but thanks. I’m all right. I just need some directions.”
The yard light shone down on his thick, dark hair and emphasized his high cheekbones and a strong jaw that reflected the stubbornness she could hear in his voice.
Fiona stared at him without speaking, a tingle of sensation reverberating through her body. She began to receive myriad sensations about this man—a long-harbored and deep grief…depleted energy…frustration…physical pain. Most immediate to her, though, was the instinctive knowledge that he was on the verge of pneumonia.
At least he’d come to the right place for healing. He probably didn’t know he’d found a medical person, of sorts. Well, tonight was his lucky night, she thought with wry humor.
“Please come inside and we’ll discuss your situation,” she said. “You need to get out of this weather.”
He glanced around as though only now aware of the sleet stinging his face. With a shrug of resignation, the man reached inside the car, turned off the engine and lights and slammed the door behind him.
He strode across the driveway toward the front door.
As soon as he stepped onto the porch, she opened the door and motioned for him to enter. Now that she was closer to him, Fiona knew her sensory impressions had been correct. Her unexpected visitor was far from well. She felt certain he had a fever. That, together with his croupy cough, informed her that if he didn’t already have pneumonia, he was close to succumbing.
McTavish followed her visitor into the house, staying between the stranger and Fiona, totally focused on the man who had entered their home. Fiona smiled to see how seriously McTavish took his role as her protector whenever a stranger appeared. She rarely had visitors whom she didn’t know. She found this one to be particularly intriguing, whether from a healer’s point of view or as a woman aware of a very attractive man, she wasn’t certain.
However, she intended to find out. She closed the door behind them and moved toward him with a smile.
Greg looked around the hallway, then back to her as though bewildered. She held out her hand. “I’m Fiona MacDonald…and you are…?”
He blinked. “You’re Fiona MacDonald? I don’t believe it! You’re the woman I’ve been looking for. I’m Greg Dumas,” he said, and shook her hand.
The contact shook her. Or maybe her reaction was due to his comment.
She was the woman he’d been looking for, was she? Quite a startling revelation, if he were to be believed. Had he had the same reaction to her as she had to him?
Somehow she doubted it. Her own true love arriving at midnight on a stormy night proclaiming—with an American accent!—that he had been searching for her and at last had found her was a little much, even for her romantic soul.
His stare tended to unnerve her. If he hadn’t known her before, he would certainly know her after this, she decided, slipping out of her heavy jacket.
She gestured to the living room. “You’re chilled, which is to be expected with the weather as it is. Your jacket isn’t much protection on a night such as this one. Please warm yourself by the fire. I’ll be right back with some tea to help ease your throat.”
He stared at her blankly and she wondered if he had understood her. He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them, blearily focusing on her.
After a pause, he replied, “Oh, that’s okay,” as though her words had finally registered. “I can’t stay.” He swayed where he stood. “What I really need are directions.”
Oh, my. He was going to be very stubborn about this. She’d certainly read that jawline correctly. He was operating on sheer willpower alone. He blinked his eyes again, as though trying to improve his vision. When he saw her watching him, he smiled uncomfortably. She found his lopsided smile endearing. He was exhausted and refused to admit it.
She nodded toward the front room. “I won’t be long,” she said, showing that she could be just as stubborn. “Go ahead and get warm, now.” She spoke in firm tones, much as she would to an obstinate child.
Fiona hung up her jacket and went down the hallway to the kitchen, which was located at the back of the cottage.
Greg turned to watch her as she walked past him and disappeared down the hallway. He wondered if she were a mirage, like the wings and pointing finger.
This was Fiona MacDonald? he thought, forcing himself to focus on his present situation. Nah. Couldn’t be. The woman he was looking for had to be in her late thirties or so. This woman was barely out of her teens, if that. But then, MacDonald was a fairly common name in Scotland. He rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his head from side to side.
Too bad he’d found the wrong one. It would be too much to hope for that his search would end so easily.
This Fiona MacDonald had vivid red hair that framed her face and tumbled over her shoulders in thick waves. She was no more than a couple of inches over five feet. The top of her head might reach his shoulder…if she stood on her toes.
He shook his head, needing his brain to kick in and start working again. He was exhausted and needed to find a place to sleep. All he’d asked of her were directions. Hadn’t he made himself clear?
Greg took a few steps so that he could see into the front room. The comfortably furnished place looked cozy and the warmth lured him closer to the fire. Without further thought, he headed toward the fireplace and held out his chilled hands. Another coughing spell hit him and he quickly covered his mouth.
Once he caught his breath, Greg sank into the wingback chair nearest him. The giant dog watched him from the doorway and Greg wondered if he was being sized up for the monster’s next meal.
On the other side of the fireplace a yellow-striped cat stared balefully at him from the arm of an overstuffed chair. A lap robe lay on the other arm and an open book was upside down on the small table nearby.
From the evidence, it looked as though Fiona had been reading while seated in that chair when he arrived. Great deductive reasoning for a private eye. His gaze returned to the fire and he squeezed his eyes shut. They burned from fatigue.
A sudden thought made him groan out loud. What if the directions he’d received were for the wrong Fiona MacDonald? Wouldn’t that be just the news he needed to round off his day?
He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and leaned his head against his hand. All his efforts for today had gotten him was thoroughly lost and too tired to care.
The warmth of the room contributed to his drowsiness and he fought to stay awake when all he wanted at the moment was to fall asleep. This would never do. He had to fight whatever was causing his light-headedness. If that woman didn’t return soon, he would—
“Here’s some tea,” Fiona said, interrupting his hazy thoughts. He forced his eyes open. “It should help you to feel better,” she added. She held a large ceramic mug toward him, with steam lazily rising.
“I really can’t—” he began, but she hushed him with a gesture and gently smiled at him.
Whoa, what was happening here? The way she was standing with the light from the fireplace behind her, she looked as if she glowed. There was no other word to explain it.
