A powerful urge welled up inside him, an urge to protect her. He nearly staggered under the surge.
Where had that flood of emotion come from? The deluge seemed to swirl him back to some distant place, but it was more instinct than something he could define. There was no rational explanation.
He’d ponder this disturbing development later. For now, he bent his will on helping Mora. He stepped toward her. “Hang in there. You’ll be all right.”
Clearly unconvinced, she reached out her hand. It shook. She shook beneath the white blanket. “Have I tumbled into purgatory?”
He wondered if they both had, but summoned an encouraging smile. Giving her chilled fingers a squeeze, he said, “No. Don’t be afraid.”
Lips quivering, she nodded, rather like one being asked to trust in deliverance while being led to the gallows.
Her dazed state might buy him some time, assuming he kept his own wits about him. He sensed hysteria brewing just beneath the surface of her numb demeanor that might erupt at any moment. Not an eruption he cared for the entire Emergency Room to witness.
A thoughtful EMT tucked another bland blanket around Mora. “I’ll handle this,” Neil said to the waiting man.
Striding to the admittance counter, he gripped the white Formica counter and spoke to the expressionless woman behind the desk. “Mora Campbell, my out of town guest.” Way out.
The usual questions followed. He gave his address and contact information.
The longsuffering clerk glanced up from typing and asked the inevitable, “Insurance?”
“I shall assume responsibility for Miss Campbell’s account.” That should put a halt to many of the questions.
The woman’s dark circled eyes widened slightly.
No doubt she thought him insane to assume the burden of medical expenses. Likely he was, but doubted Mora had insurance that would apply in the United States, particularly as she didn’t even know where she was.
It occurred to him that Mora wouldn’t bear much scrutiny from hospital bureaucrats or any other officials for that matter. Instinct told him the sooner he got her out of here, the better. He drummed his fingers on the counter while the clerk typed.
“Your relationship to the patient?” she asked.
“Fiancé.” Why not? It gave him ready access to Mora.
A penciled eyebrow lifted. Didn’t he look the part to wed Scottish lass?
Evidently, the woman didn’t care whom he wed and entered his response on her computer. He glanced over his shoulder. By now, Mora trembled violently from head to toe. All his desire to help had accomplished was to worsen her shock.
“Neil, is this some sort of prison?”
“A hospital,” he reminded her.
She stared at him.
Didn’t they have hospitals in Scotland? “Where they care for the sick and injured.”
She sucked in a quavering breath. “My tutor spoke of this place—where the poor go to die.” Only with her accent, poor sounded like porrr.
Neil stifled a snort. “No. No. The poor can’t afford to die here.”
Mora groaned.
The clerk gave him a dry look.
“The blow to her head. She’s confused,” he offered.
A tutor for her studies partly explained Mora’s total lack of worldliness. She’d been too much at home, hadn’t gotten out enough, if at all. Had she ever been away from her hometown, or the countryside where she lived before now? Maybe her parents were neurotically overprotective. It was remarkable she was here at all, when he thought about it.
“Neil!” An orderly wheeled her through the double doors into the inner sanctum. “He’s bearing me away!” Her panicked cry actually hurt his ears as well as his heart.
He fought the impulse to tear after her. “You’ll be all right!”
“The blessed Virgin preserve me!”
Maybe he should call on Mother Mary too, though it went against his Protestant upbringing. This bizarre day only grew stranger.
Neil finished up the paper work, or tried to. Half mad from wanting to be with Mora, he almost snarled. “Are we finished here?”
“Almost. Just one or two—”
Dodging yet more questions, he pleaded angst for Mora and fled through the doors at the back of the waiting room into the labyrinth of corridors. A kind eyed nurse, when he asked, directed him to one of the small patient annexes.
Bracing himself, he stepped inside the sterile little room. It looked white, smelled white, in that antiseptic way. How vulnerable Mora appeared lying on the examining table, her slender form outlined beneath the plain hospital blanket. She turned her head at his footfall.
