Lightning lit the sky, and Aileen closed her eyes against the brightness. Thunder followed, making her wince at the pounding in her head. The storm would certainly frighten the bees.
She coughed again, too tired to worry about the pain in her lungs. She just wanted to sleep.
Aileen blinked. She thought she heard voices. Had her father finally found her? She couldn’t raise her head to call out.
“Over here!” Someone lifted her head. It felt so heavy. Her eyes wouldn’t focus. “Da?” Hands cupped her cheeks.
“Oh, lass, yer burnin’ up.” She thought she recognized the voice, low and deep, but as soon as the thought flickered into her mind, it was gone.
The coughing returned, wracking her body, and arms wrapped around her. The voice spoke softly until the fit finished.
“She doesna sound good.” Another voice joined the first.
She was lifted and held against a strong chest. “Da, I missed ye so.”
“Hush ye now,” he said.
But she had so much to say. She needed to tell him what had happened to their cottage in Glencalvie, the kirkyard in Croick, the swarm, the war. She tried to speak, but her words and thoughts muddled together, and soon confusion was overcome by exhaustion. Aileen laid down her head and slept.
Chapter 12
Conall rode Nellie as quickly as he could down the mountain. The rain made it difficult to see, and the mare was nervous slipping over wet rocks with the storm crashing around them. He held the reins tightly in one hand and Aileen closely against him with the other. Her head bobbed as they rode, and he worried the horse’s movements were shaking her too roughly. But getting her out of the rain and into the care of Mrs. Ross was more important than a comfortable ride, he decided.
Hearing her deep, hacking cough made his stomach rock-hard with worry. He’d heard coughs like it before—from men in long, cold campaigns—and knew it didn’t bode well. Combined with the cough, her shallow breathing and heated skin led him to believe she had an ailment of her lungs. He had no idea how to help her. He felt helpless, a sense of panic making his own breathing tight. “Ye must get well, lass,” he murmured into her wet hair.
Occasionally she’d seem to wake and start to speak, muttering words he couldn’t hear over the rain. Conall realized she didn’t know what she was saying. ’Twas the fever talking. Her raving seemed frantic, and he wished he could calm her. The best he could do was speak in a soft voice that he thought might sound reassuring. His ma had done the same with him or his sister when they were ill or frightened.
Once he and Davy reached the manor house, he rushed Aileen inside. Mrs. Ross was waiting in the entry hall. The housekeeper took charge immediately, directing him to one of the upstairs bedrooms and following close on his heels.
He laid Mrs. Leslie on the bed, noting in the candlelight how flushed she was. Her hair had come loose and long tendrils stuck to her face and neck. She looked so small and so vulnerable, shivering on the pillow. He felt helpless, like a large oaf, just standing there with no idea how to help her.
Mrs. Ross elbowed him out of the way and pressed her hands to Aileen’s forehead and cheeks. She brushed the hair off the woman’s face. “Och, my dear, how did ye come by such a fever?”
Aileen’s eyes opened, and she stared vacantly. “Da? Did ye return to Glencalvie?” The horrible cough returned, choking her words, and she curled up on her side.
“Mrs. Ross, ye must do somethin’.” Conall could hear desperation in his voice. “Shall I go for a doctor?”
“None close enough. Ye’d be away for days, and she needs succor now.” Mrs. Ross stood straight, her eyes squinting as she assessed the situation. “We must be gettin’ the fever down and soon.” She turned to Conall, lips tight and face set in a decisive expression. “Fetch Mrs. Campbell. Tell her to bring meadowsweet and elderberries—she’ll ken what else we need. And nightclothes for Mrs. Leslie. Goodness knows I’ve none that will fit her.”
He turned, glad someone knew what to do, even though it meant his housekeeper was ordering him about. He needed to have a job, anything to keep his mind from worry.
Davy stood in the bedroom doorway. “My Catriona kens a bit aboot curin’ herbs. I’ll bring her straightaway as well.”
Mrs. Ross nodded. “The pair o’ them are the best healers in the county.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Now away wi’ ye while I change Mrs. Leslie out o’ her wet clothes.”
