Man In The Mist
Annette Broadrick
MR. DESTINYHe appeared from the mist–formidable, feverish…and searching for her. Within moments he was in her bed, leaving Fiona MacDonald to wonder why an American man had traveled so far and to such personal expense to find a woman who hadn't wanted to be found.She'd nursed Greg Dumas to health, only to learn that the former cop's investigation of a client's birthright had led him to her father's dusty medical files. Fiona knew nothing of clandestine deliveries, but she did know that she wanted to love the sorrow from this wounded warrior's eyes for as long as they had. For something told her that as quickly as he'd arrived in her life, Greg just might be gone….
“I don’t ever want to hurt you,” he said. “Or take advantage of you in any way.”
Fiona knew that if she let Greg walk out of her life without having experienced his lovemaking, she would regret it for the rest of her life. She wanted no regrets. Not where Greg was concerned.
With a calm deliberation, Fiona stood and briskly peeled off her clothes. Greg, startled, sat up and said, “What are you doing?”
Of course he knew what she was doing, she thought, as she sat beside him once more. His gaze seemed to sweep over her in waves, and everywhere his gaze paused, she tingled.
“I’m seducing you,” she said, sounding breathless as she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Dear Reader,
As you ski into the holiday season, be sure to pick up the latest batch of Silhouette Special Edition romances. Featured this month is Annette Broadrick’s latest miniseries, SECRET SISTERS, about family found after years of separation. The first book in this series is Man in the Mist (#1576), which Annette describes as “…definitely a challenge to write.” About her main characters, Annette says, “Greg, the wounded lion hero—you know the type—gave me and the heroine a very hard time. But we refused to be intimidated and, well, you’ll see what happened!”
You’ll adore this month’s READERS’ RING pick, A Little Bit Pregnant (SE#1573), which is an emotional best-friends-turned-lovers tale by reader favorite Susan Mallery. Her Montana Millionaire (SE#1574) by Crystal Green is part of the popular series MONTANA MAVERICKS: THE KINGSLEYS. Here, a beautiful socialite dazzles the socks off a dashing single dad, but gets her own lesson in love. Nikki Benjamin brings us the exciting conclusion of the baby-focused miniseries MANHATTAN MULTIPLES, with Prince of the City (SE#1575). Two willful individuals, who were lovers in the past, have become bitter enemies. Will they find their way back to each other?
Peggy Webb tantalizes our romantic taste buds with The Christmas Feast (SE#1577), in which a young woman returns home for Christmas, but doesn’t bargain on meeting a man who steals her heart. And don’t miss A Mother’s Reflection (SE#1578), Elissa Ambrose’s powerful tale of finding long-lost family…and true love.
These six stories will enrich your hearts and add some spice to your holiday season. Next month, stay tuned for more page-turning and provocative romances from Silhouette Special Edition.
Happy reading!
Gail Chasan
Senior Editor
Man in the Mist
Annette Broadrick
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to
Eileen Hutton—
A keen mind and gentle heart…
a winning combination
ANNETTE BROADRICK
believes in romance and the magic of life. Since 1984, Annette has shared her view of life and love with readers. In addition to being nominated by Romantic Times as one of the Best New Authors of that year, she has also won the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best in its Series; the Romantic Times WISH award; and the Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Awards for Series Romance and Series Romantic Fantasy.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Prologue
November 28, 1978
“I know, I know,” Dr. James MacDonald murmured. “The contractions are coming harder and with more pain,” he said to the girl who lay on the table in one of his examining rooms. “You’re doing fine…just fine.”
She’d shown up at his home office earlier that evening, chilled from the cold wind sweeping across the Highlands of Scotland. He had never seen her before but when he realized she was having contractions, he never thought about turning her way, despite the late hour.
His wife, Margaret, stood near the girl’s head and wiped away the perspiration from her face and forehead. “Everything’s going well,” Margaret said to her, but the look on her face told James she was worried.
