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