by Tarah Scott
“Please," he cut in, "no more lectures on how my father will whip you should you allow me to stray from the path of righteousness.”
“As you wish, sir. If I must, I can face him with the news that you collapsed from fatigue.”
“I doubt he'll pay that news much heed.”
Phoebe could contain herself no longer. She opened her eyes and said, “Such a paragon of a father would surely have your despicable hide for this foolish stunt.”
Both men looked at her.
She stared back at them. “I heartily wish to meet your father and inform him what a beast of a son he sired.”
“I see that crack to your head did nothing to diminish your wit,” the highwayman said.
Phoebe gingerly touched the gash on her forehead. “My head pounds dreadfully. What happened?”
“You jumped from the carriage.”
She shot him a reproachful look. “I know that. What I do not recall is how I came to be here. How did you find me?”
He raised both brows. “I believe I mentioned you might have done better to leave off eating those honey cakes.”
Phoebe frowned.
“When you jumped,” he explained, “the carriage rocked.”
She narrowed her eyes, but ended up squinting due to the sudden sharp throb in her head. The pain subsided, and she said, “If the carriage rocked, it was your large girth tramping about up top that caused it to do so.”
The highwayman angled his head. “As you say, madam. We shall call it luck, then.”
“Whose?” she muttered. “Certainly not mine.”
“I beg to differ. If I hadn’t discovered you, you might be among the dead instead of the living.”
“Rubbish,” she retorted, then added in a quieter tone when the pounding in her head again thrummed, “Where are we?”
“Glaistig Uain.”
“What is that and where is it?”
“The Green Lady Inn, not far from where you jumped from the carriage.”
“Oh,” she replied, then, “I require some privacy.”
“Whatever you need, Miss Ballingham, just ask.”
Phoebe flushed.
He regarded her more closely. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing that a moment of privacy won’t cure.”
“Mather or I can attend to anything you need,” he insisted.
“Of all the bloody inconvenience,” she burst out. “The day I can't manage a chamber pot myself is the day I meet my maker.”
A distinct stillness cloaked the room. “Considering the circumstances,” he said in a tight voice, “I find that jest in bad taste.”
“Never mind.” Phoebe sat upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“Miss Ballingham,” he strode around the bed, “you are to remain in bed.”
“I can't remain in bed when the chamber pot is in the corner.”
She shoved to her feet as he neared. The room spun. Her stomach lurched and she felt herself falling forward. Strong arms grasped her shoulders and pulled her against a solid body. Phoebe recognized the smell of sandalwood and clutched at the lapels of the highwayman’s open jacket. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut against the nauseating sense of spinning.
“B-by heavens.” Her voice, she noted with distress, was not as clear as it had been when she lay in bed. “I am a bit dizzy.”
Phoebe felt herself lifted in his arms. She tightened her grasp on his coat against a sense of falling she knew was ridiculous, but she couldn't keep from burying her face in his chest in an effort to anchor herself.
"Easy," he soothed.
"Stupid," she managed in a mumble.
He didn't answer, and she was eternally grateful when he didn't move. She became aware of the warmth that seeped through his shirt and into her cheek, then the sure, strong beat of his heart. She released a slow breath and he must have sensed that her orientation had returned for he settled her back onto the bed.
Despite the heat of the room, he pulled the blankets up to her chin then began a methodical tucking in of the blankets around her. When he bent over her and switched to the other side, she found herself staring at his angled profile. A hint of whiskers shadowed his jaw, giving him a dangerous look that had been absent when he'd appeared in her carriage. His raven dark hair brushed the collar of his shirt. She had the urge to see if the tresses were as soft as they appeared.
He paused and turned his face to her. Phoebe pressed back into the pillow before realizing the action. He lifted a brow and she flushed. Damn the devil, he was pleasant to look upon and knew it—knew she'd been thinking just that. Something flicked in his eyes—understanding—and she cursed him again. He went back to securing the blanket in a business-like fashion until she felt as if she were being mummified.