***
An hour later, Conall stood before the hearth in his library, knowing his pacing was making Jamie and Davy nervous, but his apprehension wouldn’t allow him to sit still. The other two were seated in the leather armchairs, both staring into the fire. Attempts at conversation had been futile, and they’d stopped trying. Aside from the crackle of the flames and an occasional sniff from Jamie, the room was silent. Above, Conall could hear the murmuring voices of women working to bring down Aileen’s fever and occasional bouts of coughing that made him wince.
During a particularly loud attack, Jamie’s eyes darted toward the door. He clutched the arms of the chair, his face paling.
Conall stepped to the side table and lifted a decanter of rum, pulling out the stopper and tipping it to pour before he realized he couldn’t give the lad the strong spirits. He left the room and searched in the kitchen, finding the tea kettle still hot from the medicinal concoction Mrs. Campbell had brewed. A moment later, he had a saucer and cup filled with peppermint tea, his personal favorite. He added a healthy amount of cream and sugar then delivered it to the lad.
“Thank ye.” Jamie’s voice was quiet. He held the cup in his lap.
Conall patted the boy’s shoulder, but Jamie didn’t look up. He stared down at the tea, and Conall wished he knew what to say. He stood a moment longer then returned to the side table.
Needing something stronger after their long night, Conall poured a drink of rum for himself and Davy. He handed the glass to his friend and sat facing the pair o’ them on the sofa, just now realizing how tired he was.
Davy lifted his glass, offering a half-hearted smile. Conall returned the gesture and sipped the strong drink. At sea, he’d developed a taste for the sweet liquor, and he welcomed the warming as it flowed down his throat. He’d still not changed from his wet clothes. Nor had Davy, he realized.
Conall glanced up at the man then studied his drink, turning the glass to catch firelight in the golden liquid. Though they’d known each other less than a month, he considered Davy MacKay to be as loyal a friend as he’d had. He was cheerful and always willing to lend a hand. He’d not hesitated an instant to ride out into the precarious hills during a raging storm. Conall hoped that in a similar circumstance he would act as honorably.
Another attack of coughing drew all three pairs of eyes toward the door. The noise sounded so painful that his own chest ached in sympathy. The feeling of helplessness returned, bringing both a weariness and surge of nervous energy that made him feel like he should be doing something—but having no idea of what.
He thought of Aileen’s flushed cheeks, her burning skin and vacant eyes, and a deep sorrow filled him. He’d seen men with similar afflictions, and more often than not, they’d not recovered. Up until now, he’d avoided these thoughts, but ’twasn’t practical to pretend her condition was any less than dire. And the realization hurt. The depth of his ache surprised him. He didn’t know Mrs. Leslie well, and the thought was accompanied by one of intense regret. He’d hoped to know her better, to think of clever things that would bring out her smile. He’d wanted to tease her to make her bright eyes flash. Aileen and Jamie were forefront in his thoughts a good amount of the time. Thinking of ways to make their difficult life easier—but without their knowing, of course—was something he’d considered almost constantly since his first meeting with the passionate, independent Mrs. Leslie.
But now . . . Were those opportunities to pass before he’d even had a chance to implement them? Would he ever again see the tick of her brow when she
pretended to disapprove of something he said or the way she pulled down the corners of her mouth when she was thinking?
Conall’s throat tightened, and he glanced at Jamie. What would the lad do without his mother? Conall was certain the village would care for him. Mrs. Campbell would likely take him in, but nobody could replace his mother. And Conall realized he’d do anything to keep Jamie from experiencing that pain.
Looking down, he was surprised to see his glass empty. He stood to refill it, reaching for Davy’s glass as well. Davy shook his head, declining more liquor. But Conall filled the man’s glass anyway and set it on the table beside him. As he walked back to the sofa, his eyes lighted on a framed map of Scotland. He stepped closer, looking at the place Aileen had mentioned in her fevered ramblings. Glencalvie. He studied the region at the head of Strathcarron.
Davy had told him the story of the tenants in that area: driven from their homes and forced to shelter in the snowy kirkyard of Croick town. Had Aileen and Jamie been among them? Had her husband been alive, or was she alone? Had she tried to keep the infant warm without walls or family to help her? His eyes prickled as he imagined it. He’d no idea if the story even pertained to her, but some things she’d said made him think there might be some truth to it. She’d told him she was from the Duchess of Sutherland’s lands, and in her fevered confusion, she’d thought her father had returned to Glencalvie. Was it possible that he’d survived the war and returned to discover his home ruined and empty as Conall had? What if he had no way of finding out where his daughter and grandson had gone? What if she didn’t know how to contact him?
