MAN IN THE MIST

by Annette Broadrick

  Well, it couldn't be helped. Mrs. Cavendish was here now. The rental car gave mute evidence of the presence of a visitor. Before dark the entire village would know that Fiona had company. There was no need for newspapers and television with Mrs. Cavendish around.

  "Just a moment, Mrs. Cavendish," she called from her window. "I'll be right with you." She turned away and spotted McTavish, who watched her from where he lay sprawled on the braided rug beside her bed.

  "Fine watchdog you are," she scolded, grabbing the first clothes she could find. "You could have given me some warning, you know." Dressed in a sweater and trousers but still in her slippers, Fiona hurried downstairs to let Mrs. Cavendish in.

  She paused to take a couple of deep breaths before she opened the door with what she hoped was a serene smile.

  Mrs. Cavendish stood there looking bewildered by the delay, holding a large, obviously heavy basket. "Oh, Mrs. Cavendish," Fiona said contritely, feeling convicted for leaving the poor woman standing at the door for so long. "I didn't hear you right away." She stepped back so that Sarah could come inside. "Let me take your basket."

  "Oh, thank you," Sarah replied with heartfelt relief. "I was so afraid I would drop it. I had the mister drop me off at the beginning of your lane, thinking I wouldn't mind a good walk. I swear the basket took on an ounce or more with each step."

  Because her hands were full, Fiona bumped her hip against the door until it closed. "You must be chilled," she said. "Let's go into the kitchen and I'll make us some tea."

  Once in the kitchen, Sarah sat at the small table before asking, "Did I catch you at a bad time, dear?"

  Fiona continued to measure out tea while waiting for the kettle to boil. She didn't look around. "Why, no. This is fine."

  "Oh." There was silence. "Well. I just wondered. Your hair is a little tumbled and you have your sweater on wrong side out."

  Fiona closed her eyes, wondering if she should explain why she looked as if she'd just gotten up. Was it really anyone's business?

  She wouldn't be feeling so guilty if she hadn't shared such an intimate moment with Greg the night he arrived. She needed to place what happened into perspective. He was ill and had been out of his head with fever. The matter was simple when looked at from that perspective. Unfortunately her emotions weren't rational at the moment.

  She forced a laugh that sounded exactly that forced. She turned and ran her fingers through her hair, wincing at a tangle.

  "I hadn't realized," she finally muttered. "How silly of me. If you'll excuse me, I'll set myself to rights while the tea steeps."

  Not waiting for a response, Fiona hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs once again. She closed her bedroom door and sighed. From there she could see her reflection in her dresser mirror. Her hair looked as though it had been styled by an electric mixer.

  She hauled her sweater over her head, grabbed a bra from her lingerie drawer and put it on, and then she carefully turned the sweater right side out before slipping it back over her shoulders. She hurried into the bathroom, brushed her hair, pulled it back with a couple of combs, splashed water on her face, dried it and returned downstairs.

  Sarah was pouring their tea. She had set out a pound cake and sliced off a couple of pieces. After setting the cups and saucers on the table, she put the slices on Fiona's dessert plates and beamed at her.

  "I baked a couple of these this morning and thought you might like to have one of them," she said, motioning Fiona to sit. "Plus I brought you some fresh eggs and some homemade loaves of bread. I always make too much and I figured you don't have much time for baking with all that you do."

  Fiona picked up her cup and drank, needing something in her stomach. She couldn't remember when she last ate. Cake wouldn't have been her first choice for nourishment, but it was better than nothing. She suddenly realized that she was starved.

  "Thank you for finishing making the tea. I appreciate your bringing me the eggs and baked goods. It was very kind of you."

  Sarah flushed with pleasure. "Well, you do so much for all of us, dear, that I felt it was only fair to give something back."

  Fiona smiled. "I'm amply paid for my services, Mrs. Cavendish."

