by Scott, Tarah
“Good to see you, Connor,” Kiernan said.
“How are you, lad?” the doctor asked. “Mather, here, tells me you're not taking care of yourself as ye ought.”
Kiernan laughed. A deep rich laugh, Phoebe grudgingly noticed, that filled the room and settled deep inside the heart of the listener.
“Mather, long ago, appointed himself my mother,” he said, giving him a stern look.
Mather bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Dr. Connor frowned. “You look as if you could use a rest.”
“Soon, Connor, soon. But first,” Kiernan motioned to Phoebe, “you have a more pressing patient.”
The doctor approached. He sat down on the bed beside her and, setting the black bag on the floor, eyed Phoebe. “A nasty fall, my dear.” He placed a hand on her forehead, tipping her head back slightly. “Let me have a look.” He leaned in closer and studied the gash on her forehead, then said with a glance at Kiernan, “Have you a candle?”
Kiernan looked around the room, then strode to the small secretary in the alcove. He picked up the candle sitting there, and hurried to the fire and lit it.
“Put it on the nightstand,” the doctor said as Kiernan approached.
Kiernan placed the candle beside Phoebe's tea cup on the tray and Dr. Connor placed a thumb on her right eyelid and gently pulled the lid up as he tilted her head toward the candle light. He studied the eye for a moment, did the same with the left eye, then released her.
“How is your sight?” he asked.
“Fine now,” she replied. “When I first awoke, it was blurry.”
He nodded, then reached into his black bag and pulled out a stethoscope. Phoebe grasped the end of the stethoscope and examined it much as he had her head.
She looked at him. “A binaural stethoscope. Where did you find one?”
His face lit with surprise. “You're familiar with this instrument?”
“Indeed I am.” She fingered one of the tubes. “The article in the London Gazette was most informative.”
“You read that article? That came into print in eighteen twenty-nine.”
Phoebe thought for a moment. “August twelfth, I believe.” She looked from the incredulous doctor to Kiernan, who regarded her with a tilt of his head. “A woman can read as well as a man,” she said.
“Aye,” Dr. Connor agreed, pulling her attention back to him. “That she can. That-she-can.”
“How did you come by it?” she asked. “I didn’t think they were in use.”
“You’re correct. But I have a friend who knows the inventor.”
Phoebe’s gaze followed when he looked at Kiernan.
“You know Nicholas Comins?” she demanded of Kiernan.
“Not I, Miss Ballingham, my father.”
“Now, if you don't mind,” Dr. Connor pried the stethoscope from her hands, “I will finish."
The poking and prodding came to an end twenty minutes later with Dr. Connor’s instructions that Phoebe was not to move from her bed, and that her head was to remain elevated. “You took a nasty blow,” he admonished. “You’re lucky it didn't crack your skull wide open.”
“Is that any indication of how hard the head is?” Kiernan asked.
Dr. Connor chuckled. “It has more to do with luck. But it wasn't very wise.” He looked pointedly at Phoebe.
“You would have done the same had this—this—”
“This what?” Kiernan inquired.
“This man,” she retorted. “If he had kidnapped you, you would have done the same.”
“Kidnapped?” Dr. Connor’s attention riveted onto Kiernan.
Kiernan shrugged. “The fall addled her brains.”
“Kiernan,” the doctor began.
“You remember Lord Stoneleigh?” Kiernan cut in.
“Aye.”
“Miss Ballingham is his special guest.”
Comprehension lit the doctor’s eyes and Phoebe knew Lord Stoneleigh's reputation as a womanizer had preceded him even here, in the wilds of Scotland.
The doctor snapped his bag closed and rose. “Remember,” he said in a stern voice, “you're not to get out of that bed today. I'll see you tomorrow.” He started for the door.
“Doctor,” Phoebe cried.
He turned. “Yes, Miss Ballingham?”
“You aren’t going to leave me here?”
“You can't be moved, young lady,” he replied in a kindly, but firm voice. He looked at Kiernan. “Inform Lord Stoneleigh she isn't to be moved until I give permission.”