Eyes blazing, she pointed at the cheery young nurse. “That Englisher took my garments and the holy crucifix from around m’ very throat. Heretic.”
Good lord. That word hailed from the age of the Holy Wars.
He glanced from the accusation aflame in Mora’s face to the Highland costume protruding from a plastic bag in one corner. Her relic was probably tucked in there.
“Calm down.” He covered the short distance to her side. “Your things are set aside for safekeeping.”
Her eyes flashed. “They were safe in m’ own care afore she snatched them!”
“We’ll give them back later, honey,” said the plump brunette with Betty stamped on her nametag. The bold pink print on her uniform made a spot of color in the drab room, as did Mora’s brilliant hair and eyes.
“Neil! Stop her,” she pleaded, as if the nurse were stealing her newborn. “She made me wear this detestable short gown.”
Mora held up a creamy arm with the blood pressure cuff attached. “And this. ‘Tis squeezing me like a serpent’s coils.” An IV line extended from her other arm. “And she’s stuck me with a needle. The wicked shrew.”
He grasped Mora’s chill fingers. “Not for long,” he assured her, hoping that were true.
“Doctor Marston will be in shortly,” Betty told him, apparently seeing little point in addressing Mora. “He’s a neurologist,” she added with a significant glance.
Mora was not to be ignored. “Did ye say alchemist?”
“No, honey. I’ll be back soon to check on her, Mr. MacKenzie. Call me if she needs anything.”
“My garments and the silver cross ye thieving vixen!” Mora flung her words at the retreating figure. “This is no hospitale, Neil. ‘Tis a chamber of torment.”
Her pronunciation for hospital had an old French twist to it. Wondering at her language instruction and her vehemence, he bent nearer and spoke soothingly. “They’re only trying to help you.”
“The divil they are,” she spat out in true Scot’s temper. “Will ye take my part or no?”
“Of course I will.”
“Then steal me away from this vile place.”
He smoothed the fiery tendril at her cheek. Despite her volatile state and his bafflement, he delighted in the silken sensation. “First, let the doctor examine your head.”
Again the confusion in her face. “Who?”
“The physician.”
Concentration creased the corners of her eyes. “Physic?”
“Near enough, I suppose,” though no one used that term anymore.
She shook her head. “Foul leech.”
Who referred to doctors as leeches? He firmed his tone. “You are injured and need care.”
“Nae. ‘Tis naught but a bruise. No need for all this haver.”
The word played in his mind like the reedy thread of a distant flute. Haver meant nonsense, though how he knew that he couldn’t say.
Mora thrashed from side to side, cringing as the IV line pulled at the needle in her vein. “Owwww.”
“Stop that.” Neil bent lower and gently gripped her shoulders. “You’ll only do yourself more harm.”
She glared up at him through the gleam of unshed tears. “More than they? Will the leech bleed me dry—poison me?”
“No.”
“I shall niver leave here a
live if ye do not bear me away!”
She had strident issues with the medical community, or maybe her tutor instilled the fear within her. “Where on earth are you from?”
“I already told ye and ye dinna listen.” She clamped her lips shut.
A pretty mouth, pink and puckered, Neil noticed. Whatever this amnesia was, it had engulfed her mind. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s just—” he broke off uncertain what to offer by way of an explanation.
She twisted in his grasp, opening her lips long enough to demand, “Ye think me tetched?”
He recognized the Scot’s term for crazy and couldn’t deny the thought had crossed his mind, but hastened to say, “Of course not.”
She grew more incensed. “Then free me from this torment as befits a true Hieland chieftain!”
When had he declared himself a true Highland chieftain?
“And your father, a knight!” she flung at him.
“What?”
Jerking against his restraint, she cried, “Do ye not ken? I’m yer ain Mora. Will ye let strangers molest me?”
She was a raging, red-haired fury. It was all Neil could do to hold her down. But he hated to call the nurse, though no one within hearing distance could possibly miss her ranting.
