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The Lord’s Highland Temptation
Diane Gaston


A soldier burdened by guilt… …to the future Earl of Foxgrove? Captain Lucas Johns-Ives is injured in the same battle that killed his brother. Haunted by loss, Lucas’s life is saved by Mairi Wallace. In this Highland idyll, masquerading as her family’s butler, Lucas can avoid the responsibilities of becoming the new Earl. He’s tempted by Mairi’s sweetness – but to win her hand, he must face his demons and claim his noble birth right…







A soldier burdened by guilt...

...to the future Earl of Foxgrove?

Captain Lucas Johns-Ives is injured in the same battle that killed his brother. Haunted by loss, Lucas is saved by Mairi Wallace. In this Highland idyll, masquerading as her family’s butler, Lucas can avoid the responsibilities of becoming the new earl. He’s tempted by Mairi’s sweetness—but to win her hand, he must face his demons and claim his noble birthright...


DIANE GASTON’s dream job was always to write romance novels. One day she dared to pursue that dream, and has never looked back. Her books have won romance’s highest honours: the RITA® Award, the National Readers’ Choice Award, the Holt Medallion, Golden Quill and Golden Heart®. She lives in Virginia, USA, with her husband and three very ordinary house cats. Diane loves to hear from readers and friends. Visit her website at: dianegaston.com (http://www.dianegaston.com).


Also by Diane Gaston (#u47110185-aebc-5340-86ee-3415564e0218)

A Pregnant Courtesan for the Rake

The Scandalous Summerfields miniseries

Bound by Duty

Bound by One Scandalous Night

Bound by a Scandalous Secret

Bound by Their Secret Passion

The Governess Swap miniseries

A Lady Becomes a Governess

Shipwrecked with the Captain

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


The Lord’s Highland Temptation

Diane Gaston






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08931-9

THE LORD’S HIGHLAND TEMPTATION

© 2019 Diane Perkins

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




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To Henriette and Liz,

my wonderful friends and former coworkers.


Contents

Cover (#uec8d1190-cf69-5431-abd3-47d5fe379e87)

Back Cover Text (#ue803b89a-67ed-5dfa-a4a7-6b254ad9aa5a)

About the Author (#u7841e4e4-6f96-5eb6-894b-896c0b9eea65)

Booklist (#u65e704ce-78c1-5b85-9ad4-e1ceccc1b8fe)

Title Page (#uf87b39ff-2a2d-5f27-90f5-c15f4b3ac759)

Copyright (#u3529efa7-750c-50c6-8e8b-2329d207e187)

Note to Readers

Dedication (#u10d1ef3d-0714-57b3-9aa4-83b9a36830a4)

Chapter One (#u3398a4e1-55f7-525c-890a-e28af6f89055)

Chapter Two (#uf2fffdce-f74a-579e-afc0-f2a3beaa29f2)

Chapter Three (#u100f8326-e205-527c-a5dd-c89733f2fcb1)

Chapter Four (#u4ce999e2-f8eb-5410-8445-91fc99885e3b)

Chapter Five (#u1f1f870e-4305-57e5-85f3-e427df29906e)

Chapter Six (#u67be36b5-332f-516e-b1d7-e0701b74b1d1)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One (#u47110185-aebc-5340-86ee-3415564e0218)

Scotland—September 1816


The thundering of a thousand horses’ hooves, the roar of the charge, the screams of the injured pounded across Lucas Johns-Ives’s brain. He slashed at the French soldiers, so many caught off guard by the British cavalry, easy prey for their sabres. The charge had begun in glory, but now it was slaughter—blood everywhere, men crying out in agony, horses falling.

Dimly, the sound of a bugle reached Lucas’s ears. Ta-ta-ta. Ta-ta-ta. Over and over. The signal to retreat. They’d ridden far enough. Done enough. Killed enough. Time to retreat.

Where was Bradleigh?

Lucas searched for his brother and spied him still waving his sword, his eyes bulging, a maniacal grimace on his face. He’d been so angry at Bradleigh, angry enough to refuse to ride next to him. Let his brother fight on his own for once.

But now Lucas shouted in a voice thick with panic, ‘Bradleigh! Bradleigh! Retreat! We’ve ridden too far. Bradleigh!’

From the corner of his eye, Lucas saw a thousand French cavalry on fresh horses galloping closer, swords drawn.

His brother took no heed.

‘Bradleigh! Bradleigh!’

Bradleigh impaled a blue-coated French soldier through the neck, pulled back his sword, dripping with the man’s blood. He laughed like a madman.

Lucas spurred his horse to catch up to him. He’d pull his brother out of danger, just as he’d promised their father. Drag him back to the Allied lines. He’d save Bradleigh from himself.

He was almost there, almost at his brother’s side, but then suddenly a French cuirassier on a huge black horse roared between them. Lucas pulled on his horse’s reins to avoid crashing into the man and beast. The cuirassier charged to his brother, raised his sword and ran it through his brother’s chest.

‘No!’ Lucas cried as his brother’s blood spurted and his body fell from his horse. ‘No!’

* * *

‘I love the stone circle.’ The melodic voice of a young girl broke into Lucas’s reverie, melting away the sounds and sights of the battle.

The girlish voice laughed. ‘Remember how we played here?’

Lucas shook his head. It could not be. This was Belgium, was it not? Where was the battle? Where was his brother?

Suddenly the air smelled of wet grass and a breeze cooled his burning skin. He’d been walking, he remembered. He’d felt light-headed and queasy—nothing another bottle of fine Scottish whisky couldn’t cure. Had the drink caused the dream? Was this a dream? If so, which was the dream: the battle or the melodic voice?

‘That was when we were mere children,’ another voice answered. A boy’s voice this time. ‘Or at least when I was a child. You still are one.’

‘I am not,’ the girl protested. ‘Fourteen is not a child.’

‘Ha!’ the boy responded. ‘Wait until you are sixteen. Then you will know fourteen is a child.’

The girl harrumphed. ‘Oh, yes. You are so grown up.’ Her voice changed. ‘Niven, look! There is a man in the circle.’

‘Where?’ he answered.

‘There. On the ground beneath one of the larger stones.’

Lucas heard them move closer.

‘Who is it?’ the boy asked.

‘I do not know,’ the girl replied. ‘He’s a stranger.’

‘Stuff!’ the boy said. ‘There are no strangers hereabouts. Not on our land, anyway. We know everybody.’

Their land? Where was he, if not Belgium? Where had the stench of blood and gunpowder gone?

Lucas struggled to open his eyes, but the light stung them. He braced himself against the stone at his back and tried to rise. ‘Bradleigh.’

His legs wouldn’t hold him. He collapsed, scraping his head as he fell.

Their footsteps scrambled towards him and he forced his eyes open a slit. Two young people, a girl and a boy, floated into view, like apparitions.

‘Sir! Sir! Are you hurt?’ The girl leaned down to him, but she was just a blur.

Lucas tried to speak, but the darkness overtook him.

* * *

Mairi Wallace shook the dirt from her apron and lifted the basket of beets, carrots and radishes that she’d gathered from the kitchen garden. What a scolding she’d receive if her mother knew she’d been digging in the dirt.

‘Now, Mairi,’ her mother would say in her most patient but disapproving voice. ‘It is not fitting for a baron’s daughter to gather vegetables. If you must put yourself out in the sun, cut flowers. You are not a kitchen maid, after all.’

Except that all the kitchen maids except Evie had left. So many of their servants had bolted for positions that actually paid their wages that the household was woefully understaffed. Only two housemaids remained and two footmen. Mairi did not mind taking on some of their work. She rather liked the sun and fresh air on such a fine Scottish day.

She turned and gazed over the wall and caught sight of her younger brother, Niven, running down the hill as if the devil himself was after him.

Mairi frowned. Had he not gone for a walk with Davina? Mairi’s heart beat faster. Where was Davina?

She dropped the basket and ran through the gate.

‘Mairi! Mairi!’ Niven called. ‘Come quick! I need you!’

Mairi rushed to his side. ‘What is it? Is it Davina?’

‘No. Well, a little.’ He fought to catch his breath. ‘Oh, just come with me. Now.’

Niven, at sixteen, was old enough to have some sense, but he was as impulsive and impractical as their father. This would not be the first time Mairi had had to pull him out of a scrape. But Davina, their younger sister, was typically more prudent. Slightly.

What did he mean, a little? Was she hurt? If something had happened to Davina, she could not bear it!

Mairi followed Niven over the hill and to a part of their land that remained rustic and wild. They rushed too fast for talking. Niven led her to the stone circle, a place of danger, magic and mystery, according to family lore. She saw Davina silhouetted against the sky, the stones framing her. The ache in Mairi’s throat eased a little.

Davina ran to meet them. ‘Mairi! I am so glad you are here. We did not know what to do.’

Mairi wanted to embrace her in relief, but held back. ‘Do? About what?’

Davina gestured for her to follow, leading her into the circle where a man—a stranger—was slumped against one of the stones, no hat on his head, his grey topcoat open and his clothing underneath rumpled and stained.

Two empty whisky bottles lay at his side.

Mairi’s skin grew cold.

‘He’s passed out,’ Davina said. ‘I believe he is sick.’

Drunk, more like.

Mairi seized her by the shoulder. ‘Did he hurt you?’

‘Hurt me?’ Davina pulled away. ‘What a silly question. We found him leaning against the stone. When we called out, he tried to rise, but he collapsed again. I sent Niven for help.’ She knelt at the man’s side. ‘I think he is feverish.’

Mairi wanted to drag Davina away from him. Her sister had no idea how dangerous a man—a drunkard—could be.