“I'll see to it, Connor. Thank you for coming.”
Phoebe watched, mouth agape, as Kiernan escorted him to the door. Dr. Connor exited, and Mather entered.
“I am returning to Edinburgh the moment I recover,” Phoebe burst out.
“Don't excite yourself,” Kiernan said.
“Cease this foolishness,” she snapped.
“I'm not the one who jumped from a moving carriage,” he replied.
“I am not Heddy, I tell you."
“Who might you be, then? Cleopatra?”
Phoebe stiffened. I will seek recompense for this, Heddy, she telepathed. “For a man who thinks so little of the lady, you are going to a great deal of trouble to keep her in your company.”
A smile twitched one corner of his mouth. “A man has a right to change his opinion.”
Phoebe cut her gaze to Mather. “Sir, do you write?”
“Aye, Miss.”
“Fine. Be so good as to fetch paper and pen.”
“Miss?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She shook her head in exasperation. Her vision blurred and she pressed the fingers of her right hand to her temple.
“Heddy?” Kiernan demanded.
“You are to write a letter for me,” she ordered Mather.
Mather looked at his master.
“Do you intend to inform your other…er, friends that you are no longer at their disposal?” Kiernan asked.
“Never mind, Mather,” Phoebe said. “I will not require your help after all.”
Kiernan made a tsking sound. “You're going to keep the poor fellows hanging?”
“All I need from you, Mather,” she went on, “is an address.”
“An address?”
“Yes. One I am sure you have.”
“I know very few addresses,” Mather hedged.
“I'm in need of only one address. I must—no, it is my duty—” she pinned him with a hard look “—your duty, as well, to inform this person’s father of his dishonorable actions.”
Mather paled and satisfaction surged through her.
Kiernan took the two steps to her bed and squatted down face level with her. “Miss Ballingham, I have been far more honorable than I would have preferred. I assure you, my father would agree.”
Phoebe blinked, aware of a frustrated heat rising to her cheeks. Her head began to pound. “Please leave,” she rubbed her temples. “I require privacy.”
“Mather,” Kiernan said, rising, “fetch the chamber pot.”
*****
Phoebe put one foot in front of her, careful to take each descending stair slowly. Though loath to admit it, Dr. Connor was correct. She would be unable to ride for another day. Tomorrow would be four days since she disappeared. Her uncle must be frantic, and the fact she hadn't been contacted or rescued by one of Lord Redgrave's spies had her worried. Where was this Green Lady Inn that she was out of his network? Phoebe paused on the final step. No dizziness. She released a breath, thankful she hadn't given in to the sense of unease she experienced while staring down from the top stair at what seemed to be an abyss.
She tugged the bodice of her dress. “A might small it be for ye, lass,” Phoebe mimicked Mrs. Grayson’s tone when the housekeeper had produced the dress. “A might small, indeed,” she muttered.
How was it possible to have ripped her skirt from hem to hip when she jumped from the carriage? Mrs. Grayson had given the gown to the villag
e’s seamstress for repair so, until she got the gown back, Phoebe was stuck with the tight dress. She tugged harder on the bodice. Blasted thing was made for a twelve year old girl.
Phoebe fidgeted with her shawl, but her efforts to flatten it over her breasts were useless. Tied over itself, the shawl only emphasized the fact her breasts nearly spilled over the narrow lace. She finally gave up and loosened the tie, throwing the corner over her shoulder so that the edge hung over the bodice. She started down the narrow hallway at a sedate pace. Halfway down the corridor, Mrs. Grayson's voice filtered to her from a room up ahead.
“Dora swears we will no’ have snow for at least two months,” the housekeeper said.
Masculine laughter followed.
Kiernan MacGregor.
Phoebe slowed.
“Dora hasn't always proven reliable,” he said. “I shall hazard the ride north.”
A chair squeaked and Phoebe realized one of the two was rising. She turned on her heel with the intention of hurrying back down the hallway, but the corridor spun in a dark swirl around her. She groped at the wall.
