by Amy Jarecki
“Yes.” She turned away and doused her cloth in the bowl.
A lump took up residence in his throat.
Earlier, Hugh had been remotely aware of her gentle ministrations—her lithe fingers upon his chest. He’d come to consciousness enough to consider asking her not to stop—to keep kneading her magical fingers all the way down to… Boar’s ballocks. Now he knew her father was Colonel Hill, Hugh would immediately cease his errant thoughts. Absolutely nothing positive could come from befriending this lass.
He gasped when she placed the cold cloth on his forehead. She was the bloody daughter of Satan incarnate. Why the hell was she in the surgery? Had the devil put her there to tempt him in his last hours?
Damn, he would be far better off if he had no luck at all.
“Do you think you can take another sip of claret?” she asked. “Doctor Munro gives it to all the soldiers—says it will help them regain their strength.”
Jesus Christ, did she have to sound so bloody bonny? With a voice like that, he’d offer to gulp down a draught of nightshade. His mouth dry, Hugh only managed to nod. But this time he watched her while she held his head and offered the cup. The fruity wine slid over his tongue, down his gullet, and instantly swam in his head as if he’d guzzled a healthy tot of whisky. Holy Mary, it had to be the most flavorful ambrosia he’d tasted since his capture at the Battle of Dunkeld.
“Why…” He eyed her well-tailored gown, cinched tightly at the waist. Though petite, she was full-bosomed, yet wore a lace modesty panel to prevent him from stealing a glimpse of the velvety white flesh swelling above her bodice. Just as well. The last thing he needed was to be brought up on contrived charges for ogling the Colonel’s daughter’s breasts.
“Yes?” She regarded him, the expressive concern painted on her bonny face unwavering. Why on earth did the daughter of the devil have to have creamy porcelain skin and a smile that would melt the snow atop Ben Nevis in winter?
“Hmm?” was all he managed to utter as a wave of nausea clamped his gut.
“You were about to ask something?”
The pain eased. Ah yes, now he remembered. “Why does your father allow you in the surgery alone?” His voice sounded like he’d swallowed a rasp.
She glanced back toward the door. “He doesn’t really. Since my arrival, I’ve been assisting Doctor Munro with simple tasks—rolling bandages and tending ill soldiers whenever necessary.” She bit her bottom lip. Indeed, the lass shouldn’t be alone with Hugh at all.
“Why doesn’t he have a local woman assist him?” With his next shudder, chills fired across his skin.
High color blossomed in her cheeks. “Honestly, I needed something to occupy my time. One can only embroider and practice the violin so much in a day.”
“You’re a fiddler?” he asked through chattering teeth, willing himself to focus. Why couldn’t she have a hooked nose with a wart atop?
“Yes, of sorts.”
“I wish…” He shivered. “I could hear you play someday.” God, he was daft. Right. Ask the Sassenach lassie to come down to the pit and play a merry tune for the poor bastards as they wallow in their stench. Och, she could accompany the drummer beating the death knoll as he climbed the steps to her father’s gallows.
A bell rang in the distance. Miss Hill cringed and snapped her gaze toward the door. “I’m afraid I must go.” She wrung her hands. “Will you be all right?”
Honestly, this cot was the most comfortable thing Hugh had lain upon since his arrival at Fort William. He regarded the chain securing his leg irons to the footboard and the pounding in his head resumed. But still he eyed her. “How about giving a dying man a last request?”
Standing, she grimaced as she rubbed her wrist. “What would that be?”
Hugh squeezed his eyes shut to block the pain. “The key to these bloody manacles for starters.”
Chapter Two
Hugh didn’t move when the door to the surgery opened. By the heavy footfalls, his instinct to remain still was exactly correct. A skill he’d learned tracking deer in Glencoe and later as a Jacobite scout, he slowed his breathing and forced his body into a motionless trance as the man approached.
The footsteps stopped beside Hugh’s cot. “Lived through the night, I see. Unfortunate. But the bloody flux will win. I’ve witnessed enough of it to know you have little chance of surviving.” The man sniffed. “You’re stinking up my entire surgery.”
