Highlander in Love

by Julia London

  The sudden movement of a head popping up at the foot of the bed startled him badly, and he lurched sideways, banging up against the bed and rattling the posts.

  “Milord!” He didn’t recognize her at first as she pushed herself up to her knees. Her hair was unbound, flowing wildly around her, and her housekeeper’s gown was loose at the collar, unbuttoned to her bosom. She scrambled off the bed so quickly that Payton could not gather his thoughts.

  “What are ye doing there?” he demanded, eyeing the bed suspiciously.

  “What are ye doing there?” she returned, ignoring his question as she hurried to slip an arm around his waist. “Ye’re no’ to be up and about. Bed rest is what the physician said.” She draped his arm around her shoulders.

  “I’m in need of the privy, but I donna need ye to escort me there.”

  “Of course ye do! Ye’ve been abed five days now—do ye think ye will just stand and walk about as ye please? Here then, put yer weight on me—”

  “Mared…I am grateful for yer care and concern, but I canna abide ye escorting me to the privy.”

  “Fine, then,” she said and suddenly stepped away from him. Payton’s knees began to buckle, and he grabbed onto the bedpost again. She folded her arms and watched him through narrowed eyes. “Go on, then. To the privy with ye.”

  He glanced at the privy door—he could no more reach it unassisted than he could stand. With a sigh, he gestured for Mared to help him. Wearing a pert little smile, she stepped up, put her arm around his waist, and helped him to the door of the privy. At least he was able to convince her he’d find something to hold onto within and shooed her away.

  He managed to return to his bed by himself but she shadowed his every step, her arms out wide, as if she meant to catch him if he fell. When he was safely in his bed again, the bedclothes tucked neatly around him, he drank more water and asked for food.

  “Ye may have a bowl of broth.”

  “Broth?” he groused. “I donna want broth! I want a wee bit of food. Have Cook prepare something.”

  “Ye’ll have broth,” she said, rolling down her sleeves. “I’ll go prepare it.”

  “Ring for it. There is no need to trouble yerself.” Mared calmly finished buttoning her gown, then turned to face him, her hands firmly planted on her hips. “Ye will have broth until the physician says ye may have food, milord. And ye are no’ to leave this bed, aye? I must go and prepare the broth for ye, as everyone else has fled.”

  “Donna jest now, Mared,” he said weakly.

  “It is no’ a jest. They’ve all gone, for they feared another Killiebattan.”

  Payton blinked and tried to absorb that. “They’ve gone?”

  “All save Beckwith.”

  “How long?”

  “This is the sixth day.”

  “Who…who tended me?” he asked, fearing her answer. “Beckwith, then?”

  She smiled broadly. “Beckwith has no’ stepped foot in this room.”

  “Then who?”

  “Who do ye think, lad?”

  Who…he had a sudden rush of memory—the scent of lilac, a soft pair of hands cooling his brow, the shadowy figure of a woman standing before the windows and looking out. It seemed impossible—of all the people on this earth to tend to him in his darkest hour of need, it seemed impossible that it might be Mared.

  He blinked again, and Mared’s smile grew brighter. Another memory came back to him—Mared, on the edge of his bed, the end of her braid tickling his chin as she leaned over him, wiping his brow. Then his arms…and his torso.

  The memory spawned a rush of gratitude and overwhelming dismay—he panicked at the thought of being in such a vulnerable state, but at the same time, his heart swelled with thanks for the care she must have given him.

  “Ye put yerself at risk,” he said quietly. “Ye might have contracted it.”

  “Aye. But I’ve no’, apparently,” she said as she quickly braided her hair.

  “It took courage to stay.”

  She smiled softly and glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “There was never any question of it. I’ll fetch yer broth,” she said and glided out of the room.

  He tried to imagine what had happened, but he was still far too weak, and closed his eyes until he was aroused by a rap at the door.

  Beckwith entered cautiously. “I’m right thankful to see ye well, milord. We all feared for yer life.”