“Heddy.” Kiernan’s voice closed in on her.
Phoebe found herself swept off her feet, her face crushed against the velvet lapel of his wool morning coat.
“What are you doing out of bed?” he demanded, bringing his face so close to hers, Phoebe swore she could taste the saddle soap he had washed with that morning.
“I see by your coat you have already been riding this morning,” she complained.
“I am allowed that privilege,” he replied tersely. “You are not.”
“Dr. Connor said I might leave that cursed bed,” she retorted.
“I—” Kiernan began, but was cut off by Mrs. Grayson.
“Good Lord, what’s happened?” She touched a hand to Phoebe’s forehead. "You're a might flushed, dearie.”
“No doubt due to being surprised,” Phoebe grumbled. “Put me down, sir.”
“That I will. Step aside, Bridget.” He hugged her so tightly a rush of air was forced from her lungs.
“By heavens,” she wheezed.
“Now, Kiernan,” Mrs. Grayson began as he started down the hallway.
“I don't wish to spend any more time in bed,” Phoebe protested.
“Kiernan!”
Mrs. Grayson’s shout stopped him. He faced her. “Bridget—”
“Dinna’ Bridget me,” she ordered. “Bring her into the kitchen. She can sit with me at the table. It'll do her good to be up and about. She is less likely to do herself harm under your watchful eye.”
He hesitated. Mrs. Grayson gave Phoebe a knowing look.
He must have discerned its meaning, for he started down the hallway toward the kitchen as he muttered the single word, “Women.”
Chapter Four
Kiernan leaned back in his chair and studied Heddy. There was a flush in her cheeks and her eyes were clear. Being out of bed agreed with her. And he couldn't deny the ridiculous dress she wore agreed with him.
“More tea?” Mrs. Grayson asked.
Heddy shook her head and the housekeeper looked inquiringly at him.
“I’ve had quite enough tea for one day, thank you, Bridget.”
“Perhaps, then,” Heddy said, “you should be off attending to business.”
Kiernan rubbed his chin. “I have no business as interesting as you.”
Her lips thinned. “I am not Heddy.”
“You keep saying that. Yet, not once, have you offered an alternate identity.”
“I'm sure I told you that I’m Phoebe Wallington, Lord Albery’s niece.”
“No," he said. "I don’t think you did. I haven't had the pleasure of Lord Albery’s acquaintance.”
She raised a cool brow. “He spends little time in Scotland.” She faced Mrs. Grayson. “After three days, it must be clear I'm not who he thinks I am.” Heddy shot him a sidelong glance. “Even if I were, he had no right to kidnap me.”
“Kidnap?” He tsked. “Come now, Heddy, we have discussed this. If not for me, God knows what those brigands would have done—” The barking of dogs outside interrupted him. Kiernan rose and went to the window where he lifted the curtain and surveyed the street.
Mrs. Grayson stepped up beside him. “Oh dear.”
“What is it?” Heddy asked.
“Strangers,” he replied.
Kiernan studied the man who walked in the forefront of the newcomers. The carved walking stick he leaned on showed wear and the haunted look in his eyes confirmed he'd been too long on the road.
Mrs. Grayson clucked her tongue. “Look at the women, as thin as rails. I made bread yesterday.” She turned from the window.
“Wait.” Kiernan caught her arm. “I don’t care for the looks of the leader.”
“They're hungry,” she protested. “Ye can't expect the homeless to look like proper lords and ladies.”
“Bridget,” he released her, “forego the bread for just a moment.”
Kiernan exited through the kitchen door and headed toward the small crowd gathered around the strangers. A cold nose nuzzled each hand and he glanced down at two hounds that nudged for attention. He gave each an affectionate pat, then brushed them aside as he stopped before the newcomer’s leader.
“M’lord,” the man said.
Kiernan nodded an acknowledgment and surveyed the group before returning his attention to the man. “Where are you from?”
“Hay territory, m’lord.”
“Hay? Are things still so bad in the north you couldn't find work between there and here?”