She squirmed.
“Lay still,” he commanded.
The warmth of the blankets bordered on stifling. She wriggled, then realized the garment she wore wasn't her gown. “What am I wearing?”
The flash of gray flannel she’d seen before swooning came to mind. Her cheeks warmed again. Someone had removed her gown, then dressed her in the nightgown she now wore. Phoebe glanced from the highwayman to Mather, then fastened her gaze back onto the highwayman. There was no question which of the two men would have undertaken the task of undressing her. The culprit straightened, apparently finished with making her a veritable prisoner beneath the blankets.
“Perhaps you should take yourself off for a rest.” Phoebe said, gritting her teeth as much against the throbbing in her head as to control her rising temper.
He gave her a quizzical look.
“Sir.” Mather stepped forward.
“Mather,” the brigand said without looking at him, “I'll stay.” He glanced over his shoulder at the window where soft light had begun to filter into the room. “Mrs. Grayson may already be about. If she isn’t, please wake her and inform her Miss Ballingham requires tea and some of those cakes I know she prepared yesterday.”
“I thought you said I was too fat and shouldn't eat more cakes,” Phoebe said.
“I said nothing of the kind.”
“You most certainly did,” she replied. “You said the carriage nearly tipped over when I jumped from it.”
He bent, placed a hand on each side of her and leaned in close to her face. “I didn't say the carriage nearly tipped over. I do say, however, let both those incidents be a lesson.”
“Lesson?”
“Yes. Not to repeat such addlepated actions in the future. Mather,” he straightened, “see to Mrs. Grayson.”
“Aye, sir.” Mather left.
Phoebe, covered to the chin, wriggled beneath the blankets. “It's intolerably hot under here.” She squirmed more. “And I can't do without that chamber pot much longer.”
“Had you continued sleeping, you could have done without it.”
“What do you think woke me?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I'll help you with the pot, Heddy.”
“You will not.”
“But I will.” He fetched the pot and returned to the bed.
She eyed the pot, then him. “I can manage.”
“As you did a moment ago?”
“Mrs. Grayson, then.”
His demeanor turned thoughtful. “Mrs. Grayson is a stout woman. Still…perhaps another maid might assist her.”
“Slip the pot under the blanket.”
“If you miscalculate—"
The door opened and an older woman entered, tray in hand, followed by Mather.
“Just as you said,” Mather said. “She was already bustling about the kitchen.”
Mrs. Grayson set the tray on the nightstand. At sight of the tea and cakes on the tray Phoebe’s stomach growled.
“Of course I was,” the housekeeper said with an indignant sniff. “It is nearly five in the morning.”
“Good morning, Bridgett,” the highwayman said.
“Morning,” the woman replied as
she slipped an arm beneath Phoebe’s back and gently lifted her away from the pillows.
The covers fell forward. Phoebe grabbed for them, but Mrs. Grayson had propped the pillows against the headboard and was easing Phoebe back against them before she could grasp the blanket. The housekeeper urged her arms out of the way, then twitched the blanket up over her breasts.
“There, now, dearie.” Mrs. Grayson plucked a folded napkin from the tray and gave it a smart shake before placing it on Phoebe’s lap. “Are you hungry?”
“That's not all,” Phoebe said.
Mrs. Grayson gave her an inquiring look, but the brigand said, "Miss Ballingham requires assistance.” He lifted the chamber pot for all to see.
Use of the chamber pot, along with hot tea and cakes, revived Phoebe. She set her cup of tea on the tray and glanced at the armoire where Mrs. Grayson said her cloak hung. Any hope of discovering if her reticule was there with the cloak was dashed by the presence of her highwayman. Phoebe studied the scoundrel. He rested, once again, eyes closed, head reclining on the high back of the chair.
“I didn't think to ask your name,” she murmured.
“Kiernan MacGregor, at your service." The sound of his voice startled her. He opened his eyes and sat up. “How's your head?”
“Better.”
