Alcott, his movements crisp and efficient, abandoned the room only to return to administer a tincture she seemed to have trouble swallowing.
“What’s that?” Titus queried, eyeing the bottle with interest.
“Thymol. Better known as Thyme Camphor. It’s has anti-pathogenic properties that will kill the bacterium in her stomach, giving her greater chance of survival.”
“The doctor gave us all Naphthalene,” Titus remembered. “It helped with the fever, but…then they all got so much worse.” The memory thrummed a chord of despondency in his chest with such a pulsating ache he had to press his hand to his sternum to quiet it.
Alcott snorted derisively, his skin mottling beneath his beard. “Naphthalene is more a poison than a medicine and, while less expensive and more readily available, it is also little better than shoving moth balls into your family’s mouth and calling it a cure. I’d very much like a word with this so-called physician.”
Would that he had known before. That he could have perhaps asked for this… Thymol. “I don’t know why I didn’t get so sick as them. I did everything I could for their fevers. Yarrow tea and cold ginger. I couldn’t lift them into a bath, I was a boy then, but I kept cold compresses on their heads and camphor and mustard on their chests.”
Alcott’s features arranged themselves with such compassion, Titus couldn’t look at him without a prick of tears threatening behind his eyes. “You did admirably, lad. Sometimes, despite our best efforts, death wins the battle and we are defeated.”
To assuage both his curiosity and his inescapable anxiety, Titus questioned the doctor about bacterium, pathogens, medications, dosages, appendixes, and any other organs that might arbitrarily perforate until Alcott deemed that Honoria had spent long enough in the water.
It was difficult to maintain the sort of clinical distance Doctor Alcott seemed capable of as they maneuvered her back to the bed, dried and dressed her in a clean night rail. Titus did his best to avoid looking where he ought not to, touching her bare skin as little as possible.
But he knew his fingertips wouldn’t forget the feel of her, even though it dishonored them both to remember.
The doctor left her in Titus’s care while he went to administer Thymol and instruction to the maids, both of whom were afflicted with the same malady but not advanced with high fevers or this worrisome torpor.
Once alone, Titus retrieved the hairbrush and, with trembling hands and exacting thoroughness, undid the matted mess that had become her braid. He smoothed the damp strands and fanned them over the pillow as he gently worked out the tangles. The texture was like silk against his rough skin, and he allowed himself to indulge in the pleasure of the drying strands to sift in the divots between his fingers. Then, he plaited it as he sometimes did the horse’s tails when they had to be moved en masse to the country.
He even tied the end with a ribbon of burgundy, thinking she might approve.
His efforts, of course, were nothing so masterful as Honoria’s maid’s, but he was examining the finished product with something like satisfaction when the appearance of Dr. Alcott at his side gave him a start.
The doctor, a man of maybe forty years, was looking down at him from eyes still pink with exhaustion, as if he’d not slept much yet before he’d been roused so early. “We’ll let her sleep until her next dose of Thymol. Here I’ll draw the drapes against the morning.”
“No,” Titus stood, reaching out a staying hand for the doctor. “She prefers the windows and drapes open. She likes the breeze from the garden, even in the winter.”
The doctor nodded approvingly. “It’s my opinion fresh air is best for an ailing patient.” He moved to put a hand on her forehead and take her pulse, seeming encouraged by the results. That finished, he turned to Titus, assessing him with eyes much too shrewd and piercing for a boy used to living his life largely unseen.
“She means something to you, boy?”
She meant everything to him. But of course, he could not say that.
“Titus.”
“Pardon?”
“My name is Titus Conleith.”
The doctor gave a curt nod. “Irish?”
“My father was, but my mum was from Yorkshire where they worked the factories. We were sent here when my dad was elevated to a foreman in a steel company. But the well was bad, and Typhoid took them all three months later.”
Alcott made a sound that might have been sympathetic. “And how’d you come to be employed in the household of a Baron?”