The man looked surprised. “‘Tis powerful bad, m’lord. We found what work we could, but…”
“There are only seven of you?”
“Aye.” The man pointed to the man and woman at the rear of the company. “That is George and Sharon.” He went on to name the remaining three men and the other woman, ending with himself, “Alan Hay.”
“No children?” Kiernan asked.
Alan pointed to the second woman. “Rebecca’s bairn died two days into the journey.” He nodded toward Sharon. “She had a wee one, but not enough milk for the babe. We buried the children in fields.”
“Good God,” a female voice behind Kiernan said.
He whirled. Heddy stood a few paces away. “What are you doing here?"
Her attention remained on the newcomers and a look of surprised recognition flitted across her face.
“We only ask a bit of food,” Alan broke in.
Kiernan faced him. “Food will be provided.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“What is your destination?”
Alan frowned. “Wherever we can find work.”
“The Glaistig Uain can offer no work for one man, much less four. You'll do well to move farther south. For tonight, you may sleep in the stable.” Kiernan motioned to the stables across the lane.
Alan's mouth thinned. “Kind of you to let us sleep with the animals, m’lord.”
“Aye,” he replied, then, “Baths can be arranged, if you like.”
Alan nodded. “The women will be glad for that."
“I imagine so,” Kiernan agreed. “Particularly if the men avail themselves of the luxury, as well.” He gave a final nod and took two steps to Heddy. Her gaze remained fixed on Alan. “What is it, Heddy?”
“You see that?” She nodded at the thick, wavy stick Alan carried.
“The walking stick?”
“A swordstick. Silver mounted buckhorn handle, if I’m not mistaken. Certainly disguises the sword hidden within quite well, doesn’t it? And those.” Kiernan followed her line of sight to the combination weapon stuffed into Alan Hay’s belt. “The short hanger, a hunting sword. Ideal for mounting a flintlock. Queen Anne cannon barrel type. And that one.” She nodded at the weapon in George’s belt. “At least forty years old, but still deadly. Four barrels, two on each side.”
The group turned, led by one of the villagers, and started for the stables.
>
With a final glance at Alan Hay, Kiernan returned his attention to Heddy. “They have traveled far. Weapons would be a necessity.”
“True,” she agreed. “But those look well used.”
“It's likely they survived the journey by hunting.”
“But what do they hunt?” Heddy murmured.
His gaze caught on the shawl that had fallen afoul of her bodice. “You'll catch your death.” He grasped the shawl’s edges.
Her attention broke from the strangers and she looked at him. Kiernan tugged the shawl across her breasts. He would have to find a way to thank Mrs. Grayson for giving Heddy this particular dress. Heddy glanced down at the shawl, then raised her face to his, her mouth turned down in a dry expression. Kiernan laughed and dropped his hands to his sides. He glanced again at the retreating Hays—his attention flicking over the walking stick—before grasping Heddy’s arm and leading her toward the inn.
“How is it you're acquainted with weapons?” he asked.
“My uncle is an amateur collector. I have been subjected to long lectures on weapons and their uses.”
“You spoke of your uncle before.” Something Regan hadn't mentioned about her. One of the hounds bounded up to his side and woofed. Kiernan gave the dog a playful cuff on the nose.
“My father died when I was seven," Heddy answered. "My mother when I was fourteen."
"I'm sorry," he said.
"It was long ago."
"What of your remaining family?" he asked.
“They are…a mixed cup.”
The dog bounded off in pursuit of the other hound that had shot across the lane toward the stables. “How so?” Kiernan looked down at her.
One corner of her mouth twitched in the first indication of amusement he’d observed, but she answered with gravity, “My father’s brother is a good man. His wife, however, isn't so amiable.”
“Why?”
Heddy laughed, the sound devoid of warmth. “The most common reason: money.”
“MacGregor!”
Kiernan turned at the call. Davis Hamilton rode toward them. He brought his horse to a halt beside them. “‘Tis good to see you, MacGregor.”