But the stranger was senseless at the moment, so there was no immediate threat. Mairi leaned down close.

Davina touched the stranger’s forehead. ‘He feels hot to me.’

The man was pale, but fine-looking. Fair-haired. A chiselled chin, strong nose, and lips befitting a Greek statue.

‘Is he dead?’ Niven asked.

Mairi forced herself to press her fingers against the side of his neck. She felt a pulse. ‘He is alive.’ She placed her palm against his brow. ‘He is feverish, though.’

‘Do you suppose the Druids got him? Mayhap he came here at midnight.’ Niven spoke in all seriousness.

Tales of the Druids had abounded for generations. It was said their spirits would rise to attack anyone disturbing their midnight frolic amid the stones.

His clothes were damp.

‘More likely he was caught in last night’s rain,’ Mairi said. What had he been doing on these hills in the middle of their land? The dampness of his clothing indicated he might have been there all night.

Davina’s voice rose. ‘We must be like the Good Samaritan.’

Davina had heard the sermon on Sunday? Mairi had thought she’d been too besotted with Laird Buchan’s youngest son to heed Vicar Hill.

‘We cannot leave him here,’ Davina went on.

Leave him was precisely what Mairi wished to do. She wanted to run from him and take her brother and sister with her.

‘No, we cannot leave him,’ she said instead. He was ill, even if he was also drunk. He was in need.

And he could pose no danger in the state he was in. Could he?

She reached out her hand, but almost took it back again. She made herself shake the man’s shoulder. ‘Sir! Sir! Wake up.’

His eyes opened—blue eyes, vivid blue eyes—but they immediately rolled back in his head. They would never get him on his feet. And he was too big for them to carry.

Mairi turned to her sister. ‘Davina, run back to the stables. Tell MacKay or John to come and bring a wagon.’

MacKay, older than their father, had stayed on as their stableman, and John was his only stable worker. In better times they’d had five or six men keeping the horses and carriages in fine order.

‘Me?’ Davina protested. ‘I want to stay. Have Niven go.’

‘I’ll go,’ Niven said.

Mairi didn’t want Davina anywhere near this stranger, but nor did she wish to explain why.

‘Very well,’ she conceded. ‘Niven, you go get the wagon.’

He dashed off.

It would take a long time for a wagon to wind its way around the hills to the stone circle. They would have to wait with him all that time.

‘We will take him to our house, won’t we, Mairi?’ Davina asked. ‘Not to the village, surely.’

Why not the village? Mairi thought.

‘Who would care for him in the village?’ Davina went on. ‘We can nurse him until he gets better.’

Mairi did not want this man under their roof, but it made better sense to take him to their house. The village was further away and there was no guarantee someone would agree to care for him.

‘We should summon the doctor, too,’ Davina said.

How would they pay the doctor, then? This man would have to pay. If he had money. And if he had money, why had he been caught out wandering in the hills and not in some snug and dry inn?

‘Should I run to the village for the doctor?’ Davina asked.

Davina go alone to the village? Mairi hated it when Davina walked alone to the village, although no one but she knew to worry about it. On the other hand, she certainly did not wish to leave Davina alone with this strange man. Mairi trembled at the thought.

And at the memory of when she’d encountered a stranger while alone, a man who’d also been full of drink. Mairi did not want to be alone with another stranger.

But this man was obviously very sick. How would she feel if he died for lack of a doctor’s care? Her heart pounded.

What if the man died before help arrived? And what if Mairi left Davina alone to care for him? Davina was too young for such a burden.

‘Yes.’ Mairi nodded. ‘Excellent idea. I will stay here and wait for Niven to come with the wagon. We will meet you back at the house.’

‘I will run like the wind,’ Davina said dramatically.

Mairi watched her run down the hill where she’d meet the road and still have another three miles to go until she reached the village.

Mairi sat on the still-damp grass next to the man. ‘At least you are no threat to me,’ she murmured.

His eyes opened again and he suddenly lurched forward, seizing her by the shoulders.

She shrieked.

‘My brother,’ he rasped, his eyes wild. ‘Bradleigh.’

He tried to stand and she scrambled away from his grasp.

He staggered, touching the stone to steady himself. He looked around, staring in her direction, but she had the notion he did not see her. He was somewhere else in his delirium.

‘Must find Bradleigh,’ he said again.

Mairi could not breathe.

He took a step towards her, but swayed and reached for the stone again. ‘Must... Bradleigh...’ He slid down the stone, insensible once more.

Mairi sat with her hands pressed against her face. He didn’t move.

Was he dead? She was not so heartless that she wanted him dead. But she was still afraid of him. She remembered a man’s fingers around her neck, forcing her to the ground...

She made herself stare at the stranger until she could see his chest rise and fall. He was still alive. She approached him once more and manoeuvred him so that the stone shaded him from the sun. Then she sat on the ground again.

At a safe distance.

* * *

The shade of the stone lengthened as Mairi waited for Niven to return with the wagon. After what must have been more than two hours, she finally heard the horse’s hooves and the creak of the wagon wheels. There was only MacKay, the elderly stableman, to help, and the three of them had a struggle to get the man in the wagon.

* * *

By the time they reached the house, Davina was already there. ‘I left word for the doctor. He was out.’

He was the only doctor for three villages. It could be hours or days before he’d come.

‘Did you tell Mama and Papa about the man?’ Mairi asked.

‘No,’ Davina answered. ‘They have not returned from calling on Laird and Lady Buchan, Mrs Cross said.’

It was a wonder Mrs Cross, the housekeeper, knew the whereabouts of their parents. With only maids Betsy and Agnes to tend to the whole house, she spent a great deal of her time working along with them, cleaning and polishing and cleaning some more.

‘We can tell Mama and Papa later,’ Mairi told them.

Niven jumped down from the wagon box. ‘What now? Where do we put him?’

Mairi climbed out more carefully. She certainly was not going to place him in a guest room. ‘In the butler’s room.’ Their butler had left the family’s employ over a month ago.

One of their two remaining footmen helped carry the man into the house and into the butler’s room, far enough from the rest of the house not to give their parents any bother. Mairi would wait until dinner to tell them of the stranger.

‘We must get him out of his wet clothes.’ Mairi looked from Niven to the footman. Both avoided her gaze. She put her hands on her hips. ‘You two must do it. You cannot expect me to. Or Davina. We will find some dry clothes for him.’

‘Oh, very well,’ Niven grumbled.

Mairi left the room and closed the door behind her.

Mrs Cross charged down the hallway. ‘What is this, Miss Mairi?’

‘Davina and Niven found a stranger at the standing stones. He is feverish. We could not leave him.’ Though she dearly wished they could have.

‘We cannot care for a sick man,’ Mrs Cross protested. ‘We are barely able to do the work that needs to be done as it is. What if he makes us all sick?’ She sounded at the end of her tether.

‘You and the maids will not have to go near him,’ Davina piped up. ‘We will take care of him.’

Mairi swung to her. ‘Not you, Davina. You must not.’

‘Why not?’ her sister huffed.

Because he could be dangerous, she wanted to say.

‘Because you are too young,’ she said instead. ‘And it isn’t proper.’

Mairi would have to take charge of him. Her insides turned to stone at the thought.

* * *

That night at dinner, Mairi told her parents about the sick man in their butler’s room.

Davina piped up, ‘We were being Good Samaritans, were we not, Mama?’

Their mother smiled indulgently. ‘Very Good Samaritans, Davina. Of course we must care for the poor man. I hope you told Mrs Cross to care for him as if he were a member of the family,’ her mother added.

‘I spoke to Mrs Cross about the man’s care, yes,’ Mairi responded.

She shot warning glances to Davina and Niven to say no more about it. Her mother and father would be thrown into a tizzy if they knew Mrs Cross could not handle one additional task. And her parents could so easily be thrown into a tizzy, like when Mairi tried to talk to them about economising, or suggest they sell something to at least pay the servants. Surely selling just one of her mother’s necklaces could pay the servants and perhaps hire new ones.

* * *

Later that night, when she was certain that her mother and father had retired, Mairi crossed the hall to Niven’s room.

‘Come with me, Niven,’ she insisted. ‘We must check on the man.’

‘Why 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.




Chapter Two (#u47110185-aebc-5340-86ee-3415564e0218)


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 dying man, but how cruel would it be to put her brother through what she feared to endure herself?

Finally, the man took a deep, rasping breath and sat up, startling her so much she almost tipped over in her chair.

His feverish eyes fixed on her, but without indication he really saw her. ‘Let me die,’ he begged. ‘Me, not him. My fault.’

His tone was bereft. Mournful. A wave of incredible sadness washed over her. She shook herself. She did not wish to feel sympathy for this man, this stranger. This Englishman.

But she also did not want to witness him dying. She stood and gently pushed on his bare shoulders. ‘Lie down. No talk of dying now. You must rest.’

He lay back against the pillows, breathing hard. ‘No. Better to die.’

The pain in that statement washed through her again. She remembered wishing she could die. After what had been done to her, she’d felt too ashamed to live. She’d once stood on the red sandstone cliff, determined to throw herself over the edge, but then she’d thought of Davina and Niven, and her mother and father. They needed her. No matter her unhappiness, she would not desert them. Gradually, she’d learned to live with what had happened to her.

The stranger rolled on to his side, facing away from her. She strained to see that his chest still moved. She shifted her chair to a better vantage point and tried to stay awake.

* * *

She did not succeed.

She woke to Niven shaking her. ‘Wake up, Mairi! The doctor is here.’

She straightened in the chair and her gaze shot to the stranger. Still breathing, thank God!

He lay on his back, the bedcovers flung off, revealing his undressed state.

