you’re British, right?”
He slowly opened his eyes. “We’ve established that, yes.”
“Know anyone in the royal family? I think I’d make a fabulous princess. Harry’s still single, isn’t he?”
“Prince Harry? Yes, I believe so.”
“Do you know him?”
“I’ve met him a few times, of course.”
Paige stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve met him. At my father’s house.”
“What was Harry doing there?”
“Playing polo.”
“You play polo?”
“Not well.”
“I’ve been meaning to take my game to a higher level, so I know what you mean.”
He looked at her then. “You play?”
“Of course. Weekly. Just me and the ponies. Come on, lean forward.”
He did as she asked. She grabbed his hands and pulled him forward. His feet dropped to the driveway and gravity did its thing. The forward momentum propelled him to his feet.
“I think you’re joking,” he said as he staggered a couple of steps.
“I am. Put your arm around me. We’re going into the house and then upstairs.”
“As you wish.”
“You keep saying that. If only that were true. Take a step. Then another one. Walking is good.”
She maneuvered him into her house and then paused at the bottom of the staircase.
“We’re going up,” she told him.
He barely nodded.
She put his hand on the railing, then stepped behind him and pushed. “Let’s get this over with.”
He started to move up the stairs.
“That’s it. Tell me about your father. How does he know Harry?”
“He knows the whole royal family.”
“Because?”
“He’s an earl.”
Paige nearly stopped pushing. Alistair started to lean back. They were already halfway up—there was no retreating now.
“Seriously?” she asked, shoving as hard as she could. “A real earl?”
“Are there unreal earls?”
“I don’t know. So that makes you what?”
“A viscount.”
“Should I call you something? Mr. Viscount?”
“My Lord is traditional, but unnecessary.”
“Good because I’m not the type to curtsey.”
They’d reached the top of the stairs. Alistair turned to her. “One only curtseys to the queen.”
“Does one?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know.” She guided him into Sophia’s old room and pointed to the bed. “How does that look?”
Alistair sighed. “Heavenly.” He reached for the buttons on his shirt. “You’ll want me to take my clothes off.”
“If I had a nickel,” she started, then stopped when he didn’t. In a matter of seconds, the shirt was floating to the ground and he was reaching for his belt.
“Yikes,” she said, backing out of the room. “Leave on your underwear, or we’ll both be embarrassed. Let me know when you’re done.”
“It’s all right,” he told her. “I’m a doctor.”
She shut the door and stood in the hall. “Maybe, but I’m not.” She waited a couple of seconds. “Alistair?”
There was silence, then a thunk. She flung open the door and found Alistair Woodbury, the viscount of something, lying in briefs and nothing else on her Aunt Sophia’s bed.
And to think she’d assumed that today was going to be a very ordinary day.
Alistair didn’t believe in angels, yet every time the fever threatened to suck him down into a place he shouldn’t go, the angel was there. Blond, with large hazel eyes and a soothing voice. She talked softly, even laughed, and her hands were cool. Sometimes she insisted he eat, but mostly she was simply a presence.
Time passed, but he couldn’t say how long it had been since he’d shown up at his friend Simon’s house. He was content to simply sleep and awaken briefly to be with the angel. Until something sat on him and tried to kill him.
He opened his eyes to find himself staring at a very large cat perched on his chest. The black-and-white feline glared at him, as if annoyed to find a stranger where none should be. Sharp claws dug not so gently into his chest.
“You’re up,” the angel said, walking into the bedroom. “And being attacked by Daytona. Sorry. He strolled in this morning and I didn’t think he would come find you.”
She scooped up the cat and held him in her arms. “How are you feeling?”
She was both familiar and not. Slowly, his memory filled in the pieces. His trip to visit Simon and his friend’s wife, Montana. The onset of the fever. The cough.
“Measles,” he muttered. “I have the measles.”
“You do, and a very impressive rash, too.” The blonde smiled. “Do you remember me at all?”
“You’re the angel.”
She laughed. “Not exactly, although my Aunt Sophia would be so proud to hear that.”
He frowned. “She’s a nun.”
“Was, but yes. I’m Paige McLean.” She kissed the top of the cat’s head. “Let me get Daytona here back to my neighbor and I’ll bring you something to eat. You must be starving.”
His stomach rumbled. “I am.” He looked at the open window and the blue sky beyond. “Was I out long?”
“Three days.”
“That’s not possible.”
“And
