patted his shoulder. “You mustn’t blame yourself! If the shot that wounded him was a ricochet, it might just as well have been his own bullet that struck him as yours.”
Shaking his head against her reassurance, Tom took the chestnut’s reins and led both animals toward the barn. For a moment Laura just stood there before the entry.
Should she go in and offer what help she could? But the earl’s physician was there, and much more knowledgeable than she. If the boy were truly dying, his family and friends would not want an outsider hanging about. Perhaps she should just quietly return to her cottage.
She considered the tempting notion for a moment before rejecting it. As long as the boy lived, she must at least offer her help. Only if the earl refused that offer might she in good conscience return home.
When she entered the sickroom a few moments later she found Lord Beaulieu bending over the boy, lips moving as if in conversation with his brother, hands clasping Kit’s limp arm. Though the earl seemed oblivious to her arrival, the doctor spied her immediately and walked over.
“There’s an infection beginning in his lungs, just as we feared. I’ve given him syrup of poppy, but weak as he is, I daren’t bleed him. If you’ve aught of remedies to try, I should be grateful of them.”
Laura scanned her memory for the treatments Aunt Mary had used when one of the squire’s tenants had contracted an inflammation of the lungs the winter previous. “We might set a pot of mint steeped in boiling water by his bedside,” she whispered. “The vapor seems to make breathing easier. And wrap his neck with flannel soaked in camphor.”
The doctor considered a moment. “It canna hurt. An herbalist had the teaching of you, the squire said? There’s much they use that works, though we’re not knowing the whys and wherefores. Let’s try it, for God’s truth, I’ve done all I can for the laddie.”
After that she lost track of time. When she finally slipped from the room to find the necessary, night had fallen. On her way back the squire intercepted her, begging her to let him send Maggie to the cottage for her things so that she might remain at the hall to tend the patient. Taken aback, she fumbled for an answer.
“Both Lord Beaulieu and Dr. MacDonovan asked that I add their requests to my own,” he said. “The doctor admires your skill, and his lordship wishes every experienced hand available be put to his brother’s care.”
Though logically she knew if she were to be of continuing assistance it made much more sense for her to stay at the hall, still she resisted the notion of quitting even briefly the cottage that meant safety and comfort. A stirring at the depths of her being still whispered danger.
Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself crossly. The earl was fully occupied with his brother, whose survival remained in grave doubt. He had neither time nor interest to waste on his brother’s nurse.
“You will stay, won’t you, Mrs. Martin?”
Since refusing so sensible a request would appear both uncharitable and extremely odd, despite her forebodings Laura had little choice. “Of course, it would be much more convenient for me to remain. If my being here will not be an imposition on you or Lady Winters?”
“It will be a blessing,” the squire returned with a sigh. “My sister is in a state, what with sickness and more noble visitors about, and I’ve all I can do to keep the house running. ‘Twould be a great comfort to me to know you were watching over the boy.”
“I must stay, then.” She made herself smile. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
He nodded and pressed her hand before releasing it. And so she returned to the sickroom, her concern over her patient’s condition underlined by the disquieting knowledge that for the indefinite future she would be residing under the same roof as the unsettling Earl of Beaulieu.
Just after dawn a week later Laura roused herself from a light doze. She glanced up quickly and was reassured to find her patient still sleeping deeply, brow free of perspiration and color pale but natural.
Another quick glance confirmed that the earl also slept, his tall form curled on a pallet beside his brother’s bed where he’d had a cot installed at the start of the crisis.
Though Lord Beaulieu had helped as much as possible, the responsibility for Kit’s care had still fallen primarily on Dr. MacDonovan and herself. She’d endured an exhausting and anxiety-ridden blur of time while Kit Bradsleigh teetered on the edge between living and dying, too preoccupied with nursing him to worry about the elder brother who seldom stirred from the boy’s side.
Last evening, the lad’s temperature had spiked and then, for the first time since the inflammation began, dropped to normal. After having hovered for days in a restless, semiconscious haze of pain and fever, Kit woke up clear-eyed, keen-witted—and ravenous.
Laura sent for as much chicken broth as she gauged her patient could tolerate, and Dr. MacDonovan. The physician, who’d been eating a late dinner with the earl, came at once, Kit’s brother on his heels. After a swift examination, to everyone’s great relief the doctor declared that, though Kit was still very weak and would need a long period of rest to fully recover, his lungs were clearing and he was probably out of danger.
The squire went off immediately to fetch a bottle of his best claret while Dr. MacDonovan laughingly admonished Kit, who demanded a glass of his own. As thrilled and relieved as the others, Laura uttered a quick prayer of thanks. And then shooed the men out, telling them that since her patient needed rest and their well-deserved celebration would likely be lengthy, they should take their bottle in the salon and she would keep watch alone. Abjuring her as a downy, kindhearted lass, Dr. MacDonovan shook her hand heartily and ushered the earl out.
She heard Lord Beaulieu come back in after midnight and gave him a nod of reassurance as he silently approached his brother’s bed. He took Kit’s fingers and held them a moment, as if to verify that the fever had really left, then looked back at her with a tired smile. “Thank you,” he whispered, and took up his post on the cot.
The earl’s valet would see to Kit’s needs when he woke, and both the doctor and Lord Beaulieu would keep the boy occupied during the day. Her work here would soon be done—perhaps for good, as Lady Elspeth, sister to Kit and his lordship, was expected soon.
She could return to the safety of her cottage before the household reverted to a normal routine—and the earl had leisure to become curious about his brother’s nurse.
She paused a moment by the doorway. In the hazy pastel light of dawn, the earl’s stern features were relaxed, his handsome face more approachable. She felt again that inexplicable pull, as if his commanding personality called out to her even in sleep. A tiny sigh escaped her.
If events had not transpired as they had, she might risk lingering here, responding to the wordless, urgent imperative that somehow drew her to this man. And then shook her head at her own foolishness.
If events had not transpired as they had, she would never have landed in this remote rural corner of England.
Fatigue must be making her whimsical. Straightening her weary shoulders, Laura slipped from the room.
Two paces down the hallway, a touch to her back made her jump.
“Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Martin!”
She turned to see the earl behind her. “My lord?”