Hugh had suffered from the chills most of the night, but come dawn his headache had nearly cleared—and hopefully his fever. The previous day he’d been so ill, he wasn’t certain he’d live out the night either.
Mayhap Miss Hill’s kindness was the remedy I needed to heal.
“God forbid the thought of touching you makes my insides roil.” Footsteps faded away. “Bugger it, I won’t. Besides, if this doesn’t rouse you, there’s little hope you’ll ever see the light of day again.”
Hugh opened an eye to a mere slit. Christ Almighty, the physician hefted up a bucket. Hugh’s mind raced. If it weren’t for his legs being chained to the bed, he’d spring from the cot and overtake the backbiter.
Forcing his mind into a place of blackness, he readied himself.
“This ought to do the trick,” the doctor growled.
A cascade of icy water splashed across Hugh’s body, clothes and all. His mind might have been steeled to the shock, but an onslaught of fevered shudders resumed with a vengeance.
“’Tis as I suspected,” said the physician. “With those chills you’ll be dead by dusk.”
Hugh barely registered the door opening, but he did notice a high-pitched gasp.
“Doctor Munro, what on earth happened?” Hugh doubted he’d ever forget Miss Hill’s angelic voice.
“Had to douse him with a bucket of water to allay the stench.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, can you not see the man is chilled to the bone?”
“’Tis the bloody flux,” the physician said as if he’d hammered the last nail in Hugh’s coffin.
“Saints preserve us, it will claim the entire fort before father receives the supplies he’s requested time and time again.” At least Miss Hill cared about the state of this miserable fort.
“Either that or we’ll all starve first,” growled Munro.
“I sincerely hope not. Father writes letters requesting medicine and rations daily…Goodness, someone should light the fire in the hearth.” Soft footsteps pattered across the floor and hinges creaked.
Bless her saintly soul, Miss Hill draped a blanket atop Hugh. He opened his eyes wide enough to give her a nod of thanks while his chattering teeth rattled inside his head. She tucked the blanket under his chin with worry stretched across her face. “We’ll have you warm in no time, sir.”
“He cannot hear you,” said the physician. “You know as well as I there was nothing to be done with the last victim of the bloody flux. I’m surprised this one survived the night.”
“But the last soldier was far older than Mr…um. Surely this man has a better chance of survival.”
Hugh warmed a bit beneath the wool. Interesting Miss Hill chose not to repeat his name. Hmm. Doing so would indeed alert the doctor of her visit last eve.
“You are ever the optimistic one. ’Tis good to see your compassion, though I fear it is wasted on a doomed Jacobite,” Doctor Munro spoke the word Jacobite as if it were blasphemous. “Come along. I’m riding north with your father and this is no place for you alone.”
“I’d like to stay,” she said in a firm tone—far more assured than Hugh would expect of a wee lassie as tender as Miss Hill.
“I do not think it wise,” the physician whined.
“Only for a time. I-I’ll light a fire in the hearth and then be on my way.”
“Always wanting to help, are you not, Charlotte?” God’s bones, now the physician sounded like a lovesick fool, cooing in an annoying voice.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hugh watched the man saunter toward Miss Hill and
take her hand between his palms. Then he leaned forward and sniffed her hair—the lout. Bloody hell, he even hovered over her far too close as if he were planning to kiss the lass. Ballocks, if only Hugh could slap that lecherous grin off the man’s heavy-lidded face.
Pursing her lips, she drew her hand away and rubbed it. Smart lass. Hugh applauded her. Munro was as ugly as a sow. Worse, he wore his dark wig too high on his forehead, giving him the look of an ogre.
She bowed her head politely. God’s bones, she’d most likely be polite to a dog begging in the street. “Why should I not help another living soul who is stricken with illness?”
Munro smoothed his hand over his unshorn wig. “Because he’s not long for this world.”
Shaking her finger, Charlotte’s sleeve slid back and revealed a bruise around her wrist. “How can you say that when you know everything Papa is doing—?”
“I know—ever the hopeful one, are you not?” Jesus Christ, Munro grasped her elbows.
