The Lass Wore Black

by Karen Ranney

  That, too, she needed to think about later.

  Chapter 35

  “There you are, awake,” a voice said.

  Catriona opened her eyes to find a stranger peering into her face.

  “I’m leaving but I wanted to have a talk with you first.”

  She knew that voice. It had occupied several of her dreams.

  “I’m Rhona Thorburn,” the woman said, taking the chair Mark had occupied earlier.

  “Mark’s sister?”

  The woman laughed. “I’m disposed to like you already,” she said. “I’m his mother.”

  That was a surprise. Rhona Thorburn looked much too young. Her hair was as black as Mark’s and her eyes as clear a blue. Her face was on the long side, but she had a mole near her mouth on the right side, and a dimple on the other, as if nature wanted to balance out her features.

  “Mark says you’re making great progress,” she said. “I’m afraid, however, that you’re going to have another scar.”

  Catriona pressed her palm against her face. How could she have forgotten?

  “What a pity such a thing had to happen to you,” Rhona Thorburn said. “Because of love, do you think?”

  She shook her head. “Not love,” she said. “Obsession, perhaps, but nothing as fine as love.”

  “Is love fine?” Rhona asked. “Love makes you do odd things, doesn’t it? Like right now. Here I am, sitting here talking to you, in direct violation of my son’s orders, because I’m worried about him.”

  “Are you?”

  Rhona nodded. “I am. You’re not simply a patient to him, you know. Are you lovers?”

  She would never have imagined a conversation like this with anyone, let alone Mark’s mother.

  “You think I shouldn’t have asked that question, don’t you?”

  At her nod, Rhona smiled.

  “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, as if you hold the answer to all his questions. Mark has always asked a great many questions, ever since he was a little boy. He’s never been content to accept things. He had to figure out why they were as they were.”

  “I’ve never seen him look at me in that way, Mrs. Thorburn.”

  “Actually, it’s Lady Serridain,” she said. “Mark’s father is Lord Serridain. His grandfather is the Earl of Caithnern. Didn’t you know?”

  Was she asleep? This conversation had all the signs of a dream.

  She shook her head.

  Rhona shrugged. “I’m not surprised,” she said. “Mark has only preferred one title, that of physician. He does love medicine. He gives it his single-minded dedication. I’ve always thought that if he felt that way about a woman, he’d be a happy man, but only if she felt the same.” Lady Serridain smiled brightly at her. “Do you?”

  She doubted Mark felt that way about her after her revelations last night.

  “I’m tired,” she said, pulling the sheet up to cover the worst of her scars. She closed her eyes, hoping the woman would go away.

  “Very well,” Lady Serridain said, standing. “I do hope you’ll consider my words, Miss Cameron. My son is a good man. He needs someone who recognizes his worth.”

  She opened her eyes. “You think I don’t?” she asked.

  To her surprise, Mark’s mother smiled at her. “I have a feeling adventure follows you, my child. Mark tends to focus too much on medicine to the exclusion of all else. He needs a life of his own. I think you’d insist on it.”

  “You presume too much,” she said. “There is no future for Mark and me.”

  “I think you ignore too much, Miss Cameron. Or, are you willfully blind?” With that, Lady Serridain turned and left the room as regally as any queen.

  When Catriona had first come to live with Dina, a year and some months ago, no one knew that the woman would be pressed into service as a nurse not once, but on two separate occasions. This time Dina was proving just as superlative as she’d been in London.

  Whenever Dina went to rest or eat, Artis was in attendance. The maid apologized whenever the two of them were alone. She was ready to forgive the girl anything if she’d only stop weeping.

  “I can’t fault you for making mistakes, Artis,” she said. “Not when I’ve made enough of my own. Andrew is charming when he wishes to be. Shall we just forget it?”

  The girl nodded as she blotted at her tears.

  “Please, don’t apologize anymore,” she said. “It’s not necessary.”

  She was healing quickly and soon could sit on the edge of the bed and dangle her feet over the side. The first day Catriona took a step, she nearly rejoiced, because it meant she would be able to leave Mark’s home.

  Between Dina, Artis, and Sarah, she was feted, fed, and nursed. Who wouldn’t have healed with such care?

  A fever in Old Town kept Mark away. So said Sarah, who changed her bandages every day. Catriona thought it might well have been an excuse not to see her. If that was the case, she couldn’t blame him.

  Without being asked, Sarah conveyed that Mark looked tired, that he was working twenty hours a day, that he’d inquired after her health. When the worst of the fever passed, she said, he’d call upon her himself.

  Catriona only smiled in response, but privately doubted she’d see him again.

  “Do you think that people truly reap what they sow?” she asked Sarah one day.

  She was sitting by the window when Sarah walked into the room, carrying clean linen.

  “If you’re talking about that Mr. Prender,” Sarah said, “it looks like he will. The man will be lucky to escape hanging for what he did.”

  She looked out the window feeling an odd compassion for Andrew.

  “I didn’t treat him well,” she said.

  Had she even thought of him after leaving his carriage? No, she’d been so fixated on reaching Edinburgh and the next stage of her life.