The girl was running a high fever. He’d done what he could to give her medications that wouldn’t distress the babies he was in the process of delivering. She needed to be in a hospital, but he couldn’t move her until the babies were born.
Triplets, she’d told him.
He looked at her now as she rested between contractions. “What is your name, dear?” he asked.
“Moira,” she replied.
“Ah, Moira. And where is your husband on this blustery night?”
Moira shook her head and began to cry. “He’s dead,” she sobbed. “I saw his brother kill him and I ran. I had to get away before he killed me, as well.” Her voice climbed.
“Well, you needn’t worry about a thing, dear. You’re safe with Meggie and me.” After a moment he asked, “What was your husband’s name?”
“Douglas, but please don’t put his name on the birth certificates. If you do, his brother will find us.”
“Don’t you worry, lass. You’re safe and so are your babes. Rest as much as you can. I believe these babes are eager to enter the world.”
“They’re a little early,” she said. “My doctor told me he would place me in hospital for the last two weeks. Our plans were to go in next week.” She gasped as another strong contraction began.
James MacDonald had practiced medicine in his hometown of Craigmor for more than thirty years and had dealt with a great many crises. Tonight he was facing a particularly difficult one. His young patient, and he doubted she was more than eighteen or so, was fighting a severe lung infection in addition to having her babies.
After several hours of labor, three tiny but healthy girls entered the world. Each had strong vocal cords and wasn’t afraid to use them. Margaret cleaned and weighed each one before wrapping them in warm blankets. Then, she tucked them side by side in a bassinet.
“Mighty fine young ladies you have, Moira,” James said, feeling relief that they were safely delivered. “All of them beauties, just like their mother.”
The new mother attempted a smile before she closed her eyes. Her work was done. Her babies had made it safely into the world.
James moved her into one of their upstairs bedrooms to rest and recuperate while Margaret continued to care for the infants.
Before she fell asleep, Moira caught James’s wrist in a surprisingly fierce grip, considering her weakened condition, and said, “Don’t let him find my babies.” Her eyes were glazed with fever and her voice sounded raspy. “He mustn’t find them. He’ll kill them. Please. Don’t let him find them.”
“You and your babies are safe, Moira. You just rest and get better. You’ll be able to take care of them yourself once you’re better.”
Moira stared at him, her grief and pain mirrored in her eyes. “I loved Douglas so much. I don’t want to go on without him,” she whispered.
“You have three precious daughters to care for, Moira,” he replied in a gentle voice. “They need you.”
“Please find them a good home. Promise me,” she whispered. “Promise me you’ll protect my babies.”
James stared at her in alarm. “You must protect your babies. Give yourself time. You will be able to…” He stopped speaking when he realized she was no longer conscious.
Moira never regained consciousness. It was as though she’d grown tired of struggling for breath and at the end gave up the effort with one final sigh.
Moira with no last name had done what she could to give her babies a chance at life. Now it was up to James and Margaret to decide what to do with her legacy.
Chapter One
October 16, 2003
Greg Dumas peered through the windshield of his rental car with a mixture of frustration and resignation. He could scarcely see past the front of his car. He leaned closer while the windshield wipers valiantly fought a losing battle to remove moisture from the fogged glass. Rain poured down, mixing with the heavy mist that swirled in the headlights.
After several weeks in Scotland, he felt as though he’d stepped into another world made up of perennial rain and perpetual gloom.
Greg knew he should have stayed in Craigmor tonight, rather than attempt to find one small village in the western Highlands after dark. The village hadn’t looked so far away on the map, but he hadn’t taken into account that he was in the mountains.
He was exhausted. It didn’t help that the cough that had started sometime last week had worsened. He’d been on the move since landing in Glasgow last month. He’d rented a car and driven to Edinburgh, thinking he’d be returning to New York in no more than three days. Instead, Edinburgh had been the first stop of many in his search. Since then, he’d followed one lead after another, chasing back and forth across the Highlands like a de-ranged bloodhound.
When he’d received the newest lead late this afternoon, he hadn’t wanted to wait another night to check it out.