Hugh jerked up, only to be stabbed in the gut by miserable cramps. Damnation, if Munro was the cause of the bruise on her wrist, as soon as he was free from these blasted shackles, he’d strangle the bastard—even if it was his last act on this earth.
Charlotte twisted aside. “Leave me. I’ll be but a moment.”
The physician threw a glare Hugh’s way, then sighed and brushed his grubby fingers across her cheek. “Very well. I’ll alert the guard that you are within. However, do not tarry overlong. You cannot trust these Highlanders.”
Hugh’s blood boiled. If it weren’t for his damned leg irons, he’d show Munro just how little he could be trusted when it came to men who took liberties with young maidens. Did her father know of the doctor’s intentions? Hugh sincerely doubted it.
Charlotte stood with her hands folded while she watched Doctor Munro collect his hat and cloak. “I shall see you anon.”
“Indeed,” he said with a bow, then pushed out the door.
Charlotte looked to Hugh and touched her finger to her lips, requesting silence until the doctor’s footfalls could no longer be heard. Then she walked forward, her taffeta silk skirts rustling as they brushed across the floorboards. “How are you feeling this morrow, Mr. MacLeod?”
Hugh almost looked behind him to see if someone else was in the surgery. Though he’d been using the name MacLeod, no one ever referred to him by it. No one ever referred to him much at all, unless dishing out an insult. He tried to sit up a bit. “Better, thank you. I believe your kind ministrations set me to rights.”
She smiled. Lord in heaven, the surgery glowed as if a hundred candles had just been lit.
“I’d best set to lighting the fire so you can dry. ’Twas terribly callous of Doctor Munro to douse you as if you were nothing but a dog.”
“I admit it was a wee bit of a shock.” Hugh grasped her hand before she turned. The saints only knew why he’d made such a move, but now that he held her delicate fingers in his palm, he hadn’t a mind to release them. Her skin was as soft as a sealskin pelt—just like the one he slept upon in his cottage in Glencoe. The smoothness of it sent tingles all the way up his arm—due to the fever, of course.
She gasped and looked at his hand, though she didn’t try to pull away as she had with the physician. Like yesterday, their gazes met, yet this time the moment lingered. Aye, there was no steering around it. She had the most intoxicating pair of violet-blue eyes. Her dainty lips formed the shape of an archer’s bow and a hint of rose flooded her porcelain cheeks. Though the curls framing Miss Hill’s face shone like honey, her eyebrows were darker, giving her face an expressive quality. Hugh hadn’t noticed the high arch to her brows yesterday, but now her bonny countenance had him bewitched.
He considered pulling her down to the bed so he could steal a wee kiss. Regrettably such boldness might send her scurrying for the door and yelling for the guard to haul him back to the pit. In a moment of sanity, Hugh released his grip. “Forgive me.”
She snatched her hand away and patted her chest. “I daresay I must ask you not to be so forward again. Please do remember that I am helping you out of the kindness of my heart.” There was a wee edge to her tone, dammit.
Now he’d proved himself as lecherous as Munro. Christ, Hugh had just done the same thing he’d mentally chastised the physician for. How could he have been so careless? Even if the lass was Colonel Hill’s daughter, she was a lady, not some alehouse wench. “I have no idea what came over me. You have my word my hands shall remain by my sides.”
“Very well, I shall hold you to your promise.” She moved to the hearth and picked up a bundle of flax tow for starting the fire. “Where are you from?”
Hugh bit his lip and stared at the low ceiling. If he told the truth, he would betray his clan. He’d like nothing more than to be forthright, but circumstances as they were, he couldn’t take the risk. “Up north—the MacLeods of Dunvegan.” Now that was the boldest lie he’d ever told. Clan Donald included Hugh’s sept, Clan Iain Abrach. They were bitter enemies with the MacLeods—had been since the beginning of time. As a matter of fact, Clan Donald started warring with the MacLeods before the loathed Campbells.