Titus shrugged, increasingly uncomfortable beneath the older man’s interrogation. “I saved old Mr. Fick, the stable master, from being crushed by a runaway carriage one time. He gave me the job here to keep me from having to go back to the workhouse as his joints are getting too rheumy to do what he used to, and no orphanage would take in a boy old enough to make trouble.”
“I see. Have you any schooling?”
Titus eyed him warily. “I have some numbers and letters. What’s it to you?”
“You’ve a good mind for what I do. A good stomach for it, as well. I’ve a practice on Lowood Street, do you know where that is?”
“Aye.”
He clasped his hands behind his back looking suddenly regimental. “If Mr. Fick can spare you a few nights a week, I want you to visit me there.”
“I will,” Titus vowed, something sparking inside of him that his worry for Honoria wouldn’t allow to ignite into full hope.
The three days he sat at her side were both the best and worst of his life.
He told her tales about the horse’s antics as he melted chips of ice into her mouth. He monitored for spikes of fever and kept her cool with damp cloths and cloths packed with ice. The doctor even let him dose her with the Thymol and look after most of her necessities when the maids took a turn for the worst.
He begged her to live.
All the while, he crooned the Irish tune his father used to sing to his mother on the nights when they drank a bit too much ale and danced a reel like young lovers across their dingey old floor.
Black is the color of my true love's hair
Her lips are like some roses fair
She's the sweetest smile and the gentlest hands
I love the ground whereon she stands.
He barely ate or slept until the fourth night, after she’d swallowed several spoonsful of beef bone broth, the deep sounds of her easier breaths lulled him to nap in the chair by her bed. Alcott had roused him with the good news that her fever had broken and had then ordered him to wash and change clothing and sleep in the guest room down the hall.
A commotion woke him thirteen hours later. Without thinking, he lurched out of bed and scrambled down the hall. Skidding to a halt he narrowly avoided crashing into the Barron’s back.
Every soul in the Goode family gathered around Honoria’s bed, nearly blocking her from view. Prudence, Felicity, and Mercy all chattered at the same time, and it was the happy sound of their cadence that told him that he had nothing to fear.
Titus squelched a spurt of possession, stopping just short of shoving in and around them to see what was going on. This moment didn’t belong to them, it belonged to him.
She belonged to him.
“Young Mr. Conleith, there you are.” Doctor Alcott, a tall man, stood at the head of the bed next to his patient, who was still blocked from Titus’s view. “Miss Goode, you and your family owe this young lad a debt of gratitude. It is largely due to his tireless efforts that you survived.”
They all turned to look at him, clearing the visual pathway to her.
Titus drank in the sight of Honoria sitting up on her own with an ecstatic elation he was not aware a mortal capable of feeling. She was still ashen and wan, her eyes heavy-lidded and her lips without color.
And yet, the most beautiful sight he’d laid his eyes upon.
Her fingers worried at the burgundy ribbon in her hair, stroking it as if drawing comfort from it.
Was it his imagination,
or did dash of peach color her cheeks at the sight of him?
He already knew he was red as a beet, swamped in the blush now creeping up his collar.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Every word he knew crowded in his throat, choking off a reply.
“Yes,” the Barron chuffed, taking his shoulder, and firmly steering him backwards. “Expect our gratitude in remuneration, boy. I’ll call for you to my office tomorrow to discuss the details. There’s a good lad.”
The door shut in his face and he stared at it for an incomprehensible moment. From the other side, the Baroness’s voice grated she asked the Doctor if Honoria might be well enough to attend the garden party at the palace in three days.
He dropped his head against the door and closed his eyes.
She’d looked right at him. Had seen him for the first time. Did she remember any of the previous days? Had she heard anything he’d said to her? Sung to her?
She’d thanked him.
And he’d said nothing. His one chance to actually speak to her and he’d choked.