“That was a foolish move, Heddy.”
Phoebe opened her mouth, but the intensity in his gaze stopped the retort. She took a deep breath. “I did it because I wish to avoid the scandal of being away for days with a strange man.”
Surprise melted into a cool look. “A man you know will do, though?”
Her response was forestalled by a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Kiernan instructed.
The door opened and Mather stepped inside. “Dr. Connor here to see the lady, sir.” Mather stepped aside and a small, gray haired man entered the room.
Kiernan came to his feet. He strode forward, hand extended. Dr. Connor grasped one side of the gold-rimmed glasses he wore and set them farther back on the bridge of his nose. He switched the black bag he carried from his right hand to the left and grasped Kiernan’s hand in a warm greeting.
“Good to see you, Connor,” Kiernan said.
“How are you, lad?” the doctor asked. “Mather, here, tells me you're not taking care of yourself as ye ought.”
Kiernan laughed. A deep rich laugh, Phoebe grudgingly noticed, that filled the room and settled deep inside the heart of the listener.
“Mather, long ago, appointed himself my mother,” he said, giving him a stern look.
Mather bowed and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Dr. Connor frowned. “You look as if you could use a rest.”
“Soon, Connor, soon. But first,” Kiernan motioned to Phoebe, “you have a more pressing patient.”
The doctor approached. He sat down on the bed beside her and, setting the black bag on the floor, eyed Phoebe. “A nasty fall, my dear.” He placed a hand on her forehead, tipping her head back slightly. “Let me have a look.” He leaned in closer and studied the gash on her forehead, then said with a glance at Kiernan, “Have you a candle?”
Kiernan looked around the room, then strode to the small secretary in the alcove. He picked up the candle sitting there, and hurried to the fire and lit it.
“Put it on the nightstand,” the doctor said as Kiernan approached.
Kiernan placed the candle beside Phoebe's tea cup on the tray and Dr. Connor placed a thumb on her right eyelid and gently pulled the lid up as he tilted her head toward the candle light. He studied the eye for a moment, did the same with the left eye, then released her.
“How is your sight?” he asked.
“Fine now,” she replied. “When I first awoke, it was blurry.”
He nodded, then reached into his black bag and pulled out a stethoscope. Phoebe grasped the end of the stethoscope and examined it much as he had her head.
She looked at him. “A binaural stethoscope. Where did you find one?”
His face lit with surprise. “You're familiar with this instrument?”
“Indeed I am.” She fingered one of the tubes. “The article in the London Gazette was most informative.”
“You read that article? That came into print in eighteen twenty-nine.”
Phoebe thought for a moment. “August twelfth, I believe.” She looked from the incredulous doctor to Kiernan, who regarded her with a tilt of his head. “A woman can read as well as a man,” she said.
“Aye,” Dr. Connor agreed, pulling her attention back to him. “That she can. That-she-can.”
“How did you come by it?” she asked. “I didn’t think they were in use.”
“You’re correct. But I have a friend who knows the inventor.”
Phoebe’s gaze followed when he looked at Kiernan.
“You know Nicholas Comins?” she demanded of Kiernan.
“Not I, Miss Ballingham, my father.”
“Now, if you don't mind,” Dr. Connor pried the stethoscope from her hands, “I will finish."
The poking and prodding came to an end twenty minutes later with Dr. Connor’s instructions that Phoebe was not to move from her bed, and that her head was to remain elevated. “You took a nasty blow,” he admonished. “You’re lucky it didn't crack your skull wide open.”
“Is that any indication of how hard the head is?” Kiernan asked.
Dr. Connor chuckled. “It has more to do with luck. But it wasn't very wise.” He looked pointedly at Phoebe.
“You would have done the same had this—this—”
“This what?” Kiernan inquired.
“This man,” she retorted. “If he had kidnapped you, you would have done the same.”
“Kidnapped?” Dr. Connor’s attention riveted onto Kiernan.
Kiernan shrugged. “The fall addled her brains.”
