The Scottish Companion

by Karen Ranney

  That’s why he was cold and lonely, and missing Elise, and seated here in this parlor that could well have done with a fire. Was the countess as parsimonious with her wood and coal as she was her smiles?

  A fire might have added to his comfort, but Lorenzo wasn’t at all certain that he could ever warm up to Grant’s future wife. What a terrible mismatch.

  The countess looked at Arabella and without even a smile just flicked her fingers at her.

  “You will serve, Arabella,” she commanded.

  For a long moment the two women regarded each other. Was Arabella thinking of rebellion? It seemed not, for in the next moment she put her book down on the settee beside her and leaned forward. Her movements were brisk as she handed the countess the first cup of tea, doing so with an almost challenging look.

  Lorenzo took his cup from her and smiled, murmuring his thanks.

  She didn’t respond.

  He wrapped his hands around the cup, and wondered how long it would take before his fingers lost their numbness. Was no one else in the godforsaken country ever cold? Were they all lizards? No wonder Grant spent five years in Italy.

  “Will you be staying long, Count Paterno?” The countess smiled at him, and if the expression was a little forced, he could well imagine the reason why. Arabella was glaring at her as if to dare the older woman to say something critical.

  He smiled back at her. “Not much longer,” he said. “My wife expects me home soon.”

  The door was abruptly pushed open, and a footman dressed in immaculate livery stood in the doorway staring at the countess. His face was ashen, and from his harsh breathing it was evident he’d been in some haste to reach the room.

  “Your Ladyship, forgive me.”

  The countess would have spoken, but the footman looked directly at Lorenzo. “The earl needs you, sir. There is some urgency.”

  Lorenzo stood, nearly spilling the rest of his tea as he set it down on the table before him. Both the doctor and Arabella stood as well.

  “What is it?” Arabella asked.

  “Can you hurry, sir?” the footman asked, coming to his side. “He’s asked specifically for you.”

  “Is he ill?” he asked, concerned.

  “It’s Miss Cameron,” the footman said. “I think she’s dying.”

  Chapter 20

  Grant moved backward a few steps, wrapping his arms around Gillian, supporting the whole of her weight. Perhaps if he made her walk, he might cause her to awaken. For the next quarter hour, he half dragged her around the room, cursing the chamber’s small proportions. If he’d been at Rosemoor, he’d have had twenty feet in either direction, but as it was, there was only a few feet between the bed and the wall.

  “Gillian, you cannot leave me like this. You cannot bedevil me on the one hand, and simply disappear from my life on the other. How will I survive? What will happen to my days if I do not see you in the morning? What will I do in the evenings without the sight of you at dinner, without your sparkling eyes teasing me?”

  What would he do without her?

  He was finding it more and more difficult to fall back into the role of earl. How very odd that with her he felt as if he were in Italy again, unencumbered by rank, simply enjoying his life.

  She did that to him. She brought him freedom, and he hadn’t realized it until this moment.

  He heard Dr. Fenton before he saw him. The man was shouting as he walked down the corridor, the openness of the building echoing the sound of his orders.

  Dr. Fenton hesitated beside the rotunda, and only then did Grant realize that he’d brought Arabella with him.

  “Is she ill? What has befallen her?” She ducked beneath Dr. Fenton’s outstretched arm when he would have held her back, and came up to Grant. She pushed Gillian’s hair away from her face, the better to study the paleness of her features, no doubt.

  “You must lay her down,” Arabella commanded.

  When he made no movement toward the bedroom, she frowned at him. “We need to cover her with a blanket and get her to drink some warm wine,” she said.

  He remained where he was.

  “We need to do as Arabella said,” Dr. Fenton said gently. “We will care for her, Your Lordship.”

  Grant took a step back. “The better for the poison to travel through her system? Would it not be best for her to be encouraged to rid herself of what’s in her stomach?”

  “How do you know she’s been poisoned?” Arabella asked. She pulled on Gillian’s shoulder, and he took another step away, turning slightly so his back was to the woman.

  “Your suggestion has merit. If she were awake,” the doctor said. “As it is, she might choke and die.” Dr. Fenton took a few steps closer to Grant. “You can leave her in our care, Your Lordship. She must be warmed, and a few spoonfuls of red wine must be coaxed into her system. Please note, Your Lordship, her lips are bluish even now.”

  What Grant knew of medicine could be placed in a thimble, but he was possessed of good common sense.

  “I don’t agree with your treatment,” he said, realizing that he probably looked the fool to both of them.

  The responsibility he felt for Gillian’s condition nearly suffocated him, but that was not something he could articulate to these two people. Neither of them looked as worried as he felt. Arabella, especially, looked almost feverish to have a patient to treat.

  “Where’s Lorenzo?” he asked the doctor, but Arabella answered.

  “Your friend went to his room when he heard Gillian was ill. My father and I should be allowed to treat her.” She came closer, and he simply ended the discussion by striding from the room, still carrying Gillian in his arms.

  “Do not follow me,” he said, when it was obvious that was just what the two were doing. Michael appeared at the opportune moment, and he gestured to the footman with his chin. “See that they are escorted back to Rosemoor,” he ordered.