  Sarah waved that comment away. "Nonsense. You don't charge nearly enough for the hours you put in. Why, Terese mentioned just the other day how you stayed with her two boys until whatever they had released its grip on them. I don't know how you do it. You perform miracles every day."

  "Not at all. Remember my father was a physician and I've had training in the medical field."

  Sarah raised her brows. "He didn't teach you about all those things you grow in the garden that you turn into tea and ointments, now, did he?"

  "No, he didn't," Fiona admitted with a smile. "I attended additional classes to learn the medicinal qualities of the herbs I use. I find natural remedies to be a great help in healing." She rose and brought the teapot to the table. She filled both cups once more before she reseated herself and tasted the pound cake. It absolutely melted in her mouth. Why not, she thought, with all the sugar and butter used in it. She could feel her arteries clogging with each bite.

  The two chatted for several minutes before Sarah glanced at her watch. "Oh, my, I hadn't realized the time. I need to start back while there's still some light."

  They both stood. "Thank you again for all the goodies," Fiona said. "I can already see the weight I'll gain, but I must admit it will be worth it."

  Sarah laughed. "Nonsense. You're a skinny little thing and you know it. It would do you no harm to put on a few pounds." With an arch look, she added, "The laddies do enjoy a curvaceous lass, you know."

  Not that again. Every woman in the village was determined to play matchmaker for her, whether she wanted one or not.

  She walked Mrs. Cavendish to the front door. When Fiona opened it, Sarah took a step forward and paused. "I'm getting more and more forgetful in my old age, I declare. I meant to ask you when I first arrived. Whose car is that? As soon as you opened the door, I completely forgot."

  "Well," she began, "I … uh—"

  She was interrupted by the sound of coughing coming from the guest bedroom. Despite being flustered by the need to explain Greg's presence, she was relieved to hear his cough sounding much better.

  Sarah's eyes rounded. "My goodness. Someone sounds really sick in there. I didn't realize you had a patient or I wouldn't have kept you so long."

  Fiona smiled. "Yes, as a matter of fact I do need to prepare more tea for that cough."

  Sarah nodded. "Well, I won't keep you. Is your patient from the village? I don't recognize the car."

  "Um, no. No, he's not. He's from—"

  "He? You have a man in your house? Oh, my, Fiona, do you think that's wise? You should have called one of us and we could have come to stay here with you."

  "That wasn't necessary, Mrs. Cavendish. He has been much too sick to be a threat to anyone." It was unfortunate that she should recall at that particular moment his hand caressing her breast. She knew her face turned red at the memory.

  Mrs. Cavendish never missed a thing. She nodded her head with a knowing smile. "Oooh, it's that way, is it? Well, I won't keep you." She turned away and strode rapidly toward the lane.

  Fiona closed the door. McTavish stood in front of the stairwell with a plaintive expression. "Yes, I know you're starving to death as we speak. Let me check on our patient first, then I'll feed you while I'm making more tea for him."

  She peeked into the bedroom and saw that Greg was still asleep. She walked to the bed and studied him. His color was much better than it had been, his fever had come down and his breathing no longer sounded labored.

  Greg was officially on the mend. It was time for a light meal to help him regain his strength.

  McTavish followed her into the kitchen. She fed him and let him outside before quickly preparing some porridge and dry toast. Before she finished, McTavish scratched at the door to return inside. "Oh, so you're back on guard duty, are y
ou?" she asked in a low voice.

  McTavish gave her a doggy smile and lifted his paw.

  She shook her head ruefully. She wasn't certain who was in charge of whom in this household. She glanced up in time to see Tiger sashay through the doorway. No doubt the timing of his entrance was staged as a reminder that he was king of this particular castle.

  He sniffed his bowl and looked around, his expression speaking volumes. "All right! But you're a long way from starving, mister."

  After feeding Tiger, she placed Greg's meal on a tray and went down the hallway. Fiona balanced the tray with one hand and tapped on the door with the other.

