MAN IN THE MIST

by Annette Broadrick

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  Chapter 2

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  Fiona woke with a start to the sound of her visitor's breath-stealing cough echoing through the cottage. She glanced at her bedside clock and saw that it was almost five o'clock.

  The tea had given him a few hours of rest, which he needed. Not that he would have admitted it. No, sir. Mr. Greg Dumas had certainly been convinced he could continue with his journey.

  She sat up, yawning. He needed more of the herbal mixture she had given him. With that in mind, Fiona pulled on her robe and went downstairs to the kitchen, where she mixed the necessary herbs to relieve his cough and congestion, as well as bring down his fever.

  While she measured and crushed, her mind wandered into the past.

  By the time she was a teenager, she had known that she wanted to help heal people. She had worked with her dad—even though he had retired—with some of the older people who insisted on coming to him for treatment. Because of her interest, he had encouraged her to attend university and to consider medical school, which she had done.

  She had left medical school disheartened and more than a little discouraged. She'd learned little to nothing about nutritional needs, preventative medicine or natural remedies that worked as well as pharmaceuticals but with fewer side effects. She and her father had discussed the wide range of healing modalities more than once. Instead of continuing with her medical studies, she'd taken courses in nutrition and natural remedies.

  When her parents died, Fiona walked away from her studies and sought a place where she could be alone and come to terms with her loss. She'd stumbled onto Glen Cairn while exploring the Highlands, and on a whim checked to see if there were any available rentals.

  The cottage was exactly what she had needed—close enough to people if she wanted to reach out—secluded enough to allow her time to heal. She had never regretted her move.

  As word of her training and abilities spread through Glen Cairn, villagers had come to her with their ailments and she had found her grief being eased by helping others.

  She'd never told anyone why she was so good at diagnosing illnesses. First, because they wouldn't believe her. Secondly, because she didn't want to be considered odd, as she had been in Craigmor.

  The truth was that she saw shimmering colors around each person she met. Over the years she'd learned that certain colors represented physical problems, and certain emotions appeared to her in defining colors, as well. There was no way she could find the words to explain what she saw.

  As a child she'd thought that everyone could see those colors and knew what they meant. She'd assumed that was how her father was able to diagnose what was wrong with his patients.

  However, as she'd grown older she'd discovered that she was the only one around who witnessed what she saw. After being laughed at several times, she'd learned to keep quiet about seeing colors that no one else appeared to detect.

  Instead, she used her knowledge and skills to diagnose and treat others with her home-grown herbs, salves and her intuitive messages.

  Fiona poured the steeped herbal tea, let it cool a bit and took it to her guest bedroom. After tapping on the door and getting no response, she quietly turned the knob and walked into the bedroom. Rather than turn on the overhead light, she reached for a small lamp near the door. Once there was light, she turned and looked at her guest.

  The covers were bunched around his waist, displaying his bare chest. He lay on his back, his head turned away from her, his latest coughing spell still echoing in the room.

  "I've brought you some tea."

  He slowly turned his head toward her and the light, his eyes appearing unfocused.

  She touched his arm and discovered that he was burning up. She gave his shoulder a light shake. "Can you sit up for me, please?"

  He blinked. When his eyes opened a second time, they were somewhat clearer. "What do you want?" he asked, his words slurred.

  "I want you to drink this," she replied, sitting on the edge of the bed and offering him the cup.

  He came up on one elbow and took the cup, draining it as though he was thirsty. Without a word he handed it back to her and fell back on the bed.

  She smiled, almost amused at his change in attitude. Perhaps he was too sick to care what she gave him. Fiona went over to the tall dresser in the corner and opened one of the drawers. She pulled out a large flannel shirt and brought it back to the bed.

  "Here. Put this on… You need to stay warm."

  Greg opened his eyes and frowned at her. "I'm hot. I don't need a shirt."

  "Take my word for it. You really do need to keep your chest warm."