Mr Grassie, the doctor, a stocky man who seemed perpetually in a rush, strode into the room, stopping abruptly at the sight of her dishevelled appearance and the half-naked man in the bed nearby.

‘Miss Wallace!’ He eyed her disapprovingly. ‘You are tending to this man?’

She stood and lifted her chin. ‘Niven and I watched over him during the night.’ At least the doctor would not presume she’d been alone with the man.

Mr Grassie’s gaze swept over the stranger as he approached the bed. He felt the man’s pulse, then opened his black bag and pulled out a glass tube. He pressed one end of the tube to the man’s bare chest and the other to his ear, moving it to various spots. He frowned. He put the tube away and opened the man’s eyes with his thumb and looked inside his mouth. The Englishman did not rouse.

Finally Mr Grassie stepped back. ‘His chest is not clear. He is gravely ill. How did he come to be here?’

‘Niven and Davina found him at the standing stones,’ Mairi told him. ‘He’s not been sensible enough to tell us anything more.’

Mr Grassie gestured to the scars on the man’s chest. ‘He was a soldier, I’d wager. Those are sabre cuts. I’ve seen the like before.’ Mr Grassie had once been an army surgeon.

‘A soldier!’ Niven’s eyes kindled with interest.

Mairi’s brows knitted. ‘What was an English soldier doing on our property?’

Mr Grassie looked up at her. ‘English, is he?’

‘In his ravings, he spoke with an English accent.’ He’d called for whisky and wished he would die. ‘What are we to do? Is there some medicine for him?’

The doctor shrugged. ‘I’ll have the apothecary mix up something. It might help his breathing.’

‘Might help?’ This was not very encouraging.

He gave her a direct look. ‘If the fever doesn’t break soon, well, there is no hope for him.’

‘Do you mean he could die?’ cried Niven. ‘He must not die.’

Mr Grassie patted Niven’s shoulder. ‘Only time will tell, son.’ He picked up his bag. ‘Give him broth or tea. He’ll need the fluids to flush out the fever. And limit who tends to him. I’ve seen this grippe in the village. It is highly contagious.’

That did it. Mairi would tend to him alone and no one besides Niven would enter the room.

‘Shall I stop above stairs and report this to your father or mother?’ the doctor asked.

She knew he was in a hurry. ‘I will tell them.’ Or some version of the doctor’s report. She did not wish her parents to fret. In any event, they were likely still abed. The morning was not yet very advanced.

‘I will come tomorrow if I can.’ Mr Grassie shook his head. ‘But there is a lot of this sickness about.’

‘Come when you can, sir.’ She walked him to the door. ‘I’ll have Niven or one of the footmen collect the medicine from the apothecary this afternoon.’

The doctor nodded and took one more glance at the patient. ‘I wish I had more to offer.’

So did Mairi.

As he was crossing the threshold, Davina appeared in the hallway. ‘Good morning, Mr Grassie,’ she said brightly. ‘How is he?’

Mr Grassie hesitated to answer her.

Mairi broke in. ‘Let Mr Grassie be on his way, Davina. I’ll fill you in.’

The doctor nodded gratefully and hurried away.

Niven came up behind Mairi. ‘He said the man could die, Davina!’

‘Oh, no!’ Davina cried.

Niven couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Why alarm Davina that way?

‘We will not let him die,’ Mairi assured her, although the truth was more uncertain. ‘We will take care of him.’

Davina gave her an earnest look. ‘I will help. What can I do?’

Mairi certainly would not risk Davina becoming ill. ‘The doctor said he is very contagious and that we must limit who is in contact with him, so I do not want you in his room.’ Even if there was no chance of contagion, she did not want Davina in the presence of a half-naked Englishman. ‘I’ve already been exposed, so I will continue to care for him.’

‘I can help, too,’ Niven said. ‘I’ve also been exposed.’

‘Yes, you can help,’ she agreed. ‘But I must be the only one who touches him. No sense you getting sick.’

‘I must do something, too!’ Davina insisted.

‘Help Mrs Cross. She really needs help and I won’t be able to assist her,’ Mairi said. ‘Or go with Niven to pick up the medicine.’

Davina pursed her lips. ‘Oh, very well.’

She stormed off, and Mairi, still very weary, returned to the bedside of their patient.

* * *

After the doctor left, Mairi sent MacKay and John out to look for this other man the Englishman kept raving about. Had he called him his brother? No one was found, but they did retrieve a satchel she presumed belonged to the Englishman. She and Niven searched through 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 are not in a village,’ she explained. ‘You are in the home of my father, the Baron of Dunburn.’

She was a baron’s daughter? Not a tavern maid? He’d assumed this was an inn. ‘How did I get here?’

She sat again. ‘My brother and sister found you on our land, insensible from fever. We have taken care of you.’

He had a glimmer of a memory. Of leaving an inn where the stranger with whom he’d shared a room had coughed and hacked the night through. Of somewhere losing his horse and climbing hill after hill in the rain.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his words caught. ‘More. Drink,’ he finally managed to gasp.

She rose and poured more tea into the cup and brought it to his lips again. This time he wrapped his hands around hers and held on while he drank.

‘How long have I been here?’ he asked.

‘Three days,’ she said.

Three days?

He stared at her, the angel whose voice had called him back. She’d stayed by his side for three days? A baron’s daughter?

She poured him another cup of tea. ‘You were very feverish.’ She handed him the cup this time.

He drank gratefully.

‘You kept calling out for Bradleigh.’ Her lovely brow knitted. ‘Was he with you? We searched, but could not find him.’

He glanced away from her. ‘My brother. He was not with me.’

‘Thank goodness.’ She sighed. ‘I was quite worried.’

No need. Bradleigh was beyond worry.

Lucas wished there was whisky in that cup. He slid back down in the bed.

‘Sleep now,’ she said and lifted his blankets to cover him up like his mother used to do when he was in leading strings. ‘Now that your fever is gone, I’ll leave you to sleep. But I’ll be back in the morning.’

She extinguished the lamp and the only light in the room came from the glowing coals in the fireplace.

When she reached the door she turned back to him. ‘Goodnight. Sleep well.’




Chapter Three (#u47110185-aebc-5340-86ee-3415564e0218)


Lucas woke to daylight and a strange room. It took a moment to remember. He was in the house of a Scottish baron and had been cared for by his angel of a daughter—or had that merely been another fevered dream? His head pounded, his mouth tasted foul and his throat felt parched.

He sat up in bed, waiting for a moment until his head stopped spinning, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. When his bare feet touched the cool slate tiles of the floor, he looked down at himself. He wore only his drawers. Where were his clothes? Where was his satchel? His money?

Folded on a nearby chest was a nightshirt. Lucas tossed it aside and opened the chest. There were some clothes in there, but not his own. He rummaged through the chest and found a shirt and breeches that had been made for a more corpulent man. They would fit, especially with the set of braces at the bottom of the chest. Still seated on the bed, he put them on, having to rest at intervals from the exertion. When he gathered strength again he rose and took a step towards the door. His legs wouldn’t hold him and he collapsed on to the bed again.

Voices sounded from outside the room. One voice came closer. A woman. A familiar voice. ‘He is in here.’

The door opened and the lovely creature of his dreams entered the room. Lucas expelled a grateful breath. She was real. In the daylight from the window he could clearly see she was taller than most women, elegantly so. Her mahogany hair was coming loose from its pins, framing her face with its arched brows, nearly perfect nose and lips and an unmistakable look of intelligence.

He managed to stand.

‘You are awake.’ She sounded surprised. ‘And dressed.’

He gestured to the chest. ‘I found some clothes.’

With her was an older man in a black suit, carrying a black-leather bag. ‘This is the doctor, Mr Grassie.’ She turned to the doctor. ‘As you can see, he is much better.’

The doctor had seen him before? Of that he had no memory.

His legs weakened and he grasped the bedpost to keep from falling. ‘Forgive me. My strength fails.’

‘No need for apology,’ the doctor answered. ‘Please do sit on the bed and let me examine you.’

The doctor opened his bag and took out a glass tube, which he placed against Lucas’s chest. ‘Breathe in and out.’ He moved the tube to various spots on Lucas’s chest before putting it down. ‘Your lungs are much improved. Almost no congestion. How do you feel?’

‘My head aches and my throat feels dry.’ Lucas stole a glance at the young woman, who waited by the door with her arms crossed. There was a warmth in her expression that loosened one of the knots inside him.

‘Open your mouth,’ the doctor ordered.

Lucas complied.

After looking inside Lucas’s mouth, the doctor stepped back. ‘Your throat is better, too. A little red still, but that might be from lack of fluids. You’ve had a bad case of the grippe. There is too much of it going around. It can be very contagious, you know. Your fever has broken, so that is a good sign, although it will return if you exert yourself and you might not be able to throw it off next time. You need rest.’

The baron’s daughter frowned.

Lucas turned back to the doctor. ‘Mr Grassie, I presume I am imposing on this family’s hospitality. Perhaps I should gather my belongings and retire to an inn somewhere.’

The doctor shook his head. ‘No, no. That you must not do. You could spread this all over the county. Rest here. At least ten days. If your symptoms continue to abate, you will not be contagious by then.’ He turned to the young woman. ‘He must rest. You can accommodate him, can you not?’

A worry line creased her brow. ‘I suppose so.’

Had Lucas misread her earlier warmth?

Lucas directed his gaze to her. ‘I will not stay if I am imposing.’

The doctor packed his bag again and shut it. He glared at the young woman. ‘Miss Wallace, shall I speak to your father or mother about whether this man may recuperate here?’

So her name was Miss Wallace. Not married, then. An eldest daughter.