Greg knew he sounded like a barking seal every time he coughed. In addition, his head felt stuffed full of cotton and he couldn’t breathe without wheezing.
To make matters worse, it was now close to midnight and he was lost. He thought he’d been following the map he’d marked earlier when he stopped to eat, but somehow he’d managed to find yet another narrow road that appeared to lead to nowhere.
He couldn’t remember the last light he’d seen. Of course, with fog so thick, he could have driven through the hamlet—or the village, or whatever the towns were called—without being aware he’d reached his goal.
Manhattan was nothing like this, he muttered to himself.
He should never have taken this job, he thought—not for the first time—regardless of the money offered. In the three years since he’d opened his office as a private investigator, what had started as a one-man operation had mushroomed into a firm with several investigators—former cops as he was—and a growing support staff that threatened to spill out of their office space within the year.
So why had he finally agreed to take this case? It hadn’t been the money, although the client had offered to double his usual fee and pay all of his expenses if he would personally handle this matter.
He’d turned her down at first. He’d never been away from his daughter, Tina, for more than a night and he hadn’t been comfortable with the idea of traveling to Great Britain. However, Tina’s grandmother, Helen, had urged him to take the case. She’d felt he needed a change of pace from his busy schedule as well as a chance to see more of the world.
When Helen convinced him that leaving Tina with her would be fun for all concerned, he’d finally accepted the assignment. Of course, he’d taken this job thinking he’d quickly find the answers he sought.
Instead he was chasing false trails or trails that dried up, leaving him wondering where to search next, all because he respected Helen’s opinion.
He didn’t know what he would have done if his mother-in-law hadn’t stepped in and helped him to take care of Tina after Jill’s death. She rarely offered her opinion. When she did, he listened.
After three weeks in Scotland, he had no doubts that he’d made the wrong choice. What he had thought would be a simple matter—finding his client’s birth parents—had turned out to be far from simple. His search had turned into a mystery with few answers.
If this latest lead didn’t pan out, he would give up and return to New York. He’d exhausted all other avenues.
Right now, all he wanted to do was to hop on a plane and head for the States, sleeping the entire trip across the Atlantic. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, he appeared destined to wander the western Highlands of Scotland for the foreseeable future.
Greg knew he’d been on the road too long and had driven too many hours. He had to find a place where he could rest, and soon. Better yet, he needed to find a place to spend the night. Between the cold air and the dampness that had seeped inside him clear to his bones, he seemed to have acquired a permanent tremor throughout his body.
His assignment had turned into a wild-goose chase. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t have the protective coating of a wild goose. The cold, damp climate had him reeling.
He’d headed west to find some middle-aged woman who had retreated to the isolated area of northwest Scotland. She’d been nowhere near the village where he had hoped to find the information he needed.
From his interviews with several of the old-time residents of Craigmor, this particular woman was his best hope to discover the answers he needed.
When he first arrived in Scotland he’d expected to contact the attorney who had handled his client’s adoption and/or the physician attending her birth to get the name of her biological parents.
The first snag he’d run into involved making contact with the lawyer, Calvin McCloskey. Greg had gone to the address listed in the legal documents. There were still lawyers at the location—they called themselves solicitors—and the name of the firm was the same, but as the associate he’d spoken to pointed out, the adoption papers had been signed twenty-five years ago. The solicitors who’d been practicing law back then had all retired or died.
Greg had had a moment of concern that Mr. McCloskey was one of the guys who’d died, but the associate assured him that good ol’ Calvin was still alive and kicking. In fact, the associate had given Greg Calvin’s home address and wished him well.
Fat lot of good that had done him. He’d talked to the man’s housekeeper, who explained that Mr. McCloskey was off fishing. Since he hadn’t bothered telling her where he would be, Greg had no way of contacting him until he decided to return home.
Greg had had the choice of waiting for the man or searching for the doctor. But he could find no record of a Dr. MacDonald currently practicing in Edinburgh.
