do I have to go?’ Niven protested.
‘Because I said so!’ He would be her safeguard.
She led him to the servants’ stairs. They climbed down to the ground floor, where both the butler and Mrs Cross had their rooms.
They entered the butler’s room.
Davina rose from a chair by the man’s bedside. ‘I tried to spoon him some broth, but it was no use.’
Mairi gasped. ‘Davina! What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.’
Davina tossed her a defiant look. ‘We told Mrs Cross that we would care for the man.’
‘I said not you.’ Davina should be nowhere near this man. ‘You go to bed. Niven and I will remain with him.’
She’d meant only to check on the man, not stay, but now she feared if she did not, Davina would sneak back down.
Besides, he looked deathly ill.
‘I don’t want to stay the whole night,’ grumbled Niven.
Mairi whirled on him. ‘Well, you must.’
Davina tossed her head haughtily as she walked to the door. ‘Try to get him to take some broth.’
Niven settled in the upholstered chair that had once sat in their library before their mother had decided on a whim to redecorate. Niven promptly closed his eyes. Mairi moved the wooden chair away from the bed. She stared at the stranger and felt her cheeks grow hot.
He’d thrown off the covers and was naked above his waist. The nightshirt Mairi had sneaked from their father’s room lay folded on a nearby chest.
‘Niven! Why did you not dress him?’
‘He started fighting us,’ her brother replied without opening his eyes. ‘Do not fret. He’s wearing drawers.’
The man looked even more formidable bare-chested with every muscle in stark relief. Even more disturbing were the scars criss-crossing his chest, a dozen random cuts. Mairi made herself approach the bed and pull the blankets over him. He stirred and flung the covers off again.
‘Niven!’ she whispered.
But her brother had fallen asleep and she did not have the heart to wake him.
Her gaze returned to the stranger and she saw that his breathing was ragged. She reached over and felt his forehead. It was still hot with fever.
She must do something for him. She rose to the chest of drawers and poured water from the pitcher into the basin. She grabbed a towel and brought the basin to the bed. Dipping the towel in the water, she bathed his head. When she touched the scrape on his forehead, he groaned. His eyes opened and fixed on her.
She gasped.
He stared at her. ‘Are you an angel?’ His speech was slurred.
She recoiled. ‘An angel? No.’
His brow furrowed. ‘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