  His frown grew, but he sat up and pulled the shirt over his head without another word. With a glare that spoke volumes, he rolled over so that his back was to her and said, "Turn out the light when you leave."

  He sounded as gruff as a grizzly disturbed in his rest. She may not know much about her visitor, but he'd made it clear he would not be an easy patient to look after.

  She turned on a night-light, turned off the lamp and returned to the kitchen to find the salve she needed for his chest.

  McTavish had followed her downstairs and now sat just inside the kitchen door, giving her a disgruntled look. "Yes, I know," she said soothingly. "I have disturbed your rest, as well. Go back upstairs. I'll be there shortly."

  With a muffled snort the dog went into the hallway, pausing for a moment in front of the stairs to glance at the closed bedroom door before he trotted up them. Sometimes he acted as if he understood every word she said.

  Perhaps he did, she thought.

  Fiona quietly reentered the guest bedroom with the jar and more tea. The night-light cast enough of a glow for her to see the bed and nearby table. She placed the items on the table and sat beside him on the bed.

  Once again he lay sprawled on his back, his arms thrown wide. When she brushed her hand against his forehead, she knew she had to do whatever was necessary to break his fever.

  His immune system was struggling and needed help. No doubt Mr. Dumas pushed himself beyond his physical limits on a regular basis, which made him human, she supposed, but didn't help when an infection managed to overcome him. He had little energy in reserve to combat his illness.

  She reached for the ointment.

  He stirred, turning his face toward her. "Jill?" he murmured. "I've missed you so much." He took Fiona's hand and tugged her toward him. She managed to catch her balance enough not to fall directly on him. Instead, she now lay next to him, her head on his shoulder.

  "Mr. Dumas," she said softly. "We need to bring your fever down. I'm also going to rub an ointment on your chest to ease the congestion there."

  She pulled away from him and reached for the cup.

  He didn't let go of her hand. "Jill?" He sounded puzzled.

  "No. My name is Fiona."

  She pulled her hand away from him and slid her arm beneath his head, raising him slightly. He opened his eyes without a sign of recognition before closing them again.

  Fiona held the cup to his lips "This will help your cough and your fever, I promise."

  He drank as greedily as he had earlier. Once he finished, she returned the empty cup to the table and lowered his head back to the pillow.

  She picked up the jar again and took out a dollop of the salve with her fingers. She cupped the ointment in her hands to warm the soft mixture. When the creamy medication reached body temperature she lifted his shirt and stroked her hand across his chest.

  A charge of energy shot through her hand and arm, catching her off guard. She felt as if she'd just stuck her finger into a live electrical socket.

  Greg Dumas was a powerful man regardless of his present condition. At least he was having a powerful effect on her. She forced herself to move her hand with a calmness she was far from feeling and applied the soothing mixture over his chest.

  He smiled without opening his eyes. The smile unnerved her. She smoothed the ointment more sw
iftly, wanting to be finished with this part of the healing process. His chest was broad and muscled, and touching him created a fluttery feeling inside her, a sensation she was unused to experiencing.

  Fiona made certain she'd covered the area adequately before she withdrew her hand from beneath his shirt. Or tried to. As soon as she began to withdraw, he trapped her hand beneath his.

  As calmly as she could, Fiona said, "You need to rest now, Mr. Dumas. It's early yet. Try to sleep a few more hours."

  He opened his eyes. They glittered in the faint light. He stared at her for a moment before he said, "I'll sleep but I want you here beside me."

  He no longer sounded like a bear. Instead, he had become a virile male who knew what he wanted, and at the moment he wanted her in his bed.

  Fiona had never run into this situation before. For one thing, she'd never had an occasion to treat a male without another family member being present. For another, she had never expected any male, regardless of his fevered condition, to show a personal interest in her.

  "I don't believe that would be a good idea," she finally replied, speaking as softly and soothingly as possible. The man had no idea what he was saying and probably wouldn't remember any of this once he recovered from his illness.

