion of rest, memories of Tyra crowded in all around him. The weight of her in his arms. The rapid fluttering of the pulse beneath her smooth, fair skin.
Finding her awake and alert had granted a great deal of relief. In fact, he’d all but gone weak from it. He’d been nearly besid
e himself with fear for her, convinced at his darkest moment that she would never open her eyes, would never challenge him or question him or otherwise infuriate him again.
That she would never smile at him.
Why had the healer not arrived?
It was one matter for Tyra to awaken, but another to know she was perfectly well. Who was to say when she might have another one of these spells? Or whether she would ever be strong enough to rise from her bed again?
He’d forbidden her against rising from the bed. “Under no circumstances,” he’d warned. “Ye are to remain in this room, resting until the healer arrives. I will accept no argument, no excuse.”
“What if the bed catches fire?” she’d asked with a wicked twinkle in her eye. “Am I to remain here?”
He’d left her then, for the desire to laugh had been nearly impossible to contain. No sense in allowing her to believe he encouraged her attempt at humor.
How would he make his up to her? If he’d said or done something to drive her to this, to place enough strain upon her that she could not bear up under the weight, he’d never forgive himself. Not ever.
What was wrong with him? What right had he to keep her in his house? In his life? He ought to have known better than to believe himself worthy of such loveliness, such life and wit and warmth.
This was his punishment, just as returning on the run to find the house all but abandoned had been punishment for having gone away, for having squandered his life before devoting himself to the cause of all devoted Scotsmen railing against England’s rule. He’d done this not only out of a sense of duty and love of country, but as a means of making up for… something. Everything.
It had been too late for him to live up to his father’s wishes, as his father had long since died. He’d received word in Glasgow, though there had been no word of the household’s desertion. That had been a rather unpleasant surprise upon his arrival.
A Highlander’s Love: Highlands Ever After Page 7