And then he’d been shut out like the inconvenience he was. To them, the Goodes, he was still a nobody. Nothing. They would never think about him after today unless the dog shat upon the carpets and someone needed to clean it up.
Would she? Would she come to him? Had she noticed him, truly? Not as a servant or a savior but as himself…
One question haunted him as he dragged his feet down the hallway back to the mews, his hand curling over the memory of her skin.
Would he ever get to touch her again?
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About the Author
Kerrigan Byrne is the USA Today Bestselling and award winning author of THE DUKE WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO. She has authored a dozen novels in both the romance and mystery genre. Her newest mystery release THE BUSINESS OF BLOOD is available October 24th, 2019
She lives on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington with her dream boat husband. When she's not writing and researching, you'll find her on the water sailing and kayaking, or on land eating, drinking, shopping, and taking the dogs to play on the beach.
Kerrigan loves to hear from her readers! To contact her or learn more about her books, please visit her site: www.kerriganbyrne.com
Gather the Stars
Kimberly Cates
Chapter One
Scotland, 1746
From the time she lisped out her first words, Lord General Marcus de Lacey's daughter had proclaimed she would only wed the bravest man in Christendom. Tonight, the incomparable Rachel swept across a ballroom littered with the defeated masses of her admirers, Sir Dunstan Wells’ betrothal ring encircling her finger.
She should have been elated, triumphant—amused, at the very least, by the sight of so many of England's finest soldiers sulking like thwarted schoolboys robbed of a coveted treat. But the sparkling music couldn't banish the restlessness inside her.
Rachel shook out the folds of her linen robes and straightened the golden laces that had turned her into Helen of Troy for tonight's festivities. An appropriate costume, her maid had said, since winning Rachel's hand had become the contest of the century. Yet had the legendary queen felt such conflicting emotions when sailing off with handsome Paris? Rachel wondered. An unexpected knot of disappointment that the chase was over. More than a little dread at the future to come. It did not trouble Rachel that she had caused a tidy little war between the soldiers. That had been delightful. What unsettled Rachel was the knowledge that her bed would be Dunstan’s to share, her body his to claim, and that instead of being a wild, headstrong queen ruling her own kingdom, she would be expected to bend to his will for the rest of her life.
Thunderation, this is madness, Rachel berated herself, dodging past a rather short Sir Lancelot who was doing the minuet with a clumsy swan. Dunstan had hardly kidnapped her and forced her to become his bride. After his bold exploits against the rebels, no one could deny he was the hero of Culloden Moor. This was what she had always wanted, wasn't it? The bravest hero ever to wield a sword?
But it wasn't only doubts about her upcoming marriage that were plaguing her tonight. It was Scotland that unnerved her, with its wild hills and half-savage people.
She shivered, her toes cold in their delicate sandals, and she wished for stout leather shoes or familiar satin slippers, something more substantial to separate her from the floor beneath her feet.
It was as if the Scots soil had soaked up the fires of the recent rebellion, the wind carrying echoes of screams and battle cries silenced by the blade of the conqueror's sword. Nothing, not the elegant manor house taken captive by the British forces, or the frenetic gaiety of those around her, could blot out the wildness, the untamed echoes of this place.
Rachel twisted the heavy betrothal ring around her knuckle until her finger stung. She wished that the night were over. But there was no escaping. A bevy of officers' wives and their male admirers swept toward her.
"Mistress de Lacey?" the insistent shrill of Sergeant Bevin's portly wife raked her frazzled nerves. "I was just telling Lieutenant Pringle here what a pity it is your betrothed could not be here tonight to celebrate his victory in winning your hand in marriage."
"Sir Dunstan is hunting down the last of the rebels to make them pay for their crimes, no doubt," Lieutenant Alfred Pringle said. "No one is better fitted for the task, I assure you. Your betrothed takes the greatest delight in avenging all the fine English lads who had to sacrifice their lives driving Bonnie Prince Charlie out of this nest of sedition. A deplorable loss, those fine, gallant soldiers."