  In the meantime … she wasn't sure what to do.

  Greg took matters into his own hands, literally, by pulling her toward him until she tumbled onto the bed beside him. With a grin that enhanced his attractiveness, he wrapped his arms around her.

  "Now I'll sleep," he said, as though keeping a promise.

  The man was much stronger than she'd realized. Fiona wasn't certain she could get up without a struggle. Her most startling realization was that she was in no way frightened of him, despite the fact that she'd never been this close to a male other than her father.

  She forced herself to relax, hoping he would release his hold on her. The tea she'd given him should ease him into sleep in a few minutes.

  He turned his face toward hers and nuzzled her neck.

  "Mmm," he murmured, "you smell nice."

  She froze in disbelief. He flicked his tongue along her earlobe, causing her to shiver. When he slipped his hand beneath her robe and gown and stroked her bare breast, she almost strangled on her gasp. He made a sound of contentment as he continued to stroke and caress her, causing her nipple to pucker in the palm of his hand. A surge of pure sensual pleasure swept over her.

  Fiona panicked. She could not allow this to continue. He would be horribly embarrassed later on—as would she!—when he recalled what he had done.

  Greg nibbled on her ear before he licked it again.

  "Mr. Dumas," she managed to say when she was able to catch her breath. "You really need to rest."

  He ignored her and trailed kisses along her neck and the curve of her shoulder. "Stay with me," he whispered, his husky voice vibrating in her ear. "I've missed you so much, sweetheart. There were times when I thought I'd die from the pain of losing you. But you're here now. Stay with me and let me love you."

  Finally, the soporific effect of the tea kicked in and his hand slid away from her breast. She swallowed, willing her heart and breathing to slow down.

  Fiona carefully left the bed, watching him with a combination of dismay and an unexpected yearning she'd never experienced before. His thick dark hair fell across his forehead. His face was flushed with fever and Fiona had an almost uncontrollable urge to push his hair away from his face and thread her fingers through its silky softness.

  She knew better than to act on her impulse. She slipped out of the bedroom before temptation became too much for her to resist and hurried to the kitchen. She needed a dose of her own herbal tea to soothe and relax her.

  While she sipped from her cup a few minutes later, Fiona reminded herself that Greg hadn't known what he was doing. His fever had climbed rapidly since he'd gone to bed, which wasn't a good sign.

  She was worried about him. She gathered up supplies, including tea and ointments, and returned to his room. She felt she needed to keep a closer eye on his condition.

  Fiona found him restlessly moving his legs, muttering incomprehensibly. He said the name Jill several times, as though she were there. He was talking to her, pleading with her.

  His fever needed to come down. Fiona had mixed stronger herbs to help contain the infection that was causing the fever.

  She sat beside him and said, "Mr. Dumas … please drink this." She slipped her arm beneath his head, held the cup to his lips and managed to get him to drink without spilling it.

  Once the cup was drained, she stepped away from him. She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep, knowing that the infection appeared to have progressed enough to overcome him.

  Fiona settled into a large overstuffed chair in the corner of the room. Within minutes McTavish showed up at the door. He watched her for a moment before he ambled across the room to the chair where she was. He stretched out on the floor in front of her, forming a footrest for her.

  She pulled a blanket around her shoulders and began her wait for her newest patient to respond to the medications.

  * * *

  He couldn't breathe.

  A heavy weight rested on his chest, forcing him to push hard to get air into his lungs.

  He coughed and a sharp pain shot through his chest.

  Something was wrong with him.

  The painful coughing continued, stealing what little breath he managed to get.

  A voice murmured nearby. Soft hands cooled his body with a moist cloth that caused him to shiver.

  "Jill?" he whispered hoarsely.

  "It's Fiona. Drink this … it will help."

  A soothing liquid trickled into his mouth and down his parched throat. He relaxed and allowed the moisture to ease his dry throat.

