by Ava Stone
She ran to the front door and flung it open, not at all expecting to find a handsome buck on the other side. As she drank her fill of his wavy, dark hair, strong jaw, and piercing brown eyes, her mouth hung open like that of a panting puppy trying to catch its breath. And truly, she was trying to catch her breath. Whether she’d lost it on account of her mad run to answer the door or because of the enigmatic man who stood on her doorstep, she couldn’t exactly say.
“You’re not the doctor,” the man said, scanning her up and down with the faintest air of disgust.
Daphne wished she could crawl into a hole, but there was nothing she could do about it now. “No,” she replied. “I’m not.”
“Then who is?”
“My brother, actually.”
There was another long pause, and then the man lifted his dark eyebrows and said, very slowly, as if she were daft, “And is he in?”
“Oh!” Of course, now Daphne felt daft. “Um. No, he isn’t. He’s delivering a baby. Mrs. Conner’s, in the next township. I haven’t any idea when he’ll be back. Those babes, you know…they’ve got minds of their own.” Daphne laughed at her own joke, and a tiny snort escaped her.
The sharp look the man gave her was sobering, and she covered her mouth with her hand to stop any more snorts from making their way out.
“Is there no one else in this village who can help me?” he asked, his handsome brow furrowing with worry. He scanned the bustling street, as if another doctor might appear there before him.
“I can,” Daphne said quietly, though she wasn’t at all sure she actually could. But he seemed so concerned, and she did have some experience helping Graham from time to time. Of course, she had customers waiting on their rum butters today, but a medical emergency was rather more important. She only hoped she’d be able to keep her wits about her.
The man whirled on her, his dark eyes wide. “You? But you’re…”
“A woman?” she supplied.
He nodded. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be proper of me to bring you back to a houseful of men.”
A houseful of men? Daphne couldn’t help but be intrigued by this idea. Were they all as handsome and worldly as this one seemed in his brown, long-tailed coat and that blue and yellow waistcoat? Were they eligible? And what on earth were they doing all the way up here in Ravenglass? Clearly this one was a Londoner, if his refined manner and accent were any indication, and Cumberland was a long way from home. All these questions were burning holes in Daphne’s gut. She had to convince him to take her with him so she could have them answered for herself.
“If you don’t mind, what exactly is the problem?” she ventured.
The man tugged at the lapel of his coat and then met her eyes. “Malaria. I’m afraid my friend is having an episode. None of us is skilled with handling it. We need a doctor.”
“It just so happens that I know a thing or two about the disease,” she said, and while that particular turn of phrase was meant to indicate she knew a lot, she actually only did know a thing or two. Still, it was better than someone who knew nothing, wasn’t it? “Please let me help. I’m certain the gossipmongers will overlook the impropriety when they realize a man’s life was a stake.”
He hesitated for a long moment, and Daphne was tempted to ramble on again, but something told her to hold her silence. At long last, the man sighed and gave a slight shake of his head. “I will probably regret this, but fine. Gather your things and come with me.”
Daphne was already halfway to her room by the time he finished that sentence. She changed quickly into a less sticky dress, but there wasn’t time to fix her hair, so it would have to stay hidden beneath her handkerchief. She darted next to the desk to leave a note for her brother of her whereabouts, but then it occurred to her she had no idea where she was going.
“I’m sorry, sir, but might I have an address so I may direct my brother to us when he returns?”
The man, who had wandered into their small home during all this, turned his clear, dark eyes on her, and without batting so much as an eyelash said, “Marisdùn Castle.”
One could have pushed Daphne over with a feather. “I’m sorry…did you say Marisdùn Castle?”
“Indeed I did.” He looked at his pocket watch, an irritated air about him. “Are you nearly finished?”
Daphne stuttered and stumbled over her words, not entirely sure what to say. Marisdùn Castle was not a place she cared to find herself. Why on earth would a group of men be staying at that ungodly estate? Did they not know it was inhabited by ghosts?
“My friend is in dire straights, Miss…?”
“Alcott,” she blurted out. “Miss Daphne Alcott.”
“Miss Daphne Alcott, do you think you could hurry this along?”
Daphne shook her head, trying to rid her mind of the frightening stories she’d heard of the castle. Now it would be doubly difficult to keep her wits about her. But there was nothing for it now. Haunted or not, she was going to take care of this man’s friend.
Alastair stared at the girl across from him, still feeling a bit uncomfortable about bringing her back to the estate. She was a woman, for God’s sake. A single one at that. And rather comely, if he was being completely honest with himself. Well, she would be, at least, if she cleaned herself up a bit. What the devil had she been doing before he arrived? Tilling the fields? Cleaning the pigsties? He didn’t really want to consider the brown gooey stuff that had been splattered all over her hideous dress. At least she’d changed into a cleaner hideous dress. But if he looked only at her face, Alastair could imagine what she might look like were he to dress her in finery and turn her loose in a London ballroom. That face wouldn’t go unnoticed. Not with those massive blue eyes and plump cheeks.
As a matter of fact, she was a bit plump all over. Not in a bad way, though. In a healthy way. The fashion in London had turned a bit slim for his taste. He rather liked an excess of curves. Something he hadn’t realized until today.