Her face coloured. ‘You need not trouble Papa or Mama, Doctor,’ she retorted in as sharp a tone. ‘We will not turn away a sick man.’

‘Excellent.’ The doctor picked up his bag.

‘About payment?’ Miss Wallace sounded uncertain as the doctor walked towards the door.

Lucas spoke up. ‘I am well able to pay. Assuming my purse is with my clothing.’

‘I will send a bill,’ the doctor said. He hurried out of the door without once asking Lucas’s name.

Lucas’s gaze met Miss Wallace’s and held, but before either spoke, two young people burst into the room.

‘You are awake!’ The girl appeared to be a younger version of the beautiful Miss Wallace, this one on the verge of womanhood rather than in its finest bloom.

With her was a youth, a brother by the family looks they shared. He, also, was younger than Miss Wallace. He reminded Lucas of the young ensigns sent to war when barely breeched.

‘How are you, sir?’ the boy asked. ‘Mairi said your fever broke during the night. What did Mr Grassie say?’

Her name was Mairi.

Mairi Wallace ignored her brother’s question and shooed them back to the doorway. ‘You two must leave at once. Wait for me. I will be right out.’ She closed the door and turned back to Lucas. ‘My brother and sister. Your rescuers.’

‘I hope I might thank them,’ he said, although he wasn’t yet sure whether he was glad he had not perished.

He tried to stand, this time bracing himself against the side of the bed. ‘Miss Wallace, no matter what the doctor said, if you prefer I leave—’

Her expression softened again. ‘No. No. We will not turn you out. You must forgive me if that is what you thought.’

He looked around the room, which seemed plainly furnished and devoid of decoration. ‘Whose room am I in? I gather this is not a guest room.’

She nodded, but her expression seemed...uneasy. ‘This is our butler’s room. He...he left our employ recently, so this room was not occupied. The silver is kept in another room, not here. And, for now, the housekeeper holds the keys.’

Why mention the silver? Did she think he might pinch it?

He looked down at himself. ‘Are these the butler’s clothes I am wearing?’

‘They were in the chest? We did not realise he’d left anything behind.’

Had the man left in haste? Lucas wondered. ‘And my clothing? My satchel?’

‘They were washed and brushed,’ she replied. ‘Possibly they are dry now. I will check. I charged Niven with keeping your purse.’

‘Niven?’

‘My brother.’

The intruding youth, no doubt.

She turned to leave.

He stopped her. ‘Miss Wallace, wait.’

She turned back.

‘You should know who I am.’ It was on the tip of his tongue to introduce himself as Lucas Johns-Ives, son of the Earl of Foxgrove, but was he not now Viscount Bradleigh—his father’s heir—his brother’s title? He could not bear to be that person, could not bear taking his brother’s name and rightful place. Disappointing his father. He wanted none of it.

‘I am... Lucas. John Lucas.’

That was who he would be, plain John Lucas.

She nodded and smiled, albeit sadly. ‘I will bring you something to eat, Mr Lucas. You must be hungry.’

He smiled back and fancied his smile a reflection of hers. ‘I am ravenous, Miss Wallace.’

* * *

Mairi’s heart raced as she stepped into the hallway. In daylight, without the pallor of illness, he was quite the handsomest man she’d ever seen, even with three days’ worth of beard. Even more disturbing was the connection she felt with him, as if nursing him through his fever had somehow linked him to her in a way she did not understand. She shivered, trying to shake the feeling away.

Davina and Niven accosted her.

‘Is he recovered?’ Davina asked. ‘What did Mr Grassie say?’

Niven chimed in. ‘What was wrong with him?’

What was wrong was that he was a stranger—an Englishman—who would now be a guest in their house for at least ten days.

She pushed past them. ‘I need to speak with Cook. He needs food and water.’

They followed her to the kitchen.

‘At least answer us!’ Davina cried.

Mairi held up a finger to warn them to give her a moment.

Cook was busy stirring something in a pot over the fire.

‘Mrs MacNeal, our patient is hungry. What might I bring him?’

Mrs MacNeal’s wrinkles creased into a sympathetic look. ‘Oh, the poor lad. I take it he is feeling better?’ Cook had kept her supplied with broth and tea for him the last three days.

‘He is much better,’ she replied. ‘His fever has broken.’

Cook winced as she tottered over to a shelf where the servants’ dishes were stacked. The poor woman’s arthritis must be paining her. She ought to be given a nice pension and a little cottage on the estate, not running the kitchen with only one kitchen maid to help.

‘Let me help you,’ Mairi said, hurrying to her side.

‘Thank you, Miss Mairi.’ The old woman pointed to a high shelf. ‘One of those bowls and a plate will do. The soup is ready. I’m keeping it warm for dinner. And there is fresh bread.’

‘I’ll cut some bread,’ Davina offered. She skipped over to the bread box and took out a loaf.

‘He’ll want some ale, I expect,’ Niven added. ‘Shall I get him some?’

Mairi nodded.

‘I’ll slice some cheese for him, as well,’ Davina said. She carried some cheese to the worktable.

Cook, Davina and Niven arranged a very generous tray for the Englishman.

‘Now tell us about him,’ Davina demanded. ‘Who is he? What did the doctor say?’

Of course they would be curious about the man she’d rescued.

Mairi replied, ‘His name is John Lucas.’

‘But what is his regiment?’ Niven asked. ‘I thought he was a soldier.’

‘I did not ask him about being a soldier. He has only this morning been out of danger.’ Mairi glanced from Niven to Davina. ‘Mr Grassie believes he is much improved, but he must rest. And he still may be contagious, so you must stay away from his room.’

‘I do not mind helping,’ Davina said.

Mairi frowned. ‘Better it be Niven. It would not be proper for you to be in his room.’

Davina’s chin lifted. ‘Then it is not proper for you either, Mairi. But you were in his room day and night, were you not?’

Mairi could see that Cook listened to their every word. ‘Only because he had the fever and we had to limit how many were exposed to it. In any event, now that the fever is gone, it should be Niven who attends him.’

‘But I won’t be here!’ Niven protested. ‘Not tomorrow. I am off to Crawfurd’s tomorrow.’

William Crawfurd was Niven’s childhood friend, about to embark on a Grand Tour abroad—something out of the question for Niven since both his tutor and Davina’s governess had left for positions that would actually pay them.

‘Well, attend him today.’ Mairi would worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

She followed Niven down the hallway, knocked on the butler’s door and opened it, stepping inside long enough to see Mr Lucas rise.

‘Miss Wallace.’ He nodded.

Again she felt that pull towards him.

She stepped aside so Niven could enter. ‘My brother. Niven.’

The Englishman’s eyes left hers only briefly to acknowledge Niven.

‘He brought you food,’ she said unnecessarily.

Before the man could say another word, she left the room.

* * *

The youth carrying the food tray grinned at Lucas. ‘You’ll have to forgive Mairi. She has a bee in her bonnet about something, I’ll give you that.’

‘I understand she tended to me these last three days,’ Lucas responded. ‘She must be quite fatigued.’

‘Well, I helped some,’ the boy said. He lifted the tray slightly. ‘I’ve brought you some food. Shall I set the tray on the table or would you like to eat on the bed?’

‘The table.’ After the doctor had left, Lucas had forced himself not to crawl back under the bedcovers, but he’d not progressed beyond sitting on the bed’s edge.

He rose, holding on to the bedpost until he knew his legs would support him. He marshalled enough energy to walk the few steps to the chair by the table. He nearly collapsed into it.

‘Mairi said your name is Lucas.’ Niven set the tray in front of him.

He ought to have introduced himself. ‘That is so.’

The boy flopped down on a second wooden chair at the table. ‘Mr Grassie said you were in the army, because of the scars on your chest. Is that so?’

They’d seen his scars? Of course they had. He’d been nearly naked.

‘Not any more,’ he replied, wishing the boy would probe no further. He tore off a piece of bread and swallowed a small bite. ‘Tell me what you know of how I came to be here,’ he said instead. ‘Your sister said very little of it.’

The boy was eager to answer. ‘Davina and I found you. Davina is my other sister. You saw her before when we came in.’

He told the story in great detail with emphasis on the speed of his running to seek help from his older sister and again to send for the wagon that had carried Lucas back from one of the hills on their property, a hill that possessed a stone circle. Flashes of memory returned. The rain. Staggering to a stone that kept the cold wind from his back. Voices—Niven’s and Davina’s voices, he now surmised.

Mairi Wallace had waited with him until the wagon came. It seemed she’d been at his side right from the beginning.

‘How was it your sister was the one to care for me?’ Why not a servant? Or their mother?

‘Mairi? She wouldn’t let anybody else,’ the boy responded. ‘Except for me. I sat with you when she had to eat or rest or something, but she wouldn’t let me touch you. Said nobody else should get close.’

Because they could become ill? What about her? She had risked illness tending to him.

Lucas took a long gulp of ale. ‘Were there no servants who could help?’

‘Mairi would not hear of it,’ Niven replied. ‘We don’t have that many servants, anyway. Several have left us recently.’ Niven leaned back, balancing on the back legs of the chair. ‘So Mairi thinks she has to do everything to make up for it.’ The chair slipped, but he caught it in time to right it again. ‘If Mama knew it, she’d be very cross.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘Mama thinks the servants are still doing all the work. I tease Mairi that I’ll tell Mama she’s doing it. Or making Davina and me do it. Mairi becomes too iron-handed at times. She can be the most insufferable nag.’

Mairi sounded incredibly burdened. More so now with him barely able to stand.

‘Why did your servants leave?’ Lucas asked.

‘I think they wanted to get paid,’ Niven replied. ‘Things are a little tight for us at the moment.’