He’d had to wait for the solicitor.
Greg had passed the time while waiting for Mr. McCloskey by visiting several Edinburgh sights. He’d been impressed to see how well maintained the castles were and had enjoyed catching up on the history of the area.
By the end of the first week he’d adjusted to the Scottish brogue that he heard everywhere he went. In addition, he’d managed to stop going to the left side of the rental car to drive, since the steering wheel could only be found on the right side.
Late the following week Mr. McCloskey left word at Greg’s hotel that he could meet with him the following day.
They had the meeting at the solicitor’s home. The man was gracious enough but for Greg’s purposes frustratingly reserved. As soon as Greg explained why he was there, the man’s air of detached interest disappeared and he stated firmly that he wouldn’t be able to help him.
He gave various excuses, among them that his files were in storage and he would have no idea where to find one particular file.
Greg could understand that after twenty-five years, finding one lone file would be difficult. However, he found the solicitor’s manner a little strange when Mr. McCloskey began to question Greg about his client, wanting to know her name and something about her.
After explaining that he couldn’t ethically give information about his client’s present situation, Greg showed him the birth certificate and adoption papers he’d brought with him and pointed out that the birth parents were not listed. He’d found that unusual and hoped the solicitor could shed some light on the mystery.
Calvin sighed and leaned back into his chair. He stroked his chin and gazed pensively out a nearby window. Finally, he turned and said, “Nothing good is going to come out of this search of yours. Why don’t you go back to New York and tell your client that her parents were the ones who provided her a loving home.”
Greg leaned forward. “You talk as if you knew her adoptive parents.”
“That I did, young man. A fine, upstanding couple.”
“In that case, you must know the birth parents. How else would you have known my client was a candidate for adoption?”
Mr. McCloskey folded his hands and shook his head. “I was asked to handle the matter by the doctor who delivered the—uh—who delivered your client,” he muttered.
“Dr. MacDonald,” Greg replied. “Do you know how I could contact him?”
“I doubt you’ll get much from him…or his wife, for that matter…seeing as how they’re both buried in a cemetery near Craigmor.”
Greg felt his heart sink. “Dr. MacDonald is dead?”
“Aye. It was a heartbreaking day when I heard about his and Meggie’s sudden passing,” McCloskey said sadly, shaking his head.
The solicitor showed the first emotion Greg had seen since he’d arrived. Intrigued, Greg asked, “What happened to them?”
McCloskey’s eyes misted over. “Jamie and I had been school chums who had kept in touch with each other through the years. I expect I knew him as well as anyone. I for one was not in the least surprised to hear that Jamie and Meggie died helping to save others.” He stared into space. “They’d gone to Ireland to visit with friends, I was told. On the way home, the ferry they were on malfunctioned—no one knows exactly why—and sank.
“Survivors told me how heroic Jamie had been, refusing to leave the ferry until every person was safely aboard the lifeboats. Of course Meggie would be right beside him, as she was most of their lives.
“One woman told me how she would have lost her two children if the MacDonalds hadn’t scooped them up and placed them into one of the boats. The children’s mother begged the MacDonalds to get in the boat with them, but neither would listen, saying there were others to be helped. The last she saw of them, they’d returned to the main deck. The ferry sank quickly after that.
“By the time help found them, there was nothing to be done. The only consoling thing that came out of the tragedy was that the two of them went together. I doubt that either of them would have survived long without the other.”
Greg allowed the silence to stretch into minutes. Mr. McCloskey was obviously back in the past, reliving the days when all of them had been young.
Finally, Greg said, “You know, Mr. McCloskey, Dr. MacDonald sounds like the kind of person who would want a girl to know who her birth parents were. Tell me, did he practice here in Edinburgh?”
“No. He returned to Craigmor, his hometown, when he finished school. He practiced medicine there for years as the only medical resource for miles around.”
Craigmor. That gave him a lead of sorts. Not much, but enough to visit the place to see if anyone living there now might remember that time and offer some answers.