  There was no answer. She opened the door and said, "Mr. Dumas?"

  This time he stirred enough to reply.

  "Come in," Greg said hoarsely. The effort started him coughing. Yes, the cough sounded much better, but was no doubt still painful.

  She opened the door and found him lying propped up in bed, a look of bewilderment on his face.

  "Good afternoon," she said, smiling. She placed the tray on the bedside table. "I've brought you something easy to digest to start you eating again. I hope you're hungry."

  He stared at her, frowning. "What's going on? I don't understand what I'm doing here, or where here is … and who are you?"

  "You're in Glen Cairn, Mr. Dumas. You've been quite ill these past few days. I brought you a little something to eat as well as more tea for your cough and remaining congestion." She picked up the tea and held it out to him.

  He looked at the cup as though it might contain hemlock. He must be feeling better. He was responding as he had that first night, back to his suspicious self. She felt giddy with relief.

  Greg glanced at her, then back to the cup in her hands. "How did I get here?" he asked, without taking the tea she offered.

  "I believe you got lost and turned up my lane for directions." She leaned closer, holding the tea out toward him. "This will help your cough continue to improve, if you'd care to take it."

  He clutched the covers to his chest with one hand and slowly took the drink with the other. He sniffed. Since she had added cinnamon to give the drink a more pleasing scent and taste, he not only looked relieved but pleasantly surprised by the familiar odor. He took a tentative sip.

  She knew the liquid would feel good to his dry mouth and raw throat. He continued to drink until the mug was empty.

  Fiona handed him the porridge, which he took with more interest. It didn't take him long to empty the bowl.

  He looked around the room. "I, uh, I need to use your bathroom."

  She nodded. "There's a small one beneath the stairs just outside the room. Do you need help getting there?"

  He glared at her. "No. What I need is some privacy. All I'm wearing is somebody's shirt and my underpants."

  His modesty caught her off guard. He must have no memory of her bathing him. On the other hand, it was reassuring to know that he would probably never remember caressing her and trying to coax her into bed with him. Hopefully, if he remembered anything, he would place it with the fevered dreams he'd been having.

  She nodded, hoping he didn't see that his comment had flustered her. From the way he said it, he must think that she had undressed him.

  Without a word, she walked out of the room and back to the kitchen. She needed something to eat besides pound cake, and from the grouchy attitude of her guest, he might be ready for more porridge, as well.

  She heard a bump and a couple of swear words, then silence. Eventually she heard the bedroom door open. She refused to check on him. If he fell flat on his face, she'd deal with him then.

  Instead she placed two howls of porridge on the table and made toast.

  She'd just finished the toast when she heard a slight sound and looked around to see Greg leaning against the doorjamb of the kitchen. He looked around the room as though he'd never seen anything like it.

  She'd forgotten how tall he was. Now that the fever had left him, he was pale. His hair was rumpled and he had a good start on a beard.

  Fiona fought not to smile at him. She found him adorable, all growly and defensive. She had a strong hunch that Greg hated feeling weak and shaky. Naturally, he'd attempt to cover his present condition by sounding tough.

  She found his belligerence understandable, but she didn't have to placate him, regardless of his mood. She did not want to think about how strongly this man's presence affected her.

  Heated color warmed her cheeks at the thought and she turned away. "I've made you another bowl of porridge," she said, placing the plate of toast on the table. "Then I suggest you return to bed. You're going to need some time to recover your strength."

  "Look, are you keeping me captive here or something?"

  She stepped back from the table and stared at him. "What?"

  "I don't understand what's going on here." He hadn't moved from the doorway.

  She looked from him to the table. "I'm offering to feed you. I fail to see anything sinister in that." She sat and began to butter her toast.

  He moved silently across the room until he stood across from her, only the table separating them. "You aren't answering my questions."

  She took a bite of toast, chewed and swallowed before she replied, "Some of your questions are too ridiculous to address."