"You needn't fear for the future of the king's army."
Rachel started at the gruff voice behind her, turned to find the duke of Cumberland approaching. The commander of the English forces and her papa's longtime friend eyed her with the same eager anticipation he would accord a particularly promising brood mare about to come into season.
"Lord General de Lacey's daughter and brave Sir Dunstan shall attend to their duty the instant they are wed. It was her father's dying wish that she provide us with an entire battalion of strapping boys to fill up the ranks, eh, Rachel?"
Rachel's cheeks burned at the knowledge of what would have to transpire between her and Dunstan to conceive those sons—secret, mysterious, vaguely shameful acts she must endure with the stoic silence of a good soldier.
She squirmed inwardly, aware of the curious press of eyes upon her, the sudden lull in chatter as those surrounding her waited for her answer.
The only noise was the rhythmic stumping of a crutch upon the floor drawing nearer. The sound spread discomfort to the very tips of her fingers, and she glanced up to see Lord Nathaniel Rowland.
Nate—once her childhood friend, now a stranger. He'd been the first impetuous youth bold enough to ask her to dance, but he would never lead a partner onto a ballroom floor again. He limped toward her, pale-faced and leaning on a crutch.
Guilt stung Rachel. She'd barely spoken to him in the three days since she'd arrived in Scotland. Yet she couldn't bear to face the changes in him. Bitterness was etched deep in his once-laughing features, as was a taut desperation.
"Well, girl?" Cumberland groused. "I asked you a question. Will you give us a battalion of lads to shed their blood in Britannia's name?"
Rachel turned away from the disturbing scene and tossed her sable curls. "I am certain any woman should be proud to give her sons to the greater glory of England," she said.
"Do you truly believe that?" A woman hovering near Cumberland inquired. "It would break my heart to sacrifice either of my boys even for the most noble of causes." The woman peered at her and smiled with sad indulgence. "But then, of course you are blinded by the glory of it all. A bright, beautiful young girl like you so sheltered from the ways of the world. What can you know about a mother's love?"
Rachel winced, the woman's words slipping into a raw place inside her, hidden, nearly forg
otten. What can you know about a mother's love? Nothing, a little girl's wistful voice echoed inside her. Nothing at all.
The duke's lip curled in distaste as he regarded the other woman. "I can only be grateful that Sir Dunstan's betrothed is not given to such womanly vapors. Mistress de Lacey has been raised to know her duty."
The scraping of the crutch stopped, a familiar yet slurred voice breaking into the conversation. "Yes, you know your duty, do you not, Mistress de Lacey?"
A low throb of alarm gripped Rachel as she turned to face the drink-bleared gaze of Lord Nathaniel Rowland.
"Nate. My lord," Rachel said. She flinched at a merry trill of laughter, and tried desperately not to notice how Lord Nathaniel's pretty young wife, garbed as Joan of Arc, tapped her toes with impatience on the other side of the room. The woman’s eyes roved in blatant invitation to a gallant Hessian captain.
"Poor Rachel," Nate commiserated. "Your papa, the general, made sure you knew it was your sworn duty to wed only to the bravest man in England. After that? You were to give yourself up to breeding cannon fodder to spill their blood in Britannia's name."
"Rowland, that's enough," Lieutenant Pringle bit out.
"I am just offering Sir Dunstan's bride-to-be a worthy bit of advice," Nathaniel snarled. "Rachel, if you're determined to take this course, just make bloody well certain that your sons die in Britannia's name. It's dashed awkward when they come limping back, unsightly monsters minus an arm or a leg or an eye."
"You shame yourself," Pringle snapped. "A soldier sniveling over a paltry wound."
"I recall you sniveling copiously yourself when fair Rachel became betrothed to her paragon of courage and bravery. And yet, perhaps she was too hasty in her choice. If Lord General de Lacey's daughter still wants the bravest man in the realm to sire her sons, she should have chosen someone from the other side."
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