The Lord’s Highland Temptation. Diane Gaston
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‘Not heaven?’
‘No. Not heaven.’ She glanced towards Niven. He was still asleep. No help to her.
‘No,’ the man rasped. ‘Wouldn’t go to heaven.’ He swallowed and the effort seemed painful. ‘Bradleigh. Where is he?’ He tried to rise.
‘Bradleigh?’ Was it possible there was another man out there? ‘You were alone.’
‘Alone.’ His ramblings were very close to madness. He lay back down and closed his eyes. ‘Yes. Yes. I am alone.’
His accent was English.
Her attacker had been English.
Reluctantly she pulled her chair closer. ‘You should drink some broth. Sit up.’
‘Want whisky.’ His eyes opened again, but for a mere moment. ‘To forget.’
She bristled at the word whisky. The memory of its pungent odour struck so vividly she thought she could smell it all over again, even though it had been five years ago. This man did not smell of whisky, even though there had been bottles at his side. This man smelled of fever.
‘No whisky,’ she stated firmly. ‘Broth.’
It took Mairi several minutes to compose herself enough to assist him. He could not sit on his own. She needed to put her arm around his bare shoulders to help him. His skin was damp with sweat, but still very hot. His muscles were rock-hard. No wonder his grip had been vice-like when he’d lunged at her. How easily he could overpower her.
Holding her breath to still her trembling, she brought the bowl of broth to his lips.
Her head was inches from his and her hand shook at how close and vulnerable she was. His face was deathly pale and the bristles of his unshaven jaw made him appear rakish. Still, she could not deny how fine his features were. His handsome looks did not reassure her, though. Not all ogres had warts and pointed teeth.
He drank only a few sips before slumping against her arm. His body was too heavy for her to hold and she had to release him. He returned to his fitful sleep.
She moved her chair a bit further away. When she glanced at him, she saw that he still tossed and turned and mumbled in his sleep. Had they helped him at all? What would happen if he died?
What would happen if he lived?
Of one thing she was certain. She would not allow him to hurt her family.
As she had once been hurt.
As the night stretched on, the man’s condition worsened. His breathing turned raspy and he often seemed in the throes of some delirium. He kept calling for Bradleigh, reliving something dreadful over and over. There in the middle of the night, all alone, deprived of sleep, Mairi, too, relived something dreadful. Rescuing this man—this Englishman—had cracked open memories she always tried to keep at bay. Now those memories assaulted her and she relived that day when a strange man—another Englishman—had seized her arm, dragged her out of sight of the village road and ruined her life for ever.
Sometimes she could go for days without thinking of it. Then a sound, a word, even a smell, would put her right back in that shrubbery, that horrid man on top of her—
She pressed her fingers into her forehead.
Stop! Do not think of it.
It had been five years ago. It was over. No one knew and she could keep pretending it had never happened.
Mairi turned to the sick man in the bed. He was still. Quiet. Her heartbeat quickened. No. No. He could not die!
She glanced over at Niven, who was still sound asleep. She wanted desperately to wake him so she would not be alone with a dying man, but how cruel would it be to put her brother through what she feared to endure herself?
Finally, the man took a deep, rasping breath and sat up, startling her so much she almost tipped over in her chair.
His feverish eyes fixed on her, but without indication he really saw her. ‘Let me die,’ he begged. ‘Me, not him. My fault.’
His tone was bereft. Mournful. A wave of incredible sadness washed over her. She shook herself. She did not wish to feel sympathy for this man, this stranger. This Englishman.
But she also did not want to witness him dying. She stood and gently pushed on his bare shoulders. ‘Lie down. No talk of dying now. You must rest.’
He lay back against the pillows, breathing hard. ‘No. Better to die.’
The pain in that statement washed through her again. She remembered wishing she could die. After what had been done to her, she’d felt too ashamed to live. She’d once stood on the red sandstone cliff, determined to throw herself over the edge, but then she’d thought of Davina and Niven, and her mother and father. They needed her. No matter her unhappiness, she would not desert them. Gradually, she’d learned to live with what had happened to her.
The stranger rolled on to his side, facing away from her. She strained to see that his chest still moved. She shifted her chair to a better vantage point and tried to stay awake.
* * *
She did not succeed.
She woke to Niven shaking her. ‘Wake up, Mairi! The doctor is here.’
She straightened in the chair and her gaze shot to the stranger. Still breathing, thank God!
He lay on his back, the bedcovers flung off, revealing his undressed state.
Mr Grassie, the doctor, a stocky man who seemed perpetually in a rush, strode into the room, stopping abruptly at the sight of her dishevelled appearance and the half-naked man in the bed nearby.
‘Miss Wallace!’ He eyed her disapprovingly. ‘You are tending to this man?’
She stood and lifted her chin. ‘Niven and I watched over him during the night.’ At least the doctor would not presume she’d been alone with the man.
Mr Grassie’s gaze swept over the stranger as he approached the bed. He felt the man’s pulse, then opened his black bag and pulled out a glass tube. He pressed one end of the tube to the man’s bare chest and the other to his ear, moving it to various spots. He frowned. He put the tube away and opened the man’s eyes with his thumb and looked inside his mouth. The Englishman did not rouse.
Finally Mr Grassie stepped back. ‘His chest is not clear. He is gravely ill. How did he come to be here?’
‘Niven and Davina found him at the standing stones,’ Mairi told him. ‘He’s not been sensible enough to tell us anything more.’
Mr Grassie gestured to the scars on the man’s chest. ‘He was a soldier, I’d wager. Those are sabre cuts. I’ve seen the like before.’ Mr Grassie had once been an army surgeon.
‘A soldier!’ Niven’s eyes kindled with interest.
Mairi’s brows knitted. ‘What was an English soldier doing on our property?’
Mr Grassie looked up at her. ‘English, is he?’
‘In his ravings, he spoke with an English accent.’ He’d called for whisky and wished he would die. ‘What are we to do? Is there some medicine for him?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘I’ll have the apothecary mix up something. It might help his breathing.’
‘Might help?’ This was not very encouraging.
He gave her a direct look. ‘If the fever doesn’t break soon, well, there is no hope for him.’
‘Do you mean he could die?’ cried Niven. ‘He must not die.’
Mr