His thoughts were interrupted when Catriona MacKay entered the library.
Jamie sat up, and Davy crossed the room to his wife. “How is she?”
“We’ve done all we can. Now we’ve just to wait and hope.” She turned to Conall. “Dores will sit with her tonight, and I’ll be returnin’ in the mornin’ if I may.”
“Thank ye.” He stepped across the room and took her hand, giving a bow. “I canna thank ye enough for all ye’ve done.” He turned, clasping Davy on the shoulder. “And ye, Davy. If not for yer knowin’ the hills as ye do . . .” He had a difficult time finishing the sentence as he thought of Aileen lying alone on the wet mountain, shiverin’ in her thin coat.
Davy, perhaps seeing Conall’s emotions, gave a smirk and shrugged one shoulder. “Sometimes ’tis difficult, bein’ the hero.” He winked. “But I bear the burden wi’ grace.”
Conall appreciated him lightening the mood, even though he could tell the joke was forced. They all felt the weight of Aileen’s illness like a heavy cloud pressin’ down.
Mrs. Ross appeared behind the MacKays and walked with them to the front door. Conall himself retrieved Davy’s horse from the barn, and once the couple was safely away, he stepped back inside with Mrs. Ross.
“How is she?” He kept his voice low, not wanting it to carry to the library where Jamie was.
“She’s in good hands. The fever seems to be easin’.” Mrs. Ross shook her head, her lip trembling. “But och, she’s ill.”
“Do ye think . . . ?” He grimaced and left the question hanging in the air, not quite sure how to finish it.
The plump woman squeezed his hand where it rested on the rail. “I think we’re needin’ to pray.”
Conall closed his eyes, letting out a breath.
Releasing his hand, she patted it. “There’s nothin’ more to be done tonight. Get ye to yer bed, Sergeant. I prepared the chamber beside Aileen’s for the lad. Poor dear.” She shook her head, making a tsking noise, then turned to return to the chambers above. “Mrs. Campbell will let us know if anythin’ changes.”
After bidding the housekeeper good night, Conall returned to the sofa in the library, not quite knowing what to say to Jamie but wanting to reassure the lad he wasn’t alone.
Jamie was leaned forward, elbows on his legs and hands dangling between his knees.
Connall sat on the sofa. “Jamie lad, perhaps ye should get some sleep. Come. Mrs. Ross has prepared a bed for ye.”
Jamie looked at him. His eyes were red and held more worry than a young child should have to carry. “Sergeant, can we stay here a bit longer?”
“Aye, lad. We’ll remain as long as ye like.”
“And can I sit by ye?”
Conall slid to the side, patting the cushion next to him.
Jamie scooted into the spot. He slipped his hands under his legs, feet dangling a few inches from the floor.“Sergeant? Will my mam get well?”
Of course she will. Conall opened his mouth to reassure the lad but stopped. Jamie deserved the truth. No matter how difficult ’twas to hear. “I dinna ken, lad.” He blew out a breath through his teeth. “She’s verra ill.”
Jamie pursed his lips tightly, looking down at his knees. After a moment, he spoke in a soft voice. “’Tis like the last time. She’s hot and shiverin’. And the cough.” He pulled out his hands and clasped them together in his lap. “Sergeant?”
“Aye, Jamie?”
“Ye told me ’twasn’t a person’s fault when somethin’ bad happens.”
Conall thought of the conversation they’d had walking toward the Beltane bonfire. Had it truly been only a day earlier? “I spoke true, lad. If yer thinkin’ ye are in some way to blame for yer ma’s illness . . .”
“I chased Mr. MacKenzie’s chickens and hid the minister’s glasses so we didna’ have to read anymore aboot Revelations.” His hands clenched tighter. “Sometimes I tell Mam I behaved at school when I didna behave at all. And one day I took away Robena’s bonnet jes to see what she’d do.” His small shoulders slumped. “I’m a wicked lad, Sergeant.”