  He crossed the sunlit space and down the long, wide corridor stretching the length of the palace. He rarely came this way, preferring to ignore the presence of the two wings that jutted off to the right and left of the building. He remembered, all too well, what he’d found in these rooms.

  Reluctance halted him at the door to the wing. The key was still in the lock, as he’d expected it to be. His steward inspected the grounds and all the buildings periodically, since he’d been tasked with the good working order of Rosemoor. The man would see to it that the roof was repaired and the door hinges were oiled, and the rooms themselves repainted when necessary. MacTavish was a wonder, but as Grant turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open with one hand, he wished the man was not quite so good at his job.

  The doors to the rooms were open, allowing sunlight to spill into the hall. At the end of the corridor was a large plaster bas-relief stretching from floor to ceiling of the Greek god Bacchus. In front of it was a small tiled pool.

  He reached the pool and stepped down into the water, knowing that it would come to a grown man’s waist. Evidently his father had enjoyed games of a sort enjoyed by emperors of Rome.

  Gillian was already cold, and as he lowered her gently into the water, she began to tremble. He pushed her down, submerging her until even her face was covered, and then pulled her back out. She coughed, gasped, and coughed again, and this time her eyes opened, rolled back in her head, and shut again.

  For hours, it seemed, he dunked her repeatedly. He gave no thought to his own comfort although he did have an errant thought that his valet—a man who gave no heed to either Grant’s title or his thundering frowns—would be certain to demand an explanation for the condition of Grant’s clothing.

  Dear God, let her live.

  Gillian’s garments clung to her body. He could see the outline of each stay, and realized that he should have loosened them earlier. His fingers fumbled on her wet buttons and he managed to undo two of them. The rest would have to wait until later.

  She moaned again, which he thought was a good sign. Now he needed
to make sure that she rid herself of what poison she did consume.

  He carried her back to his laboratory, the pristine marble of the floor dotted with a water trail, and gently deposited Gillian in the large overstuffed chair against the wall. Turning to the cabinet behind his tables, he stood staring at the array of bottles he kept locked there. What the hell could he use?

  “You do not do the expected,” Lorenzo said from behind him.

  Grant turned to find his friend bending over Gillian, forcing her eyelids back to examine each eye. She was still not conscious and her color was even more ashen than before.

  “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life,” Grant said. “What the hell can I use for an emetic?”

  Lorenzo smiled and reached into a leather case he held, producing a small brown bottle. “Our minds travel alike, even though our hearts go in divergent paths, my friend.”

  He reached Lorenzo’s side, but his friend refused to surrender the bottle.

  “Why are you so certain it’s poison?” Lorenzo asked.

  “Because of what happened to Andrew and James. Because I would have eaten the bisque myself if she hadn’t been here. Because I’m certain that someone’s trying to kill me, and they might succeed in killing Gillian.”

  “Then we must ensure that this person is not successful,” Lorenzo said.

  His tone might have been light, but the look on his face was not. He didn’t argue, which was one of the reasons that Grant had summoned him from Italy. Friendship brought silence, sometimes, but more importantly, it conveyed trust. At the moment, Grant needed someone to help him, not someone who would question everything he was attempting to do.

  Lorenzo scooped Gillian up from the chair, sat, and placed her on his lap. Before Grant could comment or protest, Lorenzo held the bottle to her lips.

  “At least you did not ask me for the antidote to poison. A great many of your countrymen think that because I come from Italy, I know a great deal about ways to kill people.”

  “If I thought you knew anything,” Grant said, “believe me, I would have sought your counsel.”

  “You simply needed me to remove those two from your vicinity, is that it?” With a jerk of his head, he indicated the other room. Only then did Grant realize that Arabella and Dr. Fenton were still in the building. He could hear Arabella’s voice from here.

  “Miss Cameron would not want you to witness what will happen next, my friend. Women do not, on the whole, like to be ill around their lovers. You can busy yourself bidding your guests goodbye.”

  Grant was torn.

  “Your guests will not leave,” Lorenzo said. “Your manservant is holding them back with great expertise, but I fear he is nothing to your bride-to-be’s determination.”

  The two men exchanged a look.

  “You must handle them, my friend. I will stay with the little Scottish kitten. I am a very good doctor. I will stay with her until she wakes.”

  “If she wakes,” Grant said.

  “Go and see to your stubborn fiancée. I will treat the kitten.”

  When Grant didn’t move, Lorenzo smiled. “It is a smitten man who will gaze upon an ill woman with such favor.”

  “I hardly think I’m smitten, Lorenzo. She ate something meant for me. I’m simply trying to save her life.”

  “Then leave me to my duties while you attend to yours, my friend.”

  For several minutes after Grant left the room, Gillian didn’t make a sound. Lorenzo had to bend closer to hear her breathing, it was so shallow.

  Lorenzo waved the bottle in front of her nose until she took a startled gasp. Not only was it an emetic, but it had a foul odor and had succeeded, more than once, in summoning a patient back from unconsciousness.

  Her eyes flickered open once, and then her head fell back.

  “Miss Cameron! Can you hear me?”