“Kiernan,” the doctor began.
“You remember Lord Stoneleigh?” Kiernan cut in.
“Aye.”
“Miss Ballingham is his special guest.”
Comprehension lit the doctor’s eyes and Phoebe knew Lord Stoneleigh's reputation as a womanizer had preceded him even here, in the wilds of Scotland.
The doctor snapped his bag closed and rose. “Remember,” he said in a stern voice, “you're not to get out of that bed today. I'll see you tomorrow.” He started for the door.
“Doctor,” Phoebe cried.
He turned. “Yes, Miss Ballingham?”
“You aren’t going to leave me here?”
“You can't be moved, young lady,” he replied in a kindly, but firm voice. He looked at Kiernan. “Inform Lord Stoneleigh she isn't to be moved until I give permission.”
“I'll see to it, Connor. Thank you for coming.”
Phoebe watched, mouth agape, as Kiernan escorted him to the door. Dr. Connor exited, and Mather entered.
“I am returning to Edinburgh the moment I recover,” Phoebe burst out.
“Don't excite yourself,” Kiernan said.
“Cease this foolishness,” she snapped.
“I'm not the one who jumped from a moving carriage,” he replied.
“I am not Heddy, I tell you."
“Who might you be, then? Cleopatra?”
Phoebe stiffened. I will seek recompense for this, Heddy, she telepathed. “For a man who thinks so little of the lady, you are going to a great deal of trouble to keep her in your company.”
A smile twitched one corner of his mouth. “A man has a right to change his opinion.”
Phoebe cut her gaze to Mather. “Sir, do you write?”
“Aye, Miss.”
“Fine. Be so good as to fetch paper and pen.”
“Miss?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She shook her head in exasperation. Her vision blurred and she pressed the fingers of her right hand to her temple.
“Heddy?” Kiernan demanded.
“You are to write a letter for me,” she ordered Mather.
<
br /> Mather looked at his master.
“Do you intend to inform your other…er, friends that you are no longer at their disposal?” Kiernan asked.
“Never mind, Mather,” Phoebe said. “I will not require your help after all.”
Kiernan made a tsking sound. “You're going to keep the poor fellows hanging?”
“All I need from you, Mather,” she went on, “is an address.”
“An address?”
“Yes. One I am sure you have.”
“I know very few addresses,” Mather hedged.
“I'm in need of only one address. I must—no, it is my duty—” she pinned him with a hard look “—your duty, as well, to inform this person’s father of his dishonorable actions.”
Mather paled and satisfaction surged through her.
Kiernan took the two steps to her bed and squatted down face level with her. “Miss Ballingham, I have been far more honorable than I would have preferred. I assure you, my father would agree.”
Phoebe blinked, aware of a frustrated heat rising to her cheeks. Her head began to pound. “Please leave,” she rubbed her temples. “I require privacy.”
“Mather,” Kiernan said, rising, “fetch the chamber pot.”
*****
Phoebe put one foot in front of her, careful to take each descending stair slowly. Though loath to admit it, Dr. Connor was correct. She would be unable to ride for another day. Tomorrow would be four days since she disappeared. Her uncle must be frantic, and the fact she hadn't been contacted or rescued by one of Lord Redgrave's spies had her worried. Where was this Green Lady Inn that she was out of his network? Phoebe paused on the final step. No dizziness. She released a breath, thankful she hadn't given in to the sense of unease she experienced while staring down from the top stair at what seemed to be an abyss.
She tugged the bodice of her dress. “A might small it be for ye, lass,” Phoebe mimicked Mrs. Grayson’s tone when the housekeeper had produced the dress. “A might small, indeed,” she muttered.
How was it possible to have ripped her skirt from hem to hip when she jumped from the carriage? Mrs. Grayson had given the gown to the village’s seamstress for repair so, until she got the gown back, Phoebe was stuck with the tight dress. She tugged harder on the bodice. Blasted thing was made for a twelve year old girl.