The door opened. A thin man in blue scrubs strode in, looking at the chart in his hand. He ran his fingers over sparse gray hair. “Sorry. We’re shorthanded this evening. Doctor Marston’s on another case. I’m Doctor Paul.”
His tag said head of neurology. So, they’d called in the big guns.
Dr. Paul glanced down at Mora struggling in Neil’s grip. “I see this young woman’s suffered a head injury. Combative, is she?”
“Very, but not from the trauma,” Neil grunted. “I suspect it’s her nature.”
The physician shifted his focus from Mora to Neil. “It says here you’re her fiancé. Don’t you know?”
He answered between exhalations of air. “Our engagement is recent. She’s only just come from Scotland. We haven’t seen each other for a while.”
Ever, he thought, fighting to retain the upper hand over this she-devil.
Why then was there something familiar about her face and those glistening eyes? The reproach in her expression was new, though. She hadn’t glared at him as though he’d let her down before.
He caught himself. Before? What was he thinking? Everything about her was uncharted territory, wasn’t it?
The responsive chord deep in his gut argued with logic.
Chapter Four
“The Cat Scan didn’t reveal any injury beyond a mild concussion.”
There they went again, blethering on about some invisible cat, but the words floated above Mora like vaporous mist on the Hielans.
“How long until she comes round?” Neil’s low voice emanated from her side.
“We administered a short acting anesthetic to keep her still for the procedure, but she should regain consciousness soon and be ready to go.”
“Where?” Neil sounded taken aback.
“Into your care. You are engaged, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” A trace of uncertainty lingered in Neil’s tone. “Will she remain long in this confused state, do you think?”
“It’s difficult to say. Even mild head injuries can sometimes have pronounced effects on people. Give her time to rest, Mr. MacKenzie.”
“I will. I’ve seen the effects of concussion before, just not anything like this.”
Doctor Paul dropped his voice. “If need be, you might take her to visit a psychiatrist.”
Mora cringed. Witchcraft cloaked the very name. The awful flames reserved for heretics flared in her mind’s eye. Surely one who visited such a being was condemned to burn for the cleansing of their immortal soul.
Thankfully, Neil didn’t pounce on the wicked suggestion. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. A good rest, as you said. I appreciate all your help, doctor.”
“Certainly.” A cool hand dipped to Mora’s forehead. “I’ll leave orders for Miss Campbell to be discharged.”
Like a musket blast? This learned doctor was a sinister man indeed.
A soft tread indicated he’d gone.
Praise the blessed saints. Now Mora could breathe a bit easier. What a struggle to open her eyes. That must have been a potent sleeping draught they’d given her. She didn’t even remember drinking anything. Blurred images gradually came into focus as if in the clearing haze on a cloudy day, but drowsiness pulled at her. She might easily slip back into a dream.
Smothering a yawn, she surveyed the small chamber. She’d prefer the dream. So cold and metallic. She almost expected to see a rack for stretching hapless victims or chains for suspending them upside down. That would help explain the cries emanating from further away. Poor souls. The ministrations of a priest were sorely wanted here. Wherever here was.
Her first thought—she was back in that hated cell with its odd assortment of torture devices, and the second—Neil MacKenzie had much to answer for.
A third thought occurred in rapid succession; where had that thieving Englisher gotten to? She needed the chamber pot, and she’d rather die than petition Neil to fetch it for her.
Not only was she loath for him to witness her using it, God forbid, but he might have to help her rise. Given her unsteady state, she might well have need of his aid. She doubted she could stand alone yet and envisioned his strong arms encircling her.
As much as she longed for his embrace, this wasn’t the moment. And he wasn’t yet his true self. Just now, she clung to her indignation. Rightly deserved and preferable to feeling utterly lost.
If she could just struggle to her feet…heavy eyes drifted shut.
“Mora?” Neil’s hand was warm on her shoulder. “The sooner you wake up, the sooner we can go.”