  Frustrated, he slapped at her face, at first gently, and then with more force.

  A paroxysm of coughs escaped her, a fact that pleased him enormously.

  The poison might be fast acting, in which case he could do nothing. But he was not about to fail now, especially since it was very clear his friend had feelings for this woman.

  Quickly he unfastened the rest of her buttons, and pulled apart her wet dress. With great difficulty he loosened her stays and slipped his hands between them and her chemise.

  She was as cold as the grave.

  “Miss Cameron?”

  He began to rub her torso with both his hands, attempting to warm her. He laid her back against the chair arm and briskly scrubbed at her skin.

  She made a sound, a response, and he smiled, inordinately pleased. Perhaps it wasn’t too late after all.

  He held the bottle to her lips, and she made a protesting movement of her head, another sign of consciousness that he rejoiced in seeing.

  Lorenzo persisted until she finally roused enough to take a sip. The liquid didn’t stay in her mouth, however. Slowly, patiently, he managed to get a little of the emetic down her throat. A few moments later it had the expected results. He reached for the bucket holding the bottle of wine, and held her hair back as she was ill.

  When he lowered her back in the chair, she was even paler than before. Her lips weren’t quite so bluish, however, and her breathing seemed less shallow. He forced her to swallow more of the emetic, and when she was ill again, he repeated his actions.

  He didn’t care how sick she became, as long as she survived.

  “No,” Grant said, “you can’t see her.”

  He stood framed in the doorway of his laboratory, irritated that Dr. Fenton and Arabella were invading his privacy. This room was rarely seen by any inhabitant of Rosemoor, and he wanted it that way. He especially wanted no memory of Arabella in this chamber, and he pushed that thought away to examine more closely later.

  For right now, he wanted them gone so that he could return to Gillian’s side. However, the two of them seemed just as intent to ignore his every word and care for Gillian themselves.

  “Your Lordship, if she has truly been poisoned, she may die without treatment,” Dr. Fenton said. He took a step toward Grant, but Grant simply put both arms up on the frame of the door, effectively blocking the entrance to the room. The only other way to his bedchamber was through the hallway and Michael’s room, and he doubted if either one of these determined personages could find their way through that maze.

  “You’ll have to get through me to get to Gillian,” he said. “As angry as I am at the moment, that will prove to be an impossible task.”

  “I do not approve, Your Lordship,” Dr. Fenton said, pulling himself up to his full height and looking as if he were ready for battle. “Gillian is under my protection, and should not be examined by a strange man.”

  “Nor by a foreigner,” Arabella said.

  Grant didn’t bother to hide his disdain. “Dr. Fenton, you do not approve of anything Gillian does. I don’t care what either of you think of Lorenzo. He’s a very talented doctor himself.”

  “I doubt he knows our methods, Your Lordship,” Arabella said. “He might not be versed on the newest treatments.”

  “I trust him implicitly,” Grant said, deliberately allowing them to construe what they would.

  “I must insist, Your Lordship,” Dr. Fenton said, a comment that elicited a smile from Grant.

  “So do I, sir,” he said, taking a step back into his laboratory. He reached out and closed the door in their faces, and just for good measure, locked it.

  Chapter 21

  If death were a color, it would be grayish brown. If it had a smell, it would be sour, like the earth deprived of the sun, and if it had a flavor, it would mimic the taste in Gillian’s mouth exactly at that moment.

  Some tiny little person wearing giant hobnail boots was stomping through her stomach. In addition, she ached in places she’d never even felt before this morning, as if God were calling attention to the fact that she was alive, but not quite whole. Instead, she was c
omposed of aching bits that were barely held together.

  She would have moaned, but it seemed too much of an effort.

  When had she becomes so ill? In the middle of the night? She tried to open her eyes, but her lids felt so heavy that it was an effort to do so. Better to let sleep cascade over her like a waterfall.

  Water. Cold water. What a very unpleasant dream.

  Grant had been there, solicitous and angry by turns. He’d demanded that she do something. Why couldn’t she remember? Everything was a blur and yet some memories seemed sharper than normal. She slid her hands beneath the covers and felt for the pillow beneath her head. A moment later she buried her face in it, and waited for the nausea to pass.

  Slowly, she rolled over toward the middle of the bed. Please, no, she couldn’t be sick again. Her stomach was already so sore.

  “Ah, you’ve finally awakened. Are you still feeling ill, Miss Cameron?”

  She opened her eyes to find Lorenzo bending over her solicitously. She would have answered him, but words seemed impossible at the moment. He seemed, blessedly, to understand.

  He reached out his hand, placed it on her forehead, and pushed back her damp hair.

  “Your stomach, she is not settled, true?”

  Gillian only closed her eyes in response, hoping he would take that for an assent. Again, it seemed as if he understood exactly what she was feeling.

  “I’ve had to give you some powerful medicine, and the effects are very bad. But they should wear off soon, and then I’ll give you some warmed wine perhaps.”

  He didn’t linger on any description of food or beverage, for which Gillian was deeply grateful. Instead he slid something across the sheet to her. Her hand reached out and brushed against the cold sides of a porcelain bowl.