Using the flame from a candle, she bent down. For all that was holy, Hugh couldn’t turn his gaze away from a pair of enticing hips so damn tempting, not even a fever could keep him from growing hard beneath the bedclothes. Any man would drool when confronted with such a sight, and Hugh hadn’t had his hands on a woman for…Jesus Christ. The fire popped.
“Are you married, Mr. MacLeod?” Leaning toward the fire, she blew the flame to life.
Hugh let out a rueful snort. “I’m afraid Fort William is rather limited on its supply of eligible maidens.”
“Oh dear, my question must have sounded heartless.” She replaced the candle on the mantel. “I thought perhaps you had a family in…what was that…Dun-veee-gan?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“What, may I ask, is the reason for your…um…incarceration?” She used a set of tongs to place some coal on the fire, torturing him with those enticing hips again.
Hugh clenched his fists. “You’re full of questions, are you not, Miss Hill?”
She faced him and cringed. “Goodness, I am ever so sorry. Curiosity always drives me to be overly inquisitive.”
“Not to worry.” He grinned, seizing the opportunity to exonerate himself. “The same thing made me reach out and grasp your hand.”
She dipped her chin and twirled a lock of her hair around her finger. She wore her honeyed tresses with stylish feathery curls framing her face with a bun in the back held in place by a cowl net. Still, regarding the coy smile on her lips, if Hugh hadn’t been flat on his back, he might have thought the lass was flirting. Is she shy?
Miss Hill dropped her hand to her side and squared her shoulders. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished.” Indeed, he could eat an entire steer if offered. Now that he wasn’t shivering like a leaf in the wind, the rumble of his stomach complained of being empty for too long.
She clapped. “I’ll send for some toast and peppermint tea.”
Oh no, that wouldn’t do at all. Surely the daughter of Colonel Hill had some clout with the kitchens—even if food was scarce. “If you haven’t brought a key for these manacles, a few sausages and eggs would serve to help build my strength, miss.” The dragoon bastards fed the prisoners gruel twice a day—about enough to keep them alive and no more. Hugh’s mouth watered at the prospect of eating real food. Then he’d press her for that blasted key before her father marshalled him up the gallows stairs.
She bit the tip of her fingernail. “I’m not sure that would be a good idea, given how ill you’ve been.”
“I’ve not had a decent meal in over a year,” he pleaded, testing the waters with the soulful expression that had always worked on his Ma.
By the blush spreading from her neck to her silken cheeks, his pinched brows did the trick. “Very well, I’ll order a tray.” She emitted a delightful giggle.
“I’ll tell the kitchens ’tis for me so they don’t balk.”
Och aye, he kept his pleading eyes in his arsenal for young maidens like Miss Hill. And if she stayed long enough, he just might convince her to give him that key. “You are an angel.” Now that he’d won her sympathy Hugh didn’t want her to go anywhere, but she promised to return as soon as she put in the request for food—then he’d pour on the charm for certain.
When later she walked through the door with a servant in tow, Hugh could have died a happy man simply by the fragrant aroma of cooked food.
Charlotte gestured toward the table across the surgery. “Please set the tray there.”
“Aye, Miss Hill,” the lad said in a Highland brogue. “Is that all?”
Hugh eyed the boy—Highlanders working for the government didn’t sit well. Must be a Campbell.
“I believe so, thank you.” She inclined her head toward the door. “I’ll let you know if I should need anything more.”
As the lad left, the lady regarded Hugh. “Can you sit?”
“Aye.” He looked to his leg irons. “But I’m a bit tied up at the moment.” Unchain me and after I have my meal I’ll be on my way—back to the Coe where nary a soul will find me.
“How about if I pile some pillows behind you?”
“I’d prefer it if you could remove these manacles.” The corner of his mouth ticked up.
She shook her head with an exasperated cough. “My father would lock me away for an eternity if I did such a thing.”
Hugh sighed. “Och, lassie, you cannot blame a man for trying.” His brows pinched again, going for the kill. “Is it true the king has ordered the prisoners to the gallows?”
“Papa has written to the king, the Privy Council and to the Master of Stair requesting a pardon.”
“So it is true?”
Charlotte looked down with a nod. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this.” She collected pillows from the other two vacant beds.