“How old are you?” he asked, breaking into the silence.
The girl turned those blue eyes on him for a moment and then immediately back to the scenery outside. “Twenty,” she muttered, as if she were ashamed of her age.
“And your brother?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Quite young for a doctor,” he said, unable to hide the disdain from his voice. What could a man so young know about taking care of the ill and infirm?
“He began his apprenticeship quite young.”
“How young?”
This time, her blue eyes met his and didn’t turn away. “Is this the Spanish Inquisition?”
Ah, a cheeky one. “I’d like to know about the people who will be tending to my friend. Is that a crime?”
There. That put her in her place. The way she batted her eyelashes and looked away again told him as much.
“Well, since you know so much about me now, might I at least have the courtesy of your name, sir?”
Alastair almost missed the question, he was so focused on her plump, heart-shaped lips. Damn, it had been far too long since he’d had a woman in his bed. Here he was losing his train of thought over a common woman with a rag upon her head. He might as well seduce a scullery maid.
“Alastair Darrington, Viscount Wolverly, at your service.”
That sweet mouth opened and closed in a fish-like manner several times, and her sapphire eyes held something akin to fear in them.
“Is it so frightening to meet a peer of the realm?” he asked.
“I…that is…I didn’t realize—”
Alastair took pity on her, and held up a hand to stop her. “Please. You needn’t be embarrassed.”
She clamped her mouth shut and sat up straighter. “I’m not embarrassed.” Clearly, he’d insulted her, but she was the one blathering on nonsensically a moment ago. “I’m just…surprised.”
“Well, I’m sorry to have surprised you so.”
Silence fell over them once again, and she resumed her surveillance of the countryside
. But Alastair didn’t much like the silence, and besides, she hadn’t answered all his questions.
“So,” he began drawing her attention from the window once again. “When did your brother begin his apprenticeship?”
“One could say he began before he was ever out of leading strings.”
A child apprentice? This girl must be mad. “I’m not certain I follow.”
“My father was the town doctor, of course,” she explained, and her tone indicated that Alastair should have known that already. Blasted chit.
An uneasy feeling came over him, and he thought he ought to stop with the inquisition, but he couldn’t help himself. “Was?” he ventured, hoping the man had simply retired from his work and not necessarily from this world.
Miss Alcott was silent for a moment, her chest puffing up a little more with each heavy breath. Damn. He should have stopped.
“He died,” she finally said, her tone shockingly devoid of any emotion. “My mother too. Both gone. So it’s just Graham and I now.”
Alastair wasn’t normally one to regret his words. He usually thought carefully about what he wanted to say. He prided himself on diplomacy, not typically for the benefit of other people, but more to keep himself out of awkward situations. Like this one.
But more than that, it would have been best to avoid this conversation completely. Hearing her speak of her loss only reminded him of his own.
“I’m sorry, Miss Alcott,” he finally said, turning to look out the opposite window. The memories of having had parents seemed so distant, yet the loneliness seemed to linger, even now.
“You needn’t be. They’ve been gone a while, and my brother and I get along just fine.”
“You assist him often?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.
“Sometimes, when he needs me. But I run my own business, actually.”
Alastair couldn’t help but be surprised at this bit of news. An enterprising woman. How odd. “What kind of business, Miss Alcott?”
“I make rum butter. The best in all of Cumberland, they say.” She smiled proudly, spreading those soft pink lips wide across her round face.
Alastair gave a quiet chuckle of laughter. “So that explains it.”
“Explains what?” Her brow wrinkled in the most adorable way.
“Your…” He gestured to the whole of her. “Appearance.”
Her cheeks flushed bright pink and she reached up to touch the handkerchief that covered her head. Clearly, he should have kept his mouth shut.
“I’m sorry if I offend,” she said.
Now Alastair truly felt like a cad. “You don’t of—”
The door of the carriage swung open in that exact moment, and the driver stood aside to let them out. Damn. Alastair had completely forgotten where they were or what their mission was. He hadn’t even realized they’d pulled to a stop.
“Aren’t you going to get out?” Miss Alcott asked, her blue eyes blinking curiously at him.
“Yes, of course.” He jumped down from the stairs and then held his hand out for Miss Alcott. Her hands were bare, and combined with the extended absence of a woman from his bed, the mere contact made him harden, in spite of being a completely inappropriate moment for such a reaction. Poor Chetwey was practically on his deathbed, and here Alastair was, lusting after the one person who might be able to help him. In a head cloth, no less.
The housekeeper came bustling out the front door and waved them inside. “This way, Miss Alcott,” she said, leading them both up the stairs and down a long corridor.
Damn, it was warm in here. He always imagined haunted castles to be cold. And a bit of a chill would have been helpful in his current state.
“He’s right in here, Miss Alcott.”
The housekeeper flung the door open, allowing a little light into the corridor. Chetwey moaned from inside, and Alastair hung back. He was no shrinking violet, but he didn’t care to dredge up painful memories from his past. Chetwey was well taken care of without him.
Miss Alcott turned back and met his eyes. They stared at one another for a moment—a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asked. Was that hopefulness in those deep blue depths?