That was quite an admission. Lucas had apparently wound up in a household that could not afford one extra mouth.

The boy chattered on as Lucas finished the soup. An hour passed pleasantly enough and Lucas learned more about the family than he suspected Niven’s older sister would have wished.

There was a rap on the door and Niven called out, ‘Come in.’

Miss Wallace—Mairi—entered. Lucas stood, but braced himself on the table.

‘Niven!’ She glared at her brother. ‘I’ve been searching for you. What are you doing in here? You should not be bothering this man.’

Niven looked petulant. ‘We were conversing. Conversing isn’t bothering.’

‘It is when he’s unwell,’ she retorted. ‘Take the dishes back to the kitchen, then wait for me. I need your help.’ She turned to Lucas. ‘I’ve brought your purse, Mr Lucas.’ She handed it to him.

‘Thank you, Miss Wallace.’ His hand brushed hers as he took it from her. ‘I appreciate that.’

Niven glanced towards Lucas and rolled his eyes. ‘I suppose I must do her bidding. Good day, Lucas.’

‘Thank you for bringing the food.’

‘Mairi made me do it.’ The boy grinned. ‘But I did not mind.’

‘Go!’ Miss Wallace commanded.

Niven slowly slid off the chair and ambled from the room.

Miss Wallace turned her lovely blue eyes on Lucas. ‘I am terribly sorry. He wasn’t supposed to stay.’

‘He was no bother,’ Lucas assured her. ‘Thank you for the food, Miss Wallace. I am much restored.’

She shrugged. ‘Cook had the soup already made.’

Her gaze caught his and held. Her presence soothed him. He did not want her to leave.

She glanced towards the door and back. ‘Do you require anything else?’

He would not hold her there, much as he wished to.

He rubbed his chin. ‘My satchel? My razor should be in it.’

She nodded. ‘Your satchel was also hung to dry. That night you spent out on the hill, it rained quite heavily.’ She started for the door. ‘I will have Niven bring it to you.’

Not her?

‘I will leave you now.’ Their gazes caught again, but she turned towards the door.

‘Miss Wallace?’

She looked back at him.

‘I am grateful to you. More than I can say.’

She lifted the latch on the door and walked out.

Lucas was left alone with only his memories and regrets. He closed his eyes, wishing he had the company of a bottle of whisky. Or two.




Chapter Four (#u47110185-aebc-5340-86ee-3415564e0218)


Mairi again left his room with her heart racing. When the Englishman looked at her with those vivid blue eyes all she could see was pain. Not physical pain, but the kind that reaches down into one’s soul, the kind of pain with which she was acutely familiar. It felt like a bond with him.

What nonsense, though.

She shook off the feeling and hurried to the kitchen, where Niven was happily munching on some biscuits Cook had given him.

‘Niven, I need you to bring Mr Lucas his clothing and satchel and everything that was in it. They are in the footmen’s room.’

Her brother looked up at her. ‘Zounds, Mairi. No need to bark orders at me. I want to help.’

She walked over to him and ruffled his hair, which always annoyed him. ‘I am sorry, Niven. I do not know what I would do without you.’

He ran a testy hand through his hair, but looked up at her with serious eyes. ‘Do you need me to forgo my visit with Crawfurd?’

Niven knew their family was in financial difficulty, but Mairi did not have the heart to tell him precisely how serious she suspected it was and how she feared it might result in him losing his birthright.

‘No, dear Brother.’ She kissed him on his head, another gesture that irked him. ‘You deserve some enjoyment.’

He waved her away, but grinned at her.

She made her way up the stairs to the hall. Papa and Mama would be up by now and they should be informed about what the doctor had said.

Davina stood at the foot of the staircase. ‘I just saw Niven in the kitchen. He said he’d be taking care of Mr Lucas today. I do not see why he gets to do it. Why can I not help?’

Mairi opened her mouth to answer, but Davina interrupted.

‘Never mind saying it isn’t proper. You have to help, so I should be able to help as well.’

Mairi put her arm around Davina’s shoulders. ‘There is plenty to do here besides seeing to Mr Lucas, Davina, as you well know.’

‘But I wanted to be the Good Samaritan.’ Davina’s lip trembled.

‘You have already been the Good Samaritan,’ Mairi assured her. ‘By finding Mr Lucas and seeing he was helped.’

‘Niven is telling everyone he found him,’ she protested. ‘But it was me. I saw him first.’

‘And you could have walked by him. That makes you like the Good Samaritan.’

Davina’s eyes widened. ‘I could never have walked by him!’

Mairi’s younger sister possessed a pure, kind heart. She was sweet. And unspoiled.

Mairi gave her a hug. ‘Let us find Mama and Papa and tell them that Mr Lucas is much improved.’

* * *

Their parents were in the morning room finishing a leisurely breakfast with one of the footmen, Robert, to attend them.

Davina entered the room first, rushing up to her mother. ‘Good morning, Mama. Good morning, Papa.’ She kissed both on the cheek.

Mairi poured herself a cup of tea and sat at the table. ‘The sick man is much better. His fever broke at last. Mr Grassie was here earlier.’ Her father lowered his newspaper to listen.

‘Oh, yes, the sick man.’ Her mother spoke as if she’d forgotten about him. ‘What did the good doctor say?’

‘Mr Grassie has prescribed rest. The man must stay here for a week or so.’ Mairi softened the time frame and omitted the part about him being contagious, both matters guaranteed to rattle her mother. And, of course, Mairi neglected to mention that she had been the one caring for Mr Lucas.

Her father turned back to his paper. ‘Good man, Grassie.’

Her mother smiled approvingly at her husband’s pronouncement. ‘Indeed he is.’ She glanced back at Mairi. ‘See that the servants give our patient good care, will you, Mairi?’

Robert glanced at Mairi, his bland expression turning to one of worry.

She nodded to him so he’d know she noticed, before answering her mother. ‘I will see to it, Mama. His name is Mr Lucas, by the way.’

‘Lucas?’ Her mother looked up in thought. ‘I do not believe we know any Lucases.’

‘He is an Englishman, Mama.’

‘An Englishman?’ Her father dropped his paper again. ‘I do not fancy an Englishman in our house.’ Her father prided himself on being a full-blooded Scottish patriot.

‘It will only be a few days.’ She changed the subject. ‘What plans have you for today?’

Her mother leaned forward with bright eyes. ‘Mrs Webster will be calling.’ Mrs Webster was the local dressmaker. ‘She is in possession of some new muslins and fashion prints, so don’t you run off somewhere.’ She gave severe looks to both Mairi and Davina. ‘We must measure you both for new gowns.’

‘No, Mama!’ Mairi protested. ‘We do not need to spend more money on gowns!’

Her mother tapped Mairi’s hand. ‘We must! For the house party at Lord Oxmont’s. You must look your best.’

It was no secret that her mother had great hopes that this house party would result in a proposal of marriage for Mairi, but how could she marry? She was not a virgin. A man would be able to tell, she’d heard the maids say.

In any event, they could not afford to pay Mrs Webster for new dresses. ‘Mrs Webster might alter our old dresses,’ she said. ‘That would certainly cost less.’

Davina’s brow furrowed. ‘Do we not have enough money for new dresses?’

Their father took Davina’s hand and squeezed it. ‘It is not as bad as all that, my wee one.’

But it was every bit as bad as all that. And more.

Her father returned to his paper. Mairi could expect no support from him.

She sighed. ‘What about you, Papa? What are your plans?’

He put down his newspaper again. ‘I am off to look at a horse. Laird Buchan put me on to a pretty mare for sale.’

‘Papa!’ Mairi could keep quiet no longer. ‘We do not need another horse!’ They’d lost most of their grooms already, those who wanted to be paid for their work in coin, not promises. ‘We cannot afford it!’

Her father’s face turned red. ‘I’ll not have you speak to me in that tone of voice, lass.’ He lifted his paper again. ‘Besides, a steed like this one comes around once in a lifetime. Or so I’m told.’

Mairi had tried every way she knew to convince her parents to economise. She’d begged them to stop buying things. She’d suggested they sell what they no longer needed. Her mother had gone into palpitations when Mairi had said they should sell some of the jewellery her father was so fond of buying for her.

If her father and mother did not change their ways soon they’d lose the caput—their land and with it her father’s title. In Scotland, a baron could sell both. What future would Niven and Davina have then?

Mairi rose. If she remained another minute, she was likely to lose her temper completely and she knew from experience it only made matters worse.

‘I must go,’ she said. ‘If I have your leave, Papa?’

‘Yes, lass.’ Her father’s good humour returned as it always did. ‘Do not forget about the dressmaker.’

Mairi strode out of the room.

Robert followed her. ‘Does your da not have enough money?’ the footman asked worriedly.

Robert was twenty, Mairi’s age, and a simple young man, the son of one of the crofters. He had not been a footman for very long.

‘Money is tight, Robert.’ She would not lie to him. ‘That is why you have not been paid, but we have enough to keep a roof over our heads and food in our mouths, so there is that.’

Robert’s parents had died of fever a year ago and he’d been their only son. Her father had generously offered to make him a footman. At the time, it had seemed an extravagance to Mairi, but now she did not know what the family would do without him and Erwin, their only other footman.

‘And don’t think I will ask you to care for Mr Lucas, the sick man,’ she added. ‘I know you are overworked and I do not want you to catch the fever.’

His face relaxed. ‘I can help some, miss,’ he said earnestly. ‘I already brushed out his clothes and polished his boots. They should be dry by now.’

‘I saw that you did that, Robert,’ she responded. ‘They were quite wet and dirty. It was a big job. I do appreciate it so very much.’