“Och, Jamie, yer a good lad. I’ve seen ye takin’ care o’ yer ma. And feedin’ Barney and Nellie withoot bein’ asked. Ye patched Mrs. Campbell’s wall and prepared my apiary.” He patted the boy’s hands. “None o’ us are perfect lad.”
Jamie looked up at him, the corners of his mouth pulling down just as his mother’s did when she was thinking.
“This”—Conall pointed toward the stairs—“’tisn’t yer fault. Yer ma’s not bein’ punished because of things ye’ve done.”
Jamie’s face pulled into a scowl. “Whose fault is it? God’s?”
Conall shook his head. “I ken ye’re wantin’ to understand why bad things happen. We all are. But searchin’ for someone to blame will make ye angry and unhappy, and that’s not the type of man God wants ye to be, is it?”
Jamie shook his head.
Conall scooted around so his knees faced the lad, and he laid his hand on the back of the sofa. “Ye feel frustrated and helpless, I ken. And ye want to fix everythin’. Make yer ma well again. But some problems canna be fixed, ye see. Not by worryin’ nor by blamin’. The only thing to do is pray and trust in God’s mercy.”
“And will God make Mam well?”
Conall sighed. “He might, Jamie. Or he might not.”
“Then why bother prayin’ if ’twon’t do any good?” Jamie grumbled.
Conall gave a wry grin. He’d asked the same question often enough. “I don’t have all the answers, lad, but I believe prayin’ will ease yer fear. ’Twill bring ye peace.”
Jamie sat still, watching the fire as he considered. Conall hoped something he’d said had comforted the child. He imagined brokenhearted people had asked the same questions for thousands of years. He wished he knew the answers.
Finally Jamie shifted. He rubbed his eyes and leaned his head on the sofa’s arm. “Sergeant, will ye tell me a story?”
Conall’s eyes stung as he regarded Jamie. Though at times he spoke like a much older person, Jamie was still just a wee boy. “Aye, lad.”
He yawned and spoke in a sleepy voice. “Do ye ken aboot Fionn mac Cumhaill?”
Chapter 13
Aileen sat forward in the soft bed feeling discouraged as Dores fluffed the pillows behind her and smoothed the bedding. She blew out a sigh, hating that her breathin’ still pained her, and le
aned back against the pillows. Even the simple movements of adjusting her position made her tired.
“No need to be givin’ me yon look, lass. I ken ’tis frustratin’ to remain abed, but ye’ll nay mend if ye move about too quickly.”
“Aye, I know it. But I thought I’d be well by now.” She knew she was pouting but couldn’t help it. “Beltane ’twas over a week past, and here I am still sleepin’ all hours o’ the day and keepin’ the household awake at night with the cough.”
“I’ll have ye know, none o’ us is bothered in the least by yer noise. Not when yer finally healin’. Ye had us worried, lass.” Dores patted Aileen’s hand where it rested on the quilt. Then her thick brow rose, and she smirked, giving a knowing look. “All o’ us.”
Aileen blushed at the reminder of Sergeant Stewart and the tales Dores and Mrs. Ross had delightedly related of his pacing for long hours in the library and sitting on a hard chair in the passageway outside the bedchamber while the ladies tended to her over these past days.
“I feel terrible aboot bein’ such a bother to the man,” she said in a low voice, a blush moving up her neck and into her cheeks. Not that she thought he could hear through the bedchamber door. Besides, he was likely off workin’ the fields with Jamie.
“Nonsense.” Dores flicked her hand. “’Tis good for him to be worryin’ a bit. Men need a nudge now and then. Forces them to acknowledge the feelin’s they’d rather keep concealed.”
Aileen shook her head, thinkin’ her friend had been too long beside her sickbed, conjurin’ up fanciful stories. “His feelin’s are likely annoyance at havin’ an unwelcome houseguest eatin’ his food, occupyin’ his servants, and barkin’ like a beached selkie at all hours o’ the night.”
Dores gave her mischievous smirk. “We’ll see aboot that, won’ we?”
Aileen didn’t have the strength to argue. She was having a difficult time sitting up. The discouragement returned. She needed her strength back. There were bees to care for, she’d hardly seen Jamie for days, and her cottage . . . She closed her eyes for just a moment. Thinking of all the work she had to do was nearly overwhelming.
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