  “Thank ye, Beckwith,” he said, wondering why his loyal butler hadn’t been the one to stay by his side. “The staff?…”

  “Gone, milord. But I am confident we can round them up.”

  They’d all deserted him. Even Beckwith. Only Mared, fearless Mared, had stayed by his side. He pondered it until she returned with the broth, but by that point, he was too exhausted and ravenous to think. Mared watched him warily as he ate, as if she thought he might expire yet. When he had finished the bowl of broth, she took it away. When she returned she gazed down at him, her eyes roaming his face and his upper body.

  “Aye,” she said, nodding. “Ye’ve a wee bit of color. I donna believe ye will expire…at least no’ from this fever. So if ye will excuse me, milord, I shall take my leave of ye for a time.”

  For some reason, that alarmed him. “Leave? Go where?”

  “To my room, to have a bath and sleep.”

  “But I’ve only awakened,” he protested.

  “Here ye are,” she said, walking to the bureau and picking up a silver tray. “Ye may amuse yerself with the post. These letters have come during yer illness.” She put them by his side, turned around, and walked to the door.

  “Mared!”

  She paused, turned halfway toward him.

  “Thank ye,” he said sincerely. “From the bottom of my heart, thank ye for saving my life.”

  With a laugh, she tossed the braid over her shoulder. “Donna thank me. My motives were entirely selfish—who would be left to enslave me if ye were gone, then? Beckwith?” With a wink, she went out, her braid bouncing above her hips.

  Eighteen

  M ared’s patient went from helpless and dying to demanding and pouty.

  She returned to his room several hours later after bathing in ice cold water, because she was too exhausted to heat the water for her bath, and choking down a few bites of stale bread and broth, because she had no time to prepare anything. She was beyond fatigue.

  When she rapped lightly on his door, he bade her to enter. He was sitting up in his bed, his hair wild and sticking out in every direction. His six-day growth of beard obviously bothered him, for he scratched it mindlessly, and his wrinkled bed shirt was gaping open so that she could see his naked chest.

  “I should like to know how long I am expected to be abed,” he demanded as Mared entered carrying fresh bed linens and a clean nightshirt.

  “Three days at least.”

  That earned her a glower. Then, “When will Dr. Thomson come round again?”

  “Day after the morrow.”

  “But I canna wait as long as that!” he complained loudly. “Surely he has something that will put me on my feet!”

  “What? A magic potion?” she scoffed. “Really, ye’ve been quite ill and ye must regain yer strength.”

  “But I donna care to simply lie here,” he groaned and leaned his head back, thrust his hands through his hair, and made it stick up even more.

  Mared sighed, walked to the bed, and held out the nightshirt. “If ye feel well enough to be abroad, then perhaps ye feel well enough to change yer nightshirt.”

  His mood suddenly lightened, and he smiled slyly, looking up at her from beneath hooded eyes. “I’m a sick man, lass, ye’ve said so yerself. Ye must change it for me, aye?”

  “I think,” she said, carelessly tossing the shirt on his lap, “that ye can manage.”

  “But I should be bathed,” he quickly countered. “The remnants of fever washed away, that sort of thing.”

  The very mention of his naked body stirred her, and Mared gave
him an exasperated smile. Mary Queen of Scots, even though the man had lain close to dying when she’d bathed him, his body had taken her breath away. She had not imagined a man could be so powerful in his build—his strapping torso atop even stronger hips, legs that looked as strong as Ben Cluaran.

  And there was that part of him, too, fascinating in and of itself. She had tried not to ogle a dying man, had tried not to imagine that part of him engorged and moving inside her, and had been piteously unsuccessful, for it seemed that since that afternoon, every time she closed her eyes she saw him holding himself above her, sliding into her.

  “Then who will wash me?” Payton insisted, unaware of the desire pooling within her. “By yer own admission, I am too weak to do it myself.” And the roué was smiling suggestively.

  “So it is at last borne out…ye are indeed a madman.”

  “Me? No, no, I’m a sick man in need of yer assistance.”