His face turned red at the compliment. He glanced towards the door. ‘I best return to my duties.’

‘Yes,’ she said.

He bowed and re-entered the morning room.

Mairi turned away. She’d promised the housekeeper she would tidy her parents’ rooms and she needed to hurry before they finished their breakfast.

* * *

That afternoon Mairi helped Mrs Cross close down the guest bedrooms. They were rarely used and it would save the two maids much work to take down the curtains and cover the furniture with dust covers.

Davina came to tell her the dressmaker had arrived. ‘Mama wants us to come straight away.’

‘Very well.’ Mairi closed her eyes for a moment to calm herself before removing her apron and cap and brushing off her dress.

As they walked to their mother’s dressing room, Davina asked, ‘Can we really not afford new dresses, Mairi?’

At fourteen, Davina was old enough to know the reality of their situation. ‘We should not order new clothes,’ Mairi responded. ‘Papa has been unable to pay our servants for some time. That is why so many have left. He has many unpaid bills. He will not be able to pay Mrs Webster for anything we buy.’

Davina turned her head away and did not speak for a few moments. Finally she said, ‘Then I will say I dislike all of the new fabrics and the fashion prints. Mama will not make me order a dress I do not like. And I will try to convince Mama that the fabrics and designs will not do for her either.’

Mairi put her arm around her sister. ‘Very clever, Davina. Mama will not like to be embarrassed that way. We can show Mrs Webster some of our old dresses. I believe Mama will be satisfied if we have something that looks new.’

* * *

Lucas took another sip of tea as young Niven peppered him with questions about himself—about his time in the army.

‘What regiment were you in?’ Niven asked.

‘The First Royal Dragoons,’ he replied.

The boy’s eyes brightened. ‘The First Royals? Were you in the charge with the Scots Greys at Waterloo?’

The memory of it came back. The thundering of the horses, their screams, the contorted faces of the French soldiers, the blood.

His brother.

By Jupiter, he needed whisky.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I was.’

‘Wait until my father hears about that!’ Niven beamed. ‘He is excessively proud of the Scots Greys. To hear him, you’d think they won the battle for the Allies.’

The Scots Greys were brave, no question, but they also had been untried in battle. They’d ridden too far ahead of the main charge and, as a result, too many had been cut down.

Like Bradleigh.

‘Were you in the Peninsula, too?’ Niven asked. ‘What other battles did you fight? Was it glorious? I cannot imagine such a sight. A cavalry charge!’

Lucas’s answers were terse and he hoped the boy did not notice the trembling of his hands, the stiffening of his shoulders. It was the anguish of remembering. Enough of this. He wanted out of this place. The boy forced him to remember and the sister made him care when all he wanted was to shut off his emotions and be alone.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ Niven called as if this was his room, not Lucas’s.

Miss Wallace peeked in, her gaze riveting on her brother. ‘Niven! I was afraid you were here.’

Lucas rose to his feet, but braced his hands on the table. She gestured for him to sit down. He wanted to remain standing, but his legs threatened not to hold him. He sank back into the chair.

Niven lifted his chin. ‘I brought Lucas some tea and biscuits. I’m keeping him company.’

‘He is still ill, Niven,’ she scolded. ‘You should leave him in peace.’

Niven seemed to ignore what she said. ‘Did you know? He was in the First Royals! Fought at Waterloo. That’s a cavalry regiment, you see. He was in the charge with the Scots Greys.’

Her gaze caught Lucas’s briefly and he fancied she could somehow see the pain he wanted to hide. From himself as well as everyone else.

‘You should not trouble him, Niven.’ She peered at Lucas even more closely and crossed the room to him. ‘Are you feverish again, Mr Lucas?’

He felt hot and perspiration dampened his face.

She placed her bare hand on his forehead. ‘You are a little warm.’

Her touch filled him with yearning, but he did not wish anyone to care about him—or to care about anybody himself. Obviously seeing to his care merely added one more burden to her slim shoulders.

‘I am well enough,’ he insisted.

Her brows knitted. ‘You should rest.’ She turned to her brother. ‘Let us leave Mr Lucas now. I need your help in the garden. Cook wants some turnips and onions.’

Niven stood. ‘How delightful! Digging in the dirt.’ He smiled at Lucas. ‘I’ll bring your dinner later, Mr Lucas. Do not be surprised if it includes turnips and onions.’

Lucas’s stomach revolted at the thought.

‘Thank you.’ Lucas rose. ‘I will rest a while.’

Miss Wallace gave him a worried look before she and her brother walked out of the room.

* * *

When Niven had returned some time later with the dinner tray, Lucas had simply told him to leave it on the table, but he fell asleep before touching it.

He woke again when the clock in the room struck eleven. The door opened and, through slitted eyes, Lucas watched Miss Wallace enter, her face illuminated by a candle. Her brother was behind her.

‘See, he is still abed,’ Niven said to her. ‘I do not think he ate any of his dinner.’

Miss Wallace approached and gingerly placed her palm on his forehead. Her hand felt soft and cool and he was taken aback with how much he desired her touch.

He opened his eyes and she jumped back with a cry.

‘Miss Wallace?’ He sat up.

‘Niven was concerned. You did not eat dinner,’ she said.

‘I was not hungry.’ He’d made up his mind. He’d leave in the morning.

‘You still feel warm.’ Her brows knitted.

He refused to worry her. ‘I just need sleep.’ Their gazes caught as before. She needed sleep as much as he did. ‘Please. Return to your beds.’

She stared at him a while longer. ‘Are you certain?’

‘Go to bed, Miss Wallace,’ he murmured. ‘Do not trouble yourself with me.’

* * *

The next morning, Lucas woke as dawn was just breaking. His fever continued, but he was clear-headed. All he needed to do was walk to the nearest village and seek a room in an inn. Then he need not impose on this family—on Miss Wallace—any further.

He’d slept in the clothes he’d borrowed from the departed butler, so he rose and bathed his face in the cool water from the room’s pitcher and basin and shaved his face. Wiping his face again, he searched for his toothbrush and brushed his teeth, rinsing the foul taste of illness from his mouth.

As he turned away from the basin, he noticed his untouched evening meal still on the table. His stomach was no better than the night before, but he knew he must eat and drink something. He buttered the bread and drank the ale. It would have to be enough until he could purchase a meal from an inn.

If his appetite ever returned.

He dressed in his own clothes and repacked his satchel, then picked up the tray so he would not leave extra work for Miss Wallace. He carried the tray to the door and managed to open it. In the hallway, he could hear sounds from what he presumed was the kitchen. Butlers’ quarters were typically near the kitchen. He followed the sounds and entered a large room where the odours of cooking meat and bread made him nauseous.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said.

A red-faced, grey-haired woman turned from the pot she was tending on the fire. She smiled kindly. ‘Ah, you must be our patient, Mr Lucas.’ The woman bustled over to him. ‘Here, let me take the tray.’ She turned away and called, ‘Evie!’

A very young kitchen maid emerged from what must have been the scullery. ‘Mrs MacNeal?’ The girl blinked when she spied Lucas.

Mrs MacNeal handed the girl the tray. ‘Here.’

The girl carried the tray back to the scullery.

The cook gave Lucas a scolding look. ‘You did not eat much of your dinner.’

‘I slept through it, I’m afraid,’ he responded.

‘Then will you be wanting breakfast?’ The woman began to look stressed. ‘I am not quite ready for cooking breakfast.’

Lucas’s father’s kitchen would have been bustling with kitchen maids and footmen at this hour. He saw only the cook and one helper.

‘I am quite satisfied with what I ate from the dinner plate this morning,’ he assured her. ‘I merely wished to return the tray.’

‘That was good of you, sir.’ She returned to tending her pot.

He left the kitchen and met a footman in the hallway.

‘You must be the visitor,’ the young man said.

‘I am.’

The footman eyed him up and down. ‘I hope your clothes are satisfactory. I brushed them off best I could.’

‘I am very grateful.’ Lucas reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. He handed it to the footman.

The young man’s eyes lit up. ‘Thank you, sir!’

It had been a very small coin, not worth so much appreciation.

Lucas should ask the footman his name, but it was better for him not to know anybody. Already Miss Wallace and her brother threatened his desire for isolation.

‘I’ll be leaving in a few minutes,’ Lucas said.

The footman peered at him. ‘Leaving? You were to stay at least a week, Miss Mairi said.’

‘I am recovered,’ he responded. ‘No need to stay.’

Lucas returned to the butler’s room, but had to sit down to rest. When he gathered his strength again, he took more coins from his purse and left them on the table, enough, he hoped, to pay for the doctor, his food and for the trouble he had caused. Forcing himself to stand, he donned his topcoat, picked up the satchel and slung it over his shoulder. He strode out of the room and followed the hallway to a door to the outside. He began making his way towards the road that he hoped would eventually lead him to the nearest village inn.




Chapter Five (#u47110185-aebc-5340-86ee-3415564e0218)


Mairi woke early, as she was accustomed to doing since some of the housemaids had left and Nellie was the only one left with time to act as lady’s maid to her mother, Davina and herself. Mairi made certain she did not need a great deal of Nellie’s help, merely tying the laces of her stays and her dress.

She next went in search of Mrs Cross to see what assistance the housekeeper required that day, but first she knocked on Niven’s door.

‘Who is it?’ he responded testily. And sleepily.

‘You know it is me, Mairi,’ she replied. ‘I’m going to send Erwin to you to help you dress, then come straight to the kitchen to bring Mr Lucas his breakfast.’

‘Oh. Yes.’ Niven’s voice brightened. ‘Mr Lucas. I’ll be ready. Have Erwin come right away.’