“I think I will go and get myself settled, actually.” He tipped his hat to her. “Until we meet again, Miss Alcott.”
Daphne couldn’t help but be disappointed that Lord Wolverly was abandoning her now. Not that he was the best company, what with his millions of questions and condescending demeanor, and yet, she felt rather comfortable in his presence.
“Right this way, Miss Alcott,” the housekeeper encouraged, stepping aside.
Daphne crossed the threshold into the man’s room. He lay writhing on the bed, clearly in a great deal of pain. The sweet stench of sickness accosted her nose. She was no stranger to the ill and infirm, but she would probably never get used to that smell, which was why, even at her brother’s urging, she chose to make rum butter rather than become a nurse. That, and her tendency to become overset in difficult situations. But she couldn’t let that affect her now.
“This is the doctor?” Another man she’d not noticed stood beside the bed with a look of incredulity pasted upon his face. It might not have been a bad looking face had it not been contorted into such an ugly expression.
“No,” she said, shoving her nose into the air, trying to infuse herself with a bravado she didn’t at all feel. “I am Miss Daphne Alcott. The doctor is my brother, but he’s unavailable at the moment.”
“This is an emergency. We need him now!”
Daphne started at the man’s gruff tone, and desperately wished Lord Wolverly had followed her in. She knew little about him, but she had the impression he’d never yell at a woman. Perhaps he’d even defend her against this brute.
“He is at a birthing. I left him a note to come here upon his return.” Trying to hide how shaken she was, she moved to the bedside, eager to tend to the patient.
“You should return home and send for him,” the man ground out. “We need a real doctor. Not a miss playing at being one.”
A pit formed in Daphne’s stomach. He spoke the truth. She was no doctor, and she’d only assisted on rare occasions. But she would be damned if she was going to turn her back on a suffering man. There had to be something she could do.
Ignoring the boorish cad, she turned to the patient with a kind smile and put a hand to his forehead. He was burning up, but she didn’t wish to scare the man. “You are overly warm.”
“I will be fine,” he insisted, though he looked anything but fine, and his voice was so weak it was barely audible.
Daphne exhaled on a sigh full of frustration. “I wish I knew more about this Malaria.” She opened the black bag she’d brought with her. Graham had taken his usual bag, but thankfully, he’d left his old one behind. “I’ve brought Dover’s Powder. It is what my brother gives patients with fevers, and aches and pains.” She studied him a moment. “Are you in pain?”
“Yes.” He writhed a bit, pulling the covers higher to his neck.
Relief flooded Daphne. “Then this should be just the thing.” She turned her gaze to the grumpy man still standing on the other side of the bed. “Please bring me a glass of water and I will mix the powder into it.”
Much to her surprise, he did as he was told.
“We need to get you sitting up so you can drink.”
The man’s friend was at his side, lifting him up the next moment. Daphne pressed the glass to his lips. He grimaced as he drank, and she couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t the most palatable stuff in the world. Too bad she’d not thought to bring a jar of rum butter to chase it down with.
“You should rest now,” she told him, rising from the little wooden chair. “With any luck, my brother will be here soon.”
His friend was surprisingly gentle when he took her by the elbow. “I’ll escort you out, Miss Alcott.”
She allowed him to lead her from the room, expecting anothe
r tongue lashing about her lack of skills, but he surprised her.
“I’m sorry for my behavior in there, Miss Alcott,” he said as he closed the door behind him. “I’m afraid I’m just…worried. I’ve never seen Chetwey like this, and I…well, I…”
“I have seen grief and worry in all its forms, Mr…?”
“Thorn.”
“Mr. Thorn. And you’re right. He needs a real doctor, and he shall have one soon. I only hope I was able to make him slightly more comfortable while he waits.”
“Your efforts are appreciated, Miss Alcott.”
Daphne smiled at him, and then they walked in silence toward the front door. Lord Wolverly came into view as they descended the last flight of stairs down to the foyer. Had he been pacing before the door?
He tipped his face up to look at her, and their eyes locked. Again. Goodness, he was a man of great intensity.
“Lord Wolverly,” she said as she stepped off the last step to the floor. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”
“It occurred to me that someone ought to see you home,” he replied.
“I can see to her safety,” Mr. Thorn spoke up.
Wolverly spared but a fleeting glance for the man before fixing his gaze on Daphne again. “That’s quite all right, Thorn. My carriage is just outside, ready to depart.”
A huff of annoyance came from Mr. Thorn, and Daphne thought this seemed rather like a cockfight in a hen house. But she didn’t want to come between friends.
“Please do not worry over me, Lord Wolverly. I’m perfectly capable of seeing myself home.”
“Don’t be silly,” he replied, and a bit of that cocksure demeanor began to creep back in, sending a surge of annoyance through Daphne.
“I’m not being silly.” She straightened her spine and shoved her nose into the air. “It’s only a short walk, and I’ve been walking these roads all my life. As a matter of fact, I deliver my rum butter to Marisdùn once a week.” Though she usually just handed it off to Cook at the back door. This had been her first time to ever come inside the house, and she was pleasantly surprised to see—or not see, as it were—any ghosts hanging about.