  He pulled out a chair and sat down. "Wanting to know your name is ridiculous?"

  "Oh. Well, no, not that one. My name is Fiona MacDonald." She offered him the butter.

  He absently took it, frowning. "I'm looking for a woman by that name," he finally said.

  "So you mentioned when you first arrived."

  He rubbed his brow. "I don't remember much about that. I seem to recall bits and pieces of things, but that's all."

  "You've been here four days, Mr. Dumas."

  "Four days! How could that be?"

  "You've been battling an infection that settled in your chest. Hopefully the teas I prepared for you and the ointment I used on your chest have been able to help you fight the infection."

  "Are you a doctor or something?"

  She nodded. "Or something, yes. I've been doing what I can to help you. Something has obviously worked because you're sitting here eating. However, you'll find that although you're feeling better, you're going to be weak for a few days. You'll need to rest and recuperate or you'll take the chance of having a relapse."

  He finished his second bowl of porridge, toast and tea before he said, "I don't have time to rest. I need to get to the village and find the woman I'm looking for."

  "I thought I was the one you were looking for."

  He stared at her for a moment, his eyes narrowed. After a moment he shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Is Fiona a common name in Scotland?"

  "Not so common, particularly coupled with MacDonald."

  He rubbed his forehead again. "Well, you can't be the woman I'm looking for. She's probably in her mid- to late-thirties, possibly older."

  "Is your head bothering you?"

  "What? Oh. Yeah, I guess it is."

  "I would imagine your fever is coming up again, as well. Why don't you go lie down now?"

  "Haven't you heard a word I've said? I don't have time to lie around in bed. I need to go to Glen Cairn and find this woman!"

  Fiona clasped her hands before her and said, "Mr. Dumas. I am the only Fiona MacDonald living in or around Glen Cairn. And you, sir, are swaying in your chair to such an extent that I fear you're going to pass out at any moment. I would greatly appreciate it if you would be so kind as to allow me to escort you back to bed. It would be a great deal easier for me than dragging you, unconscious, through my home!"

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  Greg stared in astonishment at the wisp of a woman seated across from him. He felt as though a harmless, cuddly kitten had attacked him with bared teeth and claws.

  His head continued to pound so ferociously that he could scarcely hear her. The only thing he wanted to do at t
he moment was to lie down—which was exactly what this Fiona had suggested. So why was he sitting there in a vain attempt to be macho?

  He carefully stood without answering her and walked with all the dignity he could muster to the kitchen door. Once around the corner and into the hallway he slumped against the wall, praying he made it to the bedroom without disgracing himself by collapsing in the hall. He had a vision of Fiona daintily stepping over his inert body without a glance on her way to another part of the house.

  Her behemoth dog appeared around the corner from the front room and eyed him thoughtfully. Greg watched with growing dismay as the dog ambled toward him. When it reached him, the dog turned around and leaned slightly into Greg. He realized with a start that the dog was offering to help him.

  Greg placed his hand gingerly at first then more firmly against the dog's back. It took his weight without strain. Step by step the two of them went down the hallway. Greg had one arm braced on the wall and the other on the dog.

  The dog paused at the bedroom doorway, allowing Greg to walk through before he entered behind him.

  "Thanks, pal," Greg muttered. He made it to the bed and slumped on the edge. At the moment, he felt as if he'd have to get better to die. A bed had never held more appeal for him. He grimaced. Except on his honeymoon, he supposed, but he had no intention of dredging up those memories.

  He tugged his clothes off and wearily slid beneath the covers. When he turned onto his side he spotted a pitcher and a glass of water. He leaned on his elbow and picked up the glass. The water helped to relieve the dryness of his mouth and soothed his raw throat.

  When he replaced his glass on the table, he noticed that the dog had not left the bedroom. It sat watching him with a steady gaze.

  "What's your name, pal?"

  The dog continued to eye him, Greg swore, with amusement at the idea that a human would expect a dog to answer him.