  “Ye’ve scarcely escaped the grip of death and now ye would entertain lascivious thoughts?”

  “Lascivious? Ach, lass, ye make it sound so vile. I merely seek a wee bit of pleasure after facing death…mutual pleasure, I should say.”

  She smiled, drumming her fingers on her arm. “I suggest ye seek yer good health instead.”

  His frown returned and he groaned impatiently. “What bloody else shall I think of, locked away like an invalid such as I am?”

  “How very grateful ye are to be alive?” she suggested lightly and picked up the bed linens and started for the dressing room.

  “Wait! Where are ye going?” he called after her. “Come back, Mared! I swear I’ll no’ make improper suggestions, aye? No, donna go, come and keep me company! I canna bear the solitude!”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder, and with a little smile of triumph, she turned into his dressing room, where she put the linens away. When she returned to his master suite, she strolled to the middle of the room and gave him a stern look, hands on hips.

  “I thought ye meant to leave again,” he said, reading her look and seeming a wee bit abashed by his outburst.

  “No, milord,” she said sternly. “I canna leave. There is no one to see after ye until Dr. Thomson comes on the morrow. We are, for better or worse, compelled to remain in one another’s company. So will ye change yer nightshirt?”

  He sighed and reached for the thing. “If it is to be only the two of us, then perhaps ye will assist me in answering the post. There are several that must be answered straightaway, and I donna feel up to writing.”

  “I’d be delighted. I’ll just fetch pen and paper.”

  When she returned, Payton had managed to change his nightshirt and had combed his fingers through his hair, making it seem less wild. She handed him the post, and he sighed, closed his eyes for a moment, then read the first one. “Aha. Direct this one to Mr. Farquart, Esquire, if ye will.” He glanced up. “If ye would, please use the perfect penmanship ye employ when writing me?”

  Mared smiled.

  “Mr. Farquart,” he said and proceeded to dictate a letter that impressed Mared with its eloquence and off-the-cuff thinking, particularly considering the man was still recovering from his near death bout of fever.

  And so they went—Mared remarking on the vast sphere of his influence, Payton reminding her that the influence might have been the Lockharts’ as well, had it not been for their stubborn loyalty to cows. At the end of their session, when Mared’s hand was aching and Payton was obviously tiring, he held up one more letter.

  “This is from my cousin Neacel,” he said. “He’s to be wed in a traditional Highland wedding next month.”

  “Felicitations to yer cousin, then,” she said.

  “There is to be a three-day wedding ceilidh.”

  “It will be a joyous time for all,” she said blithely, and put a sheet of vellum before her on the dining table. “Might I suggest that ye begin, ‘To my cousin Neacel Douglas, greetings and felicitations on yer happy news from one important Douglas laird and master of all he surveys, to another Douglas laird who is likewise impressed by himself?’”

  Payton chuckled weakly at her beaming smile. “Quite poetic. But I suggest we start with this: ‘Cousin, greetings and felicitations,’ ” he dictated. “ ‘Please accept my heartfelt congratulations on the happy news of yer betrothal. I quite look forward to meeting yer intended bride, for I fondly recall from our childhood that Miss Braxton was indeed a bonny lass, and I trust she will make ye a good and dutiful wife….’ ”

  He paused there and slanted Mared a look. “Ye are writing this down, are ye, word for word?”

  “Do ye doubt it?”

  “Of course I do. Ye’re writing it down as I say, aye?”

  “Of course.”

  He looked skeptical, but leaned his head back and continued. “ ‘I am right pleased to inform ye that ye may count me among the number who will attend and witness the celebration of yer betrothal. I shall require lodging for myself and three servants. Until the time I may congratulate you personally, I remain, as ever, yer loyal and faithful cousin.’ ” He thought for a moment, then nodded. “Aye, then, ye may put my name to it.”

  “Where shall I direct it?” she asked as she signed his name.

  “Kinlochmore, near Fort William.”

  “Diah,” she said absently. “That’s quite a journey, aye?”