Erwin was slightly more experienced as a footman than Robert, so he was tasked with acting as valet to Niven. Wilfred, their father’s valet, was over seventy, and it was taxing enough for him to serve their father, but he had provided Erwin some rudimentary training.

Mairi descended the stairs to the hall and entered the morning room, where Erwin was setting the table for breakfast.

‘Good morning!’ She made her tone cheerful. It kept her spirits up and, she hoped, the spirits of their overworked servants.

Erwin stopped his work and bowed. ‘Good morning, miss.’

‘When you are done here, would you tend to Niven?’ she asked. ‘He has much to do today before he goes out.’ Of all the times for him to visit his friend.

‘Yes, miss.’ Erwin placed the cutlery next to the breakfast plate with less precision than their butler would have done.

‘Thank you, Erwin,’ she said breezily, using the servants’ door to lead her to the ground floor, where she found Mrs Cross, the housekeeper, in an intense conversation with Betsy, one of their two maids, while Cook looked on from the worktable where she was rolling out dough for biscuits for the afternoon tea.

‘Good morning,’ Mairi said again in a cheerful tone. ‘I came to see how I can help today.’

Mrs Cross rubbed her brow. ‘Let me think. Your mother will not want to see you polishing furniture, but you could tidy up her room and your father’s like yesterday.’

‘I will see to it.’ It did not seem like enough to do. Mairi turned to Cook. ‘Mrs MacNeal, Nevin will be down directly to bring Mr Lucas his breakfast. Shall I put together a plate for him?’

Mrs MacNeal shook flour from her hands. ‘Miss Mairi, the fellow left already. Robert told us.’

‘Left?’ But he was still ill! ‘When?’

‘A while ago, miss,’ the cook responded. ‘Robert told me right when I took the loaves out of the oven.’

Mairi touched one of the loaves. It had cooled considerably.

Still, Robert might have been mistaken.

Mairi hurried out of the kitchen and ran to the footmen’s room, but Robert was not there. She hastened to the butler’s room, opening the door without knocking. It was empty. There was a stack of coins on the table. She picked them up and counted. Enough for the doctor’s bill and more. She sank into a chair and fingered the coins.

Things were back to rights again, then, were they not? As if he’d never been there. They could all go on as they had done before...

Except he’d been ill the night before; she was certain of it. His forehead had glistened with sweat and his skin had been hot. The fever certainly had returned, just as the doctor said it might.

She placed her hand over her mouth. Goodness, what if he collapsed again? What if he were not found until he was dead? How would Davina and Niven feel then?

How would she feel?

She glanced at the clock. There was time before she’d need to tidy her parents’ rooms. She could go in search of him and reassure herself that he would not die on his way to wherever he was going. She had enough on her conscience; she did not need to feel responsible for a man’s death.

She rose and resolutely walked out of the room. On her way past the kitchen, she called out, ‘I am going out. I will be back soon.’ Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed her old cloak, which hung on a hook by the garden door. She swung it around her shoulders and went outside.

He had probably followed the track that the wagons used to deliver goods to the back door of the house. She walked briskly down it.

Before it met the main road, she called to John, the stable worker, who was exercising an unfamiliar horse in a paddock. Her father’s latest purchase, no doubt. ‘Did you see a stranger walk by here?’

He nodded. ‘He asked directions to the village.’

‘Thank you!’ That, at least, was a more sensible plan than traipsing over the hills as he must have done before.

Mairi walked as quickly as she could down to the main road that led to the village. If he was as ill as she feared, she would catch up to him.

* * *

Over a quarter of an hour later, she saw a figure seated at the side of the road.

The Englishman. Head bowed. Elbows resting on his knees.

She quickened her pace. ‘Mr Lucas!’

He raised his head, apparently with some effort. ‘Miss Wallace.’

He was certainly still ill.

She stood in front of him. ‘What are you about? Your fever is back, is it not?’

He rose to his feet.

She continued her scold. ‘The doctor said you must rest. For ten days at least. Now look. You are sick again.’

‘Do not concern yourself, Miss Wallace.’ He swayed.

She glared at him. ‘You can barely stand up.’

He straightened. ‘I am well enough to make it to the village.’

But the village was three more miles from here. At this rate it would take him all day to reach it. ‘Are you? You looked fatigued enough after walking this short distance. How long have you been walking? An hour? It will only get harder the further you go. I am persuaded that someone might very well find you in a ditch. Imagine how my brother and sister will feel when they hear you are dead, after they went to such exertions to save you.’

‘None of you should think of me at all,’ he protested.

She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Davina and Niven will, though. You owe them your life. You should consider their feelings in this matter.’ And hers.

He glanced away. ‘Tell your brother and sister I reached the village.’

If he did make it to the village, Mr Grassie would undoubtedly learn of it. Perhaps people would say her father had turned out a sick man. The last thing they needed was more talk about their family.

‘Come back with me,’ she insisted. ‘Come back and remain the ten days. Or more if necessary. Stay and make Davina and Niven feel they’ve done something that counts.’

And because she could not bear it if he died.

* * *

Lucas could make it to the village. He was not that ill. The tower of the church was visible on the horizon, as were some village rooftops. It wasn’t far. He’d endured worse hardships than this. He’d withstood long marches through Spain. He’d fought on when stabbed by enemy swords. He’d come close to death, but pushed through to keep his brother from being killed.

Except at Waterloo. At Waterloo he’d abandoned Bradleigh.

How could he explain to the lovely Miss Wallace that he did not deserve to live? All he wanted was to forget; to numb the pain.

She ought to have let him die. She should not have pulled him back with her entreaties to live. She should leave him now and, if he were lucky, he would die in a ditch, like she had warned him against.

Suddenly weary again, he sank back to the ground.

She stood above him, hands on her hips. ‘Is this where you would like Davina and Niven to find you dead?’

The fresh, earnest faces of those two young people flashed through his mind. Would he indeed be injuring them if he simply let go of life, here at the side of the road?

Miss Wallace lowered herself to sit next to him, hugging her knees. As she did so, Lucas suffered a spasm of coughing. She lifted an eyebrow as if to say, See? You are sick.

When he could talk again he looked her in the eye. ‘Why do you want me to return with you, Miss Wallace? Your family is in straitened circumstances, I understand. I am only a burden to you.’

Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed. ‘I should throttle Niven. You could not have learned that from anyone else.’

Not that he would tell on the boy.

She blew out a pained breath. ‘My father’s finances are...’ she paused ‘...a bit challenging at the moment, a fact we certainly do not wish the world to know.’

He held up his palm. ‘My word. I will not tell.’

She shook her head. ‘I can see it plainly. If you make it to the inn—or are found in this ditch—our family will be the talk of the village. The Baron of Dunburn turned out a fevered traveller.’ Her voice was mocking. ‘We do not deserve that sort of gossip.’

No, they did not. Families experiencing financial difficulties never desired the speculation of others.

It was one thing to toss away his worthless life, quite another to hurt the people who’d rescued him.

And this woman who’d nursed him back to life.

He dropped his head in his hands. ‘Very well. I will return with you.’

He felt her straighten her spine. ‘And you will stay the ten days the doctor ordered? Longer if you are still ill?’

He did not answer her right away. ‘On one condition.’

‘What condition?’ Her voice turned wary.

He lifted his head and faced her. ‘No one waits on me.’ Not her. Not her brother. ‘I take care of myself. Your cook can fix me a plate for meals, but I will walk down to the kitchen and carry it back myself. I’ll take care of my clothes as well. And anything else.’

Her clear blue eyes searched his. He fought an impulse to look away.

Finally she nodded. ‘Very well.’

‘Let us go, then.’ He attempted to stand, but his legs threatened to buckle. She bounced to her feet and held his arm, helping him up.

He lifted her hand away. ‘I am able to walk.’

She fell in step with him, walking close enough, he suspected, to grab him if he became unsteady. After a few steps he wiped his brow.

‘You still have a fever, do you not?’ she accused.

‘Possibly,’ he admitted.

It was some effort to walk at a normal pace, but he had enough pride left to prove to this lady that he could have made it to the village.

She broke the silence between them. ‘Why are you in Scotland, Mr Lucas? Why were you wandering in the hills on my father’s land?’

‘I do not know why I was on your father’s land,’ he told her. ‘I do not remember much about that day.’ He’d begun to feel feverish when he’d left that last inn. He’d medicated himself with whisky, he recalled. A lot of whisky.

‘Where were you before that?’ she asked.

‘What town, do you mean?’

She nodded.

The towns and villages were all the same to him. ‘I do not recall the name.’

‘Why are you in Scotland?’ she pressed.

‘Travelling.’ If you called running from life travelling.

She stopped and gazed at him a long time before starting to walk again. The silence between them returned and he was grateful she did not force him to say more about himself. He wanted to forget himself. Even these few questions brought back the turmoil inside him, but, just as when he’d been delirious with fever and her voice had been the one thing he could cling to, her presence next to him held him together even better than a bottle of whisky.

They finally reached the gate of the property, marked by a wrought-iron arch made out to spell Wallace. Lucas’s legs were aching with fatigue, but he pressed on.

When they came to the door, he opened it for her. She glanced at him as if surprised he could do such a gentlemanly thing.

As they stepped into the hallway, she turned to him. ‘Do you need anything?’

He raised a finger. ‘Remember our agreement. I take care of myself.’

‘I could tell Cook to fix you breakfast,’ she persisted.

‘I will do it.’ Later. After he’d rested. ‘Go on to your other tasks.’ He suspected there were many.

‘I will say goodbye, then,’ she said.

