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