Greg had decided that he wasn’t going to receive anything more from the solicitor when Mr. McCloskey suddenly spoke, as though to an unseen person nearby. “It’s been almost twenty-five years now, Jamie. Haven’t we protected the wee babes long enough? Maybe it’s time they found each other.”
Greg knew he must have heard the man wrong. Did he say babes? “There was more than one?” he asked softly, not wanting to startle the solicitor from his reverie. Greg’s heart had started to pound with the excitement of discovering an unexpected aspect of the case.
Mr. McCloskey slowly nodded, then took off his wire-rimmed glasses and carefully polished them with a snowy white handkerchief. He took his time before carefully folding the handkerchief and returning it to his pocket.
“There were triplets,” he finally said. “It was a terrible time. We had to make one of the most difficult decisions possible—we knew the most important thing was to find the girls suitable homes away from the area as quickly as possible.”
“Which is why you split them up.” Greg’s comment was more statement than question.
Calvin nodded. “Yes. We needed to protect them from harm.”
“Why would they need to be protected?” Greg asked, his curiosity fully aroused.
“I was told that their father had been murdered by his brother the night before their birth and the mother had run away, seeking sanctuary. By the time she appeared in Craigmor, she suffered from a combination of shock, grief and pneumonia and died soon after delivering the babies. She’d been terrified their uncle would find the girls and kill them. She begged the MacDonalds to protect them.”
Greg thanked the saints for Mr. McCloskey’s willingness, at long last, to share information with him. “Did you learn the parents’ names at the time of the adoption?”
“No, none of us did. The mother—Moira was her name—never gave her last name. Moira mentioned her husband, Douglas. Not only did the MacDonalds never find out the mother’s last name, they had no idea where she had come from. For obvious reasons they were hesitant to make too many inquiries for fear of stirring up too much interest from the wrong source.”
Greg took notes furiously, wondering how he should tell his client. She was one of three. That news was going to be a shock.
“Jamie and Meggie went to a great deal of effort to protect the girls from being found by their uncle,” the solicitor continued sadly.
Greg stood and held out his hand. “Thank you for being so candid with me, sir. I have to admit I now have more questions than answers, but I believe you’ve guided me to the next step.”
Mr. McCloskey also stood, shaking Greg’s hand. “Which is?” he asked, frowning.
“I’d like to find any relatives of the MacDonalds to see if they recall that time.” He looked at his notes. “You mentioned Craigmor, I believe. I’ll continue my search there.”
Mr. McCloskey adjusted his glasses. “I doubt very much that you’ll find any answers there.” He sounded irritated, as though he’d hoped Greg would give up looking for more information.
“Probably not, but as long as I’m here in Scotland, I need to exhaust all leads before returning home,” Greg had replied at the time.
The solicitor had certainly been correct, Greg thought now as he strained to see the road ahead. Greg had never found such a closemouthed bunch of people before, which was saying a lot. Every villager he’d gotten to talk with him had been adamant that no triplets had ever been born in their village.
How could that be? he’d wondered. Had Mr. McCloskey made up the whole story to get rid of him? Greg found that hard to believe. The crusty solicitor had been too reticent at first to discuss the matter to have decided to make up a lie. If Greg were any judge of character, he’d swear the man had told the truth.
So when one of the old-timers happened to mention the MacDonalds’ daughter, Greg decided he would search her out before reporting his findings to his client. He wished he’d forgotten about following this lead and had returned home, instead. He could have told his client there wasn’t a chance of finding her roots in Scotland.
However, in good conscience, Greg couldn’t do that because there was a chance, even though it was slight. Perhaps the daughter, Fiona MacDonald, would remember something that would open up his search. If she couldn’t? Well, so be it. Until he had a chance to talk with her, she was a lead he refused to ignore.
Another wracking cough took over his body and forced Greg once more to slow the car. At least he didn’t have to worry about someone coming along and rear-ending him before he or she saw him through the fog.
No intelligent being would be out on a night like this, which said a great deal about him, he thought sourly.
