it and discovered a purse full of money, but nothing that told them anything about the owner. At least there would be money to pay Mr Grassie, which was one worry off Mairi’s shoulders.
* * *
The Englishman remained feverish for two days straight. Mairi fed him the medicine the doctor had ordered. She pushed him to drink broth and tea. She bathed his skin with cool cloths and remained by his side with only short breaks to eat and change clothes. She no longer insisted Niven stay with her. The man was no threat to anyone in his state and she was long past any limit propriety would dictate. She did ask Niven to fetch things for her and to sit with the man while she caught a little sleep, but that was all.
The doctor returned on the second day and declared it a hopeful sign that their patient was still alive, but he also cautioned that the fever needed to break soon.
The hours of care Mairi devoted to the man played havoc with her emotions. He was still a stranger, an Englishman—a whisky drinker—young and strong enough to be an object of fear, but, at the same time, he was so very ill. His life depended on her care. She swung from feeling great compassion for his suffering to wishing he had never entered their property. His ravings both disturbed her and piqued her curiosity. What had he done that tormented him so?
She discovered the Englishman’s ravings dissipated if she talked to him. So, even though he lay insensible, his breathing still laboured, she rattled on to him, about how they’d found him and brought him to the house, about how they’d found his satchel, about how they did not know who he was or where he belonged.
She also scolded him for wanting to die.
‘You must not die, you know,’ she told him. ‘Not after Niven and Davina saved you. It would hurt them greatly to think their good deed had such a terrible result. They are so very young, you see. Too young to know how difficult living can be. It would hurt them badly. So you must not die.’
He shook his head back and forth, as if he’d heard her.
‘Do not disagree with me, sir!’ she went on. ‘If they had not come upon you, you would have got your wish.’ She yawned. Talking helped her stay awake as well. ‘You owe them your life.’
To her surprise he turned towards her and opened his eyes. They still looked as feverish as ever.
‘Should have left me,’ he murmured.
‘And have your death on their consciences?’ she countered. ‘You cannot wish that on them.’
His expression turned even more bleak. ‘Should be me to die,’ he rasped. ‘Do not want to live.’
She leaned closer. ‘Listen to me! Such a feeling passes. I know. You must live for Niven’s and Davina’s sakes. Mr Grassie thinks you are some sort of soldier. If so, you should fight now to live, just as you would do in battle.’
Whether he heard her, she could not say. ‘Thought you were an angel. Thought I was already dead.’
No. She was definitely not an angel, not despoiled as she was. ‘You must fight to stay alive.’ As she had. She’d fought her attacker, but he’d overpowered her. She’d also fought her own death wish. And won.
‘Fight,’ he said so softly she was uncertain she’d heard him.
She went on, trying to push away those despairing times. ‘You are not the only one, you know, who must fight to live. Or the only one who has regrets.’
‘Regret,’ he repeated.
She went on. ‘You may not realise it, but there will be ways you are still needed. There are people who will suffer if not for your help. You must simply endure and persevere.’
She was sitting close so he could hear her. He reached over and grasped her hand. Her impulse was to pull away, but if he needed that small comfort, who was she to deny it to him?
‘Angel,’ he murmured.
His eyes closed again and soon he slept as fitfully as before.
* * *
That third night it seemed as if the Englishman’s fever worsened. Mairi despaired. She’d done all she could, but he thrashed even harder in the bed, calling always for Bradleigh. Bradleigh. She was exhausted and near tears when he finally quieted. He would die, she knew it. Now she needed to stay awake so he would not be alone when that moment came.
But in spite of her resolve, her eyelids drooped.
* * *
When she woke herself, she had no idea how long she’d slept. How could she have dozed off at such an important time? One of the lamps had burned out, and in the dim light of the one remaining lamp, the man looked very still. Was he breathing? She could not tell.
Tentatively she extended her hand, preparing herself to find him cold to the touch. She pressed her hand to his forehead.
Not cold. Not hot, either!
She touched her own forehead. Same temperature. She touched him again. The fever had broken!
‘Oh!’ she cried aloud. ‘Thank God. Thank God.’
* * *
Lucas opened his eyes at the sound of the voice that had echoed through his dreams, that entrancing voice that was the lifeline he’d grasped on to. Next to him sat a dark-haired young woman whose pale skin and blue eyes seemed ethereal in the lamplight.
She broke into a smile. ‘You are awake!’
He had just enough energy to nod.
She jumped up from her seat and came even closer. ‘You should drink something. Are you able to sit? Let me help you.’
She placed her hands, so warm and gentle, on his bare skin and helped him pull himself up. Where were his clothes? Why was he half-naked in front of this exquisite creature? He couldn’t speak.
She turned to a table and picked up a cup, bringing it to his lips. One sip convinced him he was very thirsty. He drank all of it.
And could finally speak. ‘I don’t remember—’
‘What happened to you?’ she finished for him. ‘You have been very ill with a fever, but it has broken now. You’ll soon get well.’ She sounded very relieved.
He remembered now. Remembered fevered dreams. Dreams of Bradleigh, impaled by the French cuirassier. Dreams of an angel. ‘You.’ His voice rasped. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No. You are not from here,’ she responded. ‘My brother and sister found you. We brought you here.’
‘Here?’
‘Scotland. Ayrshire.’
That was right. He’d wanted to get as far away from Foxgrove as he could and he’d not cared where. He’d headed north into Scotland and ridden from inn to inn, drinking enough whisky to keep him so constantly in his cups he didn’t have to think about...anything.
‘Village?’ Not that it mattered.
‘You