  Fiona. He'd heard that name before. Did he know a Fiona? He couldn't recall.

  Oh. He remembered now. He was looking for a Fiona. He couldn't remember why, but he knew finding her was important.

  He must have found her. That was good because he had to get home.

  Tina needed him.

  Jill needed him.

  No. It was too late to help Jill. He couldn't do anything to save her.

  Jill was dead. It was his fault.

  Now he paid the price for not saving her. He'd been doomed to the fiery flames of hell for all eternity. He could feel the flames singeing him, sucking the air from his lungs.

  He'd sometimes wondered if hell was a real place. Now he could tell the world it existed. It hurt. The heat was consuming him.

  A young girl kept visiting him—offering him drinks, checking his temperature, bathing him, helping him with his personal needs.

  He should be embarrassed. He didn't know this girl but somehow it didn't matter. What had she done to be consigned to hell? Must have been bad to have to experience this. Poor, thing.

  He was tired, much too tired to ask her why she was there.

  Images of a strange bedroom flitted periodically through his world. At times the room would be so bright the light hurt his eyes, sunlight from a nearby window filling the area. Other times—only a minute or so later, wasn't it?—the room had no light, just shadows moving around him. The light and lack of light did nothing to stop the flames that kept licking at him.

  Greg saw the gun. He signaled to Jill to get out of the store before the stupid punk with the .38 spotted her.

  Where had the other gunman come from? The patrol car should be here by now.

  A spray of bullets shattered the glass around him. He had to stop the shooter. He had to check on Jill. Blood. So much blood.

  "Dear God," he whispered brokenly. "Jill."

  "You're dreaming. You're safe here. You're going to be all right. Just rest."

  The voice came to him—peaceful and soothing.

  "Tina?"

  "Fiona. I won't leave you. Allow the medications to work on you. You're doing fine. You're safe," she repeated.

  Of course he was sa
fe. It was Jill he'd left unguarded.

  * * *

  Fiona knew that tonight would be the crisis. Three nights had passed since her visitor had arrived. She had stayed with him 'round the clock except for short breaks to eat and bathe. When he was quiet, she managed to nap in the chair in his room. There were times when he would have lucid moments before falling back all too often into some nightmarish scene that haunted him.

  She lost track of time. She measured her hours by bathing him with cool water to bring his fever down. Was his cough sounding less congested? Were his lungs taking in more air? She wasn't certain. All she knew was that she couldn't leave him to fight his battle alone.

  His fever broke somewhere between four and five o'clock the morning of the fourth day, and Greg slipped into a deep, healing sleep.

  Fiona was exhausted.

  She forced herself to climb the stairs to her room, pulling herself up each step by hanging on to the handrail. With the last of her reserves, Fiona stumbled into her room, found her nightgown and dropped into bed.

  She immediately slept.

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  Chapter 3

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  A steady rapping caused Fiona to stir. As she finally surfaced from exhausted sleep, she realized she had been hearing the noise for some time. Disoriented, she opened her eyes and looked around. Sunlight poured through the windows. She blinked. She didn't usually sleep past sunup.

  Then she remembered Greg and the past few days and nights. She hadn't heard him cough in the past few hours. She hoped it was because he'd been resting better and not because she'd been too tired to hear him.

  Fiona looked at the clock and groaned. It was after three o'clock in the afternoon and someone was at the door.

  McTavish hadn't barked, which meant it was someone they knew.

  She went to the bedroom window and peered out just as she heard a feminine voice saying, "Fiona, dear, please answer the door. I really must speak with you."

  Mrs. Cavendish.

  Oh, dear. Sarah Cavendish was an absolute dear without a hint of malice in her soul. Unfortunately she was also the biggest gossip in the entire glen. Fiona had no compunction about explaining to anyone how she had spent the past few days and nights, but she would prefer to do so once she had caught up on her sleep and her thinking processes were more clear.