She blinked at his handsome face, but her eyes refused to stay open. Haze swirled back, carrying her to a soft place. Coming toward her through the mist was Niall clothed in his red and green plaid, sae glad to see her. Joy imbued her soul. His strong arms enfolded her as they once had, his fingers stroking her hair.
He whispered in her ear, “Mora, m’ love, m’ own.”
She shivered at his husky endearment.
“Mora?”
A sigh escaped her. She roused again to find the new Neil eyeing her with a quizzical expression and something more. Not the tender gaze Niall had bestowed on her, but a hint of it. Compassion, mayhap.
Oh, but his pity was the last thing she desired. If only she didn’t ache to her very marrow for him to hold her close even if it was only in pity.
Would she ever see her home again? More urgent, would Neil find a way to return with her to Donhowel, ever remember it was his home too, and he to be her wedded husband?
Ah Niall, m’ dearest love, return to me. Swiftly, as if borne on the wings of an eagle.
Chapter Five
Night wind ruffling his hair, Neil bent down and took Mora’s smaller hand in his to help her out of the car. By the glow of the streetlight, he detected the curvature of her mouth, the narrow set of her eyes. Nor did she grasp his hand with any relish. He understood she held him accountable for his part in her hospital ordeal, but he couldn’t neglect having her properly examined by a physician.
As to the rest of her annoyance with him, he wasn’t entirely clear how he’d erred. No doubt, she’d let him know. Meanwhile, she had no viable option other than to go where he took her.
It crossed his mind that she might attempt some unviable avenue, like running away from him as soon as she was able; that, he was determined to prevent. The thought of her off on her own in this manic state was alarming in the extreme.
He’d better keep a close eye on her. It was bizarre having to watch Mrs. Dannon’s niece like an escapee from a psych ward but what choice did he have? Never for a single moment would he consider having Mora committed.
When Mrs. Dannon mentioned a visit from this particular relative, Neil had anticipated an amiab
le middle-aged Scotswoman with a thick brogue, round face, and equally thick figure. He’d expected her to arrive outfitted in tweeds and sensible shoes, her knitting in one hand and binoculars for bird watching in the other.
Likely she’d bake scones, too, he’d thought, make pots of tea, and be a whiz at Scrabble. He’d pictured her cozened up by the fireplace with Mrs. Dannon, working the crossword. Then maybe the companionable pair would take in a nature show on the telly, as the Brits called it, or a leisurely stroll.
Mora was none of that. She couldn’t have been more opposite if he’d dreamed her up. Exasperating and explosive, breathtaking and bemusing, she fascinated and baffled him, and could be more than a little aggravating.
And yet, she drew him like no other, her pull on him more powerful than the full moon on a rushing tide. She was the sun, moon, and stars orbiting in a dizzying circle around him, and he had no idea what might happen next. Only that his feelings for her were fast growing and could spiral out of control.
Securing her elbow, he turned her toward the row of brick townhouses illuminated by the streetlights. He planned to seek sanctuary with Angus Fergus, the ultimate computer geek, and wanted to be certain if The MacDonald returned he wouldn’t find them. That deranged Scotsman sure as hell wouldn’t know to look here.
The chill breeze whipped Mora’s long hair, green skirts, and tartan plaid. She swayed, and Neil locked his arm around her waist. She fitted snugly against him, her head just reaching his shoulder. Perfect. He had the urge to keep her there forever.
“Still lightheaded? Don’t worry. I’ve got you." Resisting the temptation to do more, he held her only as much as was genuinely needed for support.
“I thank ye,” she murmured, looking around.
He preferred this subdued state to the spitfire he’d dealt with earlier in the ER. Though that hellion could reappear at any moment, he didn’t doubt.
“’Tisn’t yer home, Neil,” she observed.
He liked the way Neil rolled off her tongue. No one had ever spoken it with that pronounced accent. Or had they? Perhaps a Scottish cousin he’d lost touch with.
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