  “Still, that’s not a reason to go around murdering people,” Sarah said, beginning to change the sheets. “If you were disappointed in love, would you kill the object of your affections?”

  “I might want to,” she said. “If I was hurt enough.”

  Sarah made a sound of disapproval. “Then I think it best if you don’t go being disappointed in love.”

  Perhaps it was best if she didn’t think about love at all.

  She wanted to go home so desperately that she begged Dina to bring something for her to wear.

  At the older woman’s doubtful look, she’d said, “You can’t expect me to recuperate here forever. I think I would heal so much quicker in my own room.”

  The plan was born and carried out a few days later. She said farewell to the sickroom and was helped down the stairs not by Mark, but by Dina and Sarah. Artis led the way, her gaze intent on the ground as if searching for any impediments to her progress. The stairs were difficult but navigable.

  She made it, and walked through the house to the front door with Dina on one side and Sarah on the other. Once out the front door, she stood on the top of the steps, looking down at the carriage.

  Only ten more steps, and these were shallow. She could do this.

  Mr. Johnstone got down from the driver’s perch and came to stand in front of her, bowing slightly. “Miss,” he said, surprising her by clamping his arm down on her uninjured shoulder. “You’re well, then?”

  “I am,” she said, “thanks to you. I understand you got us here quickly.”

  “I did what I could, miss. It’s glad I am to see you up and about.”

  She was up but certainly wasn’t “about” at the moment. In fact, she felt as if she were going to fall over any second. Dina must’ve known, because she supported her around the shoulders, while Artis went ahead. Together, she and Mr. Johnstone opened the carriage door, lowered the steps, and moved aside.

  No queen could have been treated more royally.

  After Catriona was seated in the carriage, Sarah handed her a small twine-wrapped box.

  “My sweet scones for a treat,” she said. “I know how yo
u like them.”

  What else had the woman discovered in the past weeks? That allowing people to help her made her grit her teeth? Or that she’d come to feel a fondness for her? Or that she rarely asked about Mark, for fear that she’d reveal something in her question?

  She nodded, grateful for the veil that hid her emotions.

  Surprisingly, the vehicle held little terror for her. Was it because she knew that Andrew had been imprisoned? Or simply because all the fear had been frightened from her?

  “You needn’t sit that way,” she said to Dina. The older woman had angled herself so her back was to the window, blocking it. Artis had done the same on her side of the carriage.

  She’d come to understand that terror existed mainly in the mind.

  In the past weeks, whenever she closed her eyes she’d been able to relive those moments before the shooting, the feeling of regret she’d had, and the deep and bottomless sorrow.

  Yet at the same time, she could recall Mark’s kisses, his gentle touch, and the twinkle of amusement in his eyes when he’d teased her.

  Which memories did she want most?

  The answer wasn’t even an answer, because it was rooted so deeply in her mind. When she indulged in recollections of the past, it wouldn’t be fear she remembered, but love.

  The days passed, during which Catriona slept, recuperated, and slept some more.

  Her meals were brought to her on a tray, but by Artis, not a certain footman. When she felt better, she left her bed and began a slow pace of her living quarters, sometimes sitting beside the window and watching the construction of the new carriage house.

  Everyone treated her like a well-loved patient. If she wanted company, Aunt Dina came and sat with her. If she wanted something to read, one of the maids was sent to the book shop. Chocolate? Her whim was instantly gratified. Whatever she wanted was only as far away as a wish.

  But instead of being content, she was miserable.

  She wrote to her sister, planned a visit to Ballindair when the weather was warmer. She wanted to see Jean and her new niece. First, however, she’d have to force her envy down into a secret place where no one could see it.

  She wasn’t recuperating as much as mourning. She didn’t grieve for her lost beauty; she’d already done that for months. This was different, a type of sadness that was always with her. When she woke, it was the first thing she felt. During the day, when she didn’t deliberately occupy herself in a task, it crept in and overwhelmed her. At night when she prayed to sleep, it crouched at the edge of her consciousness.

  This was grief coupled with loneliness. Perhaps a future grief—for those things she could never have: a man to love her, who teased her and laughed at her, and made her heart stutter on seeing him.

  A certain man who was as gloriously handsome as she was ugly. She never failed to appreciate that irony. In her days of beauty she would have shunned associating with an ugly man. Yet Mark had once offered her marriage. A sweet gesture, as well as an unexpected one, and something he no doubt regretted.

  She would not remind him. She’d never see him again.

  On the Monday of the third week she’d had enough. She lay in her bed and decided that she could still have a life that brought her happiness, as well as a sense of purpose, even if she was forever alone.

  First, however, she would have to make some changes. Instead of remaining in her hermitage, the world was simply going to have to endure her presence in it. People could call her the Lass in Black or the Lass in Blue or the Veiled Lady, or Ugly Catriona. Let them say anything they wished, but she wasn’t going to hide any longer.

  Another change—she wasn’t going to wear her veil in the house. Everyone had already seen her scars. They would just have to accustom themselves to what she looked like, beginning this morning.

  She heard the soft knock, and instead of reaching for her veil, sat up in bed.

  But it wasn’t Artis with her breakfast.