  “Two days. Longer if there is rain. Ye best pack warmly.”

  That garnered her immediate attention. “Beg yer pardon?”

  “Ye might bring the purple gown ye are so fond of—ye’ll need a heavy fabric in a month’s time, I’d wager.”

  He confused her, and for a moment, she thought perhaps his fever was returning. “Are ye quite all right, milord?” she asked, putting the letter aside.

  “Quite.” And he flashed a weak, but devilish smile.

  Oh no. No, no. “But as I’ll no’ be traveling to Kinlochmore, I’ll have no need of anything but this plain black gown,” she said sweetly.

  “Ah, but ye will be traveling there,” he said calmly.

  “I donna see how ye can possibly say I will,” she said patiently, thinking how she would very much like to stuff the letter down his throat at present. “Ye will go in the company of yer footmen. I will remain here and do what it is I’ve been enslaved to do.”

  “But I donna keep a valet, and I’ll need ye along to tend to my clothing.”

  “Yer clothing?” she cried, coming up out of her chair. “Can ye no’ impress on one of yer footmen the importance of keeping yer bloody clothing neat and tidy and at the ready, then?” she demanded. “I shall go to my grave wondering how a man so fully convinced of his own glory might have managed this long without a valet!”

  “But I have. And I need ye to accompany me.”

  “How can ye ask it of me? Can ye imagine what will be said? Have ye thought of how I’ll be persecuted in the midst of so many blasted Douglases?”

  “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “That is a rather appealing thought, a Lockhart surrounded by Douglases. But ye needn’t fret, Mared. There was no talk of Mrs. Craig when she accompanied me. Most saw it for what it was—a laird with his housekeeper along to tend to his clothing and his suite. Neacel’s household will be taxed enough as it is, what with Douglases coming from far and wide. I canna impose on him for my own needs.”

  “Yer needs!” she exploded helplessly. “I willna go along as yer lackey!” she insisted, striding angrily to the bed. “Ye can humiliate me into what ye will within the walls of this house, but I shall no’ go abroad and be presented to all the bloody Douglases of the world as yer servant.”

  “Of course ye will,” he said, sinking low into the pillows, his brow creased in a frown. “For ye are my servant. A wee bit of broth, aye, Mared? I’m feeling rather weak.”

  “Augh!” she cried, and whirled away from the bed, marched to the door, and flung it open. Then she just as suddenly slammed it shut and whirled about to argue her point again. Only Payton had rolled o
ver onto his side and was already sleeping.

  Mared’s fingers dug into her palms as she struggled to maintain her calm. She snatched up the post and left his room to make his damned broth.

  Had she walked over to the bed and leaned over to have a look, she might have seen his smile.

  As the days unfurled, Payton grew stronger quickly and chafed at the confines of his illness. The servants who had fled in terror of wasting fever had slowly returned as news of his rather miraculous recovery spread through the lochs.

  The house returned to its natural rhythm, and Payton saw less and less of Mared.

  He took to walking the long corridors to regain his strength, and from time to time he’d pass by one room or another and see her, usually in the company of Rodina and Una, usually completely idle, or occupied in some worthless task, as the two chambermaids worked around her. It was inevitable that he would stop to gaze at her, that he could not seem to make his body move forward. And it was inevitable that Mared would sense him and turn around, her gaze meeting his.

  He supposed, in the quiet of the night when he sat before his hearth, that it was possible the fever had left him partially addled, for he believed on those occasions their eyes met, her deep green eyes would soften with what he thought was affection, and something would pass between them, something he felt deep inside him.

  He was desperate to know if Mared felt it, too…yet he could not bring himself to inquire, primarily because there never seemed to be an opportunity. She was always surrounded by servants. But perhaps more to the heart of it, Payton did not want to know if he had misjudged the look between them. He rather preferred to go on privately believing that she felt it, too, rather than be summarily disabused of that notion.

  He preferred to let his tiny glimmer of hope rise up like a bird and begin to beat its wings soundly within him.