He was reluctant to part from her, but bowed and walked directly to the butler’s room. Once there he removed his topcoat and sank into the upholstered chair, placing his feet up on the nearby stool.

He closed his eyes and felt a fog in his head from the fever and the exertion. He did not need her company. He did not deserve it.

He shifted in the chair. He’d keep to himself. He could do that. It was only ten days.

* * *

Lucas rested that day and the next. All traces of his fever had gone by that second day and there was nothing reminding Lucas of being unwell but an occasional cough. He’d been blessed with a strong constitution and always bounced back quickly from any illness or injury.

As agreed, Lucas had been left to care for himself, merely needing to visit the kitchen when hungry and carry his food back to the butler’s room. He would have done very well in the village inn—Miss Wallace’s sacrifice had been totally unnecessary, but he’d made his bargain with her and, unless she freed him from it, he would honour her wishes.

* * *

Upon waking this third day, Lucas felt restless. The four walls of the butler’s room were closing in on him and the prospect of further inactivity was intolerable. His window looked out on to the yard and, from what he could tell, it seemed to be a fine sunny day. It almost made him believe in hope.

He picked up his breakfast tray and carried it back to the kitchen.

Cook looked up as he appeared in the doorway.

‘Another excellent meal, Mrs MacNeal.’ The woman always looked so harried. He felt sorry for her. ‘Where shall I put the tray?’

‘Ah, Mr Lucas.’ She gave him a tense smile as she chopped bright orange carrots, tossing the pieces into a brass pot. She inclined her head. ‘In the scullery.’

He carried the tray to the scullery, which was laden with dishes needing to be washed. He returned to the kitchen and asked, ‘Where is the scullery maid?’ He’d become used to seeing the young girl there.

‘Evie is helping Mrs Cross today.’ The cook wiped her brow with the back of her hand. ‘Mrs Cross told me I must wash the dishes today, but I dinnae ken how or when!’

Lucas shrugged. ‘I’ll wash your dishes for you.’

He might as well do something useful.

Mrs MacNeal gaped at him. ‘You, sir?’

‘Why not?’ He felt too well to still be contagious.

‘Do you know how?’ she asked sceptically.

‘I’ve been around kitchens before, Mrs MacNeal.’ As a boy he’d loved to hang around the kitchen—all the better to be given extra treats. ‘I can manage it.’

She waved a hand. ‘Well, put on an apron and go to it, then.’

Lucas washed, dried and put away every dish. As soon as he finished, the footman who’d cleaned his clothes brought more from the family’s breakfast.

The young man stumbled back a step on seeing Lucas in his apron.

Lucas could not help but be amused. ‘I thought I might help.’ He smiled.

The footman blinked. ‘Are you not fevered, then?’

‘Well recovered,’ Lucas assured him. ‘I must stay for another week, so I might as well work.’ He nodded to the man. ‘I am John Lucas.’

The young man’s forehead furrowed. ‘I know that, sir.’

Cook called over to them, ‘He wants to know your name, Robert.’ She shook her head in dismay.

‘Aye.’ The footman turned back to Lucas. ‘I am Robert.’

Lucas nodded again.

‘Back to work, Robert,’ Mrs MacNeal cried, ‘before Mrs Cross finds you still.’

Robert hurried out.

Lucas finished this latest round of dishes and Cook thanked him profusely. He returned to the butler’s room, but it felt more confining than ever. He stood at the window and put on the butler’s battered hat. The sun still shone and the sky was a clear azure. He spun around and walked out of the room again.

He stopped by the kitchen. ‘Mrs MacNeal, if Miss Wallace thinks I’ve absconded again, explain that I am merely taking a turn in the garden.’

‘I will. I will.’ Cook looked up. ‘Do not make yourself ill again, Mr Lucas.’

He knew himself. The fever would not return. ‘No fear of that.’

He made his way to the servants’ door and stepped outside, lifting his face to the sun and filling his lungs with the clean, fresh air. Off to the right was the kitchen garden, where one of the maids appeared to be tending the plants. He walked towards her.

As he came near, the maid looked up.

‘Miss Wallace!’ he said in surprise.

She wore an apron over her dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat. She held a hoe in her hands.

‘Mr Lucas, what are you doing?’ Her tone was suspicious.

He walked closer, holding up his hands. ‘I assure you, I am well. Completely recovered. But do not fear. I am not escaping. I simply wished to take a walk.’

She peered at him a long time as if assessing his health for herself.

He’d not seen her since his attempted departure. She looked like a vision from some bucolic painting, tilling the soil.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked. But what he really meant was, Why are you working in the garden like a labourer?

She lowered her gaze and stabbed the earth with her hoe. ‘Oh, I am turning the earth to ready it for autumn planting.’

A baron’s daughter? ‘Why you, Miss Wallace? Do you have no gardeners?’

She blinked and could not quite meet his eyes. ‘There is only Kinley, but he cannot do it all.’ She raised her head and lifted her chin. ‘And we must have food, must we not?’

‘What about your footmen? Can they not help?’ Robert was a strong young man.

She attacked the ground again. ‘Robert and Erwin are proud of being footmen. It would be beneath them to work in the garden.’

He tilted his head. ‘But not beneath the baron’s daughter?’

Her face flushed. ‘I do not mind the work.’

‘Your brother, then.’ Niven had seemed an energetic youth.

‘Niven is not at home. He is visiting a friend.’

That seemed quite frivolous when there was so much to be done at home—most of it falling to Miss Wallace. Or, rather, most she took upon herself. It bothered Lucas to see her performing such hard labour. And it bothered him that her plight affected him at all.

It was none of his affair, he told himself.

‘I will leave you to it, then.’ He turned away and walked a few steps, but turned back to her, inclining his head towards a pond he’d glimpsed in the distance. ‘I thought I might walk to that pond.’

She stopped hoeing. ‘Are you certain you feel well enough?’

‘You need not worry about me, Miss Wallace.’

She had enough worries on her shoulders.




Chapter Six (#u47110185-aebc-5340-86ee-3415564e0218)


Lucas walked around the pond, completely convinced now his illness was gone. His limbs were fatigued, but the previous days’ inactivity could account for that. He rounded the last bend and came face-to-face with a well-dressed older gentleman.

‘You, sir!’ The man’s tone was instantly bellicose. ‘What is your business here on my property?’

This must be Miss Wallace’s father, the Baron of Dunburn, Lucas supposed. Lucas bowed. ‘Forgive me if I have intruded where I ought not to have been. I hope you would have heard of me. I am Mr John Lucas, the one indebted to you for the care I’ve received while ill.’

‘Oh!’ The man’s expression brightened. ‘You are the Englishman my children brought home! I quite forgot. I am Dunburn, you see. Well. Well. You look very fit for a man supposed to be at death’s door.’

‘I believe I might credit your household for that,’ he responded. ‘I was very unwell when they found me, I’ve been told.’

‘Indeed. Indeed.’ The man clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good that you are well now, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I shall not have to prevail on your hospitality for much longer.’ Lucas had the feeling that Dunburn knew very little of his situation. ‘If you wish me to leave today—’

The Baron lifted his hand. ‘No need for that. Stay as long as you wish.’ He eyed Lucas up and down. ‘My son told me you are a cavalryman. Rode in the charge at Waterloo.’

Lucas’s spirits plummeted. He had no wish to talk of Waterloo. ‘I was in the cavalry. No longer,’ Lucas responded.

Dunburn did not seem to notice he’d not mentioned Waterloo. ‘What was your regiment again?’ he asked.

‘First Royals,’ Lucas managed to say.

‘Yes, yes. That was what Niven told me!’ Dunburn’s excitement escalated. ‘I knew it. You were at Waterloo. Part of the glorious charge with the Scots Greys!’

Hardly glorious, Lucas would have said. Not when it killed his brother.

The man fell in step with him. ‘Come sit with me and tell me all about it. Do you not think the Scots Greys’ bravery secured the victory?’

Lucas opened his mouth to refuse, even though it would be churlish to do so, but Dunburn reached inside his coat and took out a flask, raising his brows and smiling.

Perhaps Lucas could talk about the Scots Greys, if he were fortified by whisky.

Dunburn led him to a nearby bench and passed him the flask when they sat down. Lucas lifted it to his lips and took a long sip, savouring the familiar aroma, taste and the warmth spreading through his chest.

‘The Greys did their part,’ Lucas said.

He spoke of the tactics, the successes of the Greys, the sort of account that would appear in a newspaper. As he spoke, memories returned of the blood, the rage and fear on the soldiers’ faces, the wild eyes of the horses, the mud, the screams, the horror of seeing his brother cut down. Lucas drank most of the contents of Dunburn’s flask.

As he sat with the older man, who clearly had no shortage of Scottish pride, he spied Miss Wallace on the path near the kitchen garden. She stood a long time watching her father converse with him. He had not a clue what she might be thinking. After some time she turned and walked away.

The sun rose high in the sky and warmed the air even more. Finally, Dunburn stood. ‘My head’s mince! I promised I would call upon Laird Buchan and now I’m a wee bit late.’

Lucas rose with him.

Dunburn clapped him on the shoulder again. ‘It would be grand if we could invite you to dinner, Mr Lucas.’ He raised his arms helplessly.

‘No, sir. I would not presume.’ He did not wish to be treated as a house guest, not when he was an actual burden.

The Baron nodded agreeably. ‘For a Sassenach, you are a right fine fellow.’

Lucas bowed. ‘Thank you, sir.’

* * *

Mairi left the kitchen garden to help Mrs Cross with cleaning the drawing room, the sitting rooms and the library while her parents were calling upon Laird Buchan. She wished she’d been able to do more. Truth was, she was not very good at hoeing the earth.




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