  Mark stood at the doorway, holding a tray.

  Her heart stopped, then madly began to race. She placed her hand against her chest to keep it inside her body.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The sheet had dropped to her waist, and she noted that he was looking at her chest.

  “Have you come to examine me?” she asked. “I’m healing well, and Aunt Dina changes my bandages every morning.”

  We don’t need you.

  “You still require the services of a physician.”

  “Not necessarily you,” she said.

  “I agree.”

  She frowned at him.

  “However, I’m here, so it would be remiss of me not to check your wound.”

  “It’s no longer a wound. It’s a scar.” Another one, but this scar didn’t bother her as much. Perhaps because it was a testament to being a survivor.

  “I’ve come to make sure you eat,” he said, setting the tray on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m eating. I’m eating well.”

  “I’ve heard differently,” he said, coming around the end of the bed.

  She scooted up until her back was against the headboard. “From whom?”

  He didn’t answer, merely picked up her hand, his fingers against her wrist. Her pulse was racing; he must feel it. He smiled, dropped her wrist, and slowly unbuttoned the placket of her flannel nightgown. His gaze wasn’t on the buttons but her hair.

  “I think your hair has grown lighter,” he said. “Do you always braid it like that?”

  She nodded. Who was he to comment on the color of her hair, however she fashioned it? If he was going to be her physician, then let him examine her and be gone.

  He parted the fabric wide enough that her shoulder was exposed. Gently, he fingered the edge of the bandage, then unwrapped it to examine the wound.

  “You heal fast,” he said. “Good.”

  She nodded again.

  “Next week we’ll remove the bandage. Until then, be careful not to lift anything or otherwise strain yourself.”

  Once more she nodded.

  “You’re angry at me.”

  “Angry? Why should I be angry at you, Dr. Thorburn?”

  “There was an epidemic in Old Town. I couldn’t take the chance of spreading any disease to you,” he said. “Otherwise, I would have been here sooner.”

  “As you see,” she said tightly, “I’ve been just fine without you.”

  “Have you?”

  Another nod.

  He slowly buttoned her nightgown. “I haven’t,” he said.

  She glanced at him, startled by his words.

  “All my patients have noticed. ‘Are you feeling well, Dr. Thorburn?’ ‘Is anything amiss, Dr. Thorburn? You seem distracted.’ I am distracted,” he added. “My life hasn’t been the same since I met you.”

  She didn’t know whether to be insulted or pleased.

  Bending down, he shocked her by scooping her up in his arms and depositing her in the middle of the bed. Before she could question him, he climbed in beside her.

  She looked away, but he reached out, placed his fingers on her chin, and gently turned her to face him.

  “I didn’t feel it was right to pounce on you when you were a patient in my house.”

  “But it’s acceptable to pounce on me now?”

  “I couldn’t wait any longer.”

  He bent and kissed her. Despite all the warnings that suddenly bloomed in her mind, she sighed into his kiss, opened her mouth, and was lost.

  Moments—or hours—later, she pulled back.

  “My father was a doctor,” she said.

  “I know.”

  Startled, she looked at him.

  “I knew him. He was one of my mentors when I was training.”

  “Did you?” she asked. “I don’t remember you.”

  “I don’t think you ever saw me,” he said. Reaching out, he pushed back a tendril of hair from her face. “I thought you were both the most exquisite beauty I’d ever seen and the most
spoiled creature I’d ever met.”

  “You did?” Was she supposed to apologize for the foolish, self-centered girl she’d been?

  “I much prefer you as you are now.”

  “Ugly?”

  “I doubt you could ever truly be ugly, Catriona, although your character has leaned in that direction in the past.”

  She frowned at him.

  “Footman, have you come here to be annoying?” she asked.

  “No, I’ve come to give you fair warning.”

  “What kind of warning?” she asked, her eyes widening.

  Had Andrew been set free?

  “I’m going to marry you, Catriona Cameron, and we’re going to begin this courtship today. It’s been long enough.”

  Astonished, she stared at him.

  “You’re going to meet my family, such as they are. My grandfather will adore you. My mother already does. You’ll despise my father, and the emotion will probably be mutual, I’m sorry to say. My brothers are worthless, but I’m interested to know your opinion of both of them.”

  She’d lost the power of speech.

  “When all that is done and a proper time has passed—but not all that long, by the way—I’m going to marry you, take you back to my house, and stay in bed with you for a month. Or however long my patients allow us.”

  He raised her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles tenderly.

  “That’s my warning.”

  “I don’t want your pity, Mark,” she said.

  His laughter startled her.

  “Of all the people in the world I might pity, I think I’d label you last. You’re a fighter, Catriona, and one of the most stubborn, obstinate, and hard-headed people I’ve ever had the privilege to meet. You stand your ground regardless of where you are or what circumstance you’re facing.”

  “I do?” she asked, her voice sounding distressingly faint.

  He nodded.

  Yet, for all his words, he deserved someone better, someone who had no ghosts in her past. Someone who had been chaste and sweet. Someone unlike her.

  How could she bear to send him away? How could she live without him? For weeks now she’d told herself that she could, and all she had to do was see him again to prove that resolve foolish.