by Ava Stone
“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.
Brighid Glace tied the strings of her bonnet beneath her chin. “I shan’t be long, grandmother.”
“Where are you off to?” the older woman asked from her chair beside the fire.
“I told you.” She offered the woman a loving smile. “I am to go into Ravenglass.”
“I don’t know why you can’t go into Tolbright,” grandmother grumbled. She never liked Ravenglass and Brighid never understood why, except grandmother always claimed the people had strange ideas and superstitions.
Brighid grinned. “We can’t get Daphne Alcott’s rum butter in Tolbright and I promised to bring Spikenard, Monk’s-Hood and Horehound to Mrs. Small at Marisdùn Castle. They have none of their own left.” She paused in thought. “I should really see about harvesting the remaining herbs before winter sets in.”
The older woman frowned deeply. “I don’t see why they can’t gather their own herbs. Besides, Ravenglass boasts a fine doctor.”
“They don’t have the time to tend the garden, nor anyone who has learned the use and preparation of medicinals since the Widow Wythe passed.” Brighid chastised. “Besides, they don’t wish to send for Dr. Alcott each time one of them has a slight cough or minor injury, and our family were the healers at Marisdùn Castle long ago. It is only right we continue to help when asked.”
“Maybe you should teach someone so you aren’t running off there so often.”
Brighid bent to pick up her basket full of herbs. “That is exactly what I intend to do, if someone will agree.” Since the Widow Wythe passed on, Brighid had seen to the care of the medicinal garden nestled behind the kitchens and herbarium. It wasn’t part of the vast, carefully manicured and well-tended gardens on the rest of the grounds, but a purposeful array of plants with no thought to color. They served to heal, not to be viewed for their beauty. That isn’t to say it wasn’t a pretty garden. She loved sitting in the middle of it, on the flat, dark, round stone. There were a few benches at the edge, but she rarely sat there. For the oddest reason, the stone always warmed her, even on the coolest days.
“Just like your mother, off and about, nursing the sick when you should be tending your family,” her grandmother grumbled.
Brighid pursed her lips together to keep from responding. Her mother had been a healer. With only one doctor in the area, sometimes she had been needed to treat the ill and act as a midwife until the physician could arrive. It was just a shame that the one person her mother had been unable to help was her own husband. Her mother had not been the same after she could not cure the illness that caused father’s death, and soon followed him to the grave. Brighid suspected it was more from a broken heart than anything else.
Besides, her grandmother did not need tending. The woman may be getting on in years, but she was strong, healthy, active, and possessed all her faculties, even if she could be unpleasant at times. It was she who did the cooking and most of the cleaning in their house. Her brother, Cavan, was home only long enough to eat and sleep. If he wasn’t working the land and dairy, he was in Torrington with his friends.
“Just don’t be long,” her grandmother insisted.
Brighid paused at the door and stared down into her basket. She should take Wormwood. Had Mrs. Small requested this medicinal herb as well? She couldn’t recall, but knew she needed to take it anyway. Brighid no longer questioned these odd sensations or thoughts. Her mother termed them a gift and she listened to them every time.
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.”
Blake shifted his eyes from the young woman to Thorn. It wasn’t like his friend to behave in such a rude manner toward a pretty woman. Usually the charm oozed from him, almost as though he couldn’t help himself. Could Thorn be that worried about him?
He didn’t feel overly warm. He was freezing.
“I’ll be fine,” Blake insisted, though it took more energy than he anticipated.
She let out a sigh. “I wish I knew more about this malaria.”
Blake tried to smile at her, to assure her he did not mind her lack of knowledge, but failed. At least she wanted to help.
“I’ve brought Dover’s Powder. It is what my brother gives patients with fevers.” She withdrew a jar from the black bag. “And aches and pains.” She tilted her head and studied him. “Are you in pain?”
“Yes,” Blake groaned and burrowed further beneath the covers.
Miss Alcott brightened. “Then this should be just the thing.”
Blake doubted it, but if it brought any relief, he would gladly take the whole of it.
“Please bring me a glass of water so I can mix it with the powder,” she instructed Thorn.
His friend retrieved the glass from the table beside the bed before striding across the room to refill it. When he returned, Miss Alcott tapped some powder into the glass and stirred it about. “We need to get you sitting up so you can drink.”
Thorn was at his side without hesitation. Blake groaned as his body protested against the movement. Once he was elevated enough, Miss Alcott brought the glass to his lips. Blake braced himself for the bitter taste. If he didn’t have hope it would bring some relief, he would have refused. Instead, he forced himself to drink. When the contents were drained he was allowed to lie back against the pillows once again.
“You should rest now. With any luck, my brother w
ill be here soon.”
“I’ll escort you out, Miss Alcott.”
Blake let his eyes close and willed the pain away at the click of the door closing behind them. At least Thorn was finally being solicitous. What had gotten into his friend?
A cool hand rested upon his brow. It brought relief to the fever. Had Miss Alcott returned? He hadn’t heard the door. Had he fallen asleep?
Blake cracked his eyes open at the unfamiliar touch.
Above him was a woman in a white nightshift. Where had she come from? She was young, barely out of the schoolroom, with blonde, flowing hair. She was so delicate and pale with a look of concern in her green eyes.
“Who are you?”
She smiled but said nothing.
“Are you a maid?”
Her smile grew wide, eyes crinkling as she shook her head.
“A relation of Braden and Quent?”
She frowned and studied him. Did she not know who his hosts were? Why was she here if she didn’t know them? Did she not understand the question?
“Who are you?”
She brought a finger to her lips as if to shush him.
It didn’t really matter who she was. Her coolness brought relief to his fevered brow. She stroked his cheek with her other hand and Blake sighed.
His eyes grew heavy again, but Blake didn’t want to return to sleep yet. He had a beautiful woman in his chamber, not that he was in any position to take advantage of the situation, but he feared if he slept she would be gone when he awoke.
She moved her hand across his eyes and they closed against Blake’s will. A moment later, cool air touched his lips.
“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.”