Some time later Greg knew he was hallucinating when he thought the mist formed into wings and a long wisp pointed to the right. Another ten feet and he spotted a small lane, smaller than the one he was on. Despite the poor visibility, Greg could see that the road appeared to lead to a higher elevation. There was no sign to tell him where it led, but he had the strongest urge to follow it. Maybe he would find a farmhouse where he could get directions to the nearest town.
Without questioning the wisdom of his decision, Greg turned in to the single-track lane. A stone fence on either side of the road made him wonder what a person would do if he were to meet another vehicle along the way. There was no room to pass or turn around. He supposed if he met someone, one of them would have to back up. From the lack of lights or directional signs, he had a hunch he wouldn’t have to worry about that particular problem this late at night.
Fiona MacDonald sat beside the fireplace of her snug cottage, curled up with the latest novel by one of her favorite authors. Engrossed in the imaginary world portrayed in its pages, she’d lost track of time. A warm, knitted afghan on her lap had become a bed for Tiger, her striped yellow cat, who was sprawled on his back with paws extended in the air, asleep in total bliss.
Next to the chair, her mastiff, McTavish, soaked up the warmth radiating from the peat fire.
Fiona had spent most of the day visiting several villagers in the glen who’d needed her services as a healer. Once she’d returned home she’d been physically tired, but not ready for sleep. Rather than go upstairs to bed, she’d decided to indulge herself in her favorite pastime—reading—before retiring.
Although she heard nothing more than the sounds of the fire and the soft snores emanating from Tiger, McTavish lifted his head and stared toward the front window. Fiona put down her book and listened. She still heard nothing. Mac’s hearing was almost supernatural, so she waited to detect the sound that he had heard.
Eventually, a weak light appeared, barely piercing the thick fog, and Fiona realized someone was driving up her lane. She sighed and reluctantly moved Tiger off her lap. She glanced at her watch. It was past midnight. If there was an emergency, why hadn’t someone phoned her instead of driving out here in such weather at this time of night?
Thankful she still wore her heavy sweater and woolen pants instead of her nightgown and robe, Fiona slipped her stocking feet into her shoes and went to the front door, McTavish by her side. She grabbed her heavy jacket from the coat tree beside the door and pulled it on, making sure the hood came snugly over her head. Only when she opened the door did she realize that the earlier rain she’d been absently hearing had turned into stinging pellets of sleet.
She and McTavish stepped outside and stood in the shelter of her porch waiting for the car—which crept forward—to reach the house. McTavish had not barked as yet. However, his alert stance would make it clear to anyone venturing near his mistress that if he perceived her to be in danger, he was ferociously prepared to fend off any would-be attacker.
The car inched into the yard and stopped near the garage, which was unattached to the house. Fiona turned on the yard light, thinking she might recognize her late-night visitor. Whoever was in the car left the headlights on and she couldn’t see inside.
She watched as a man wearing a jacket inadequate for the current weather conditions stepped out of the car. He stood with the door open and looked around the area, pulling his collar up around his ears. Mist floated between them and the sleet further obscured him from view.
McTavish rumbled deep in his chest, but didn’t move. She rested her hand lightly on his head. The man spotted her in the shadows and without moving away from the car spoke to her.
“I’m sorry to bother you so late,” he said with an American accent, his voice hoarse, “but I’m afraid I’m lost.” He began to cough—a horrible, deep paroxysm that must have been painful. “I was hoping for some directions to a town nearby where I might find a place to stay overnight.”
Fiona knew that her visitor—whoever he was—was ill. She could never turn away someone in need of healing.
She stepped forward so that he could better see her and spoke clearly so that he might hear her. “Come in, please. You don’t sound at all well.”
He shook his head. “No, but thanks. I’m all right. I just need some directions.”
The yard light shone down on his thick, dark hair and emphasized his high cheekbones and a strong jaw that reflected the stubbornness she could hear in his voice.
Fiona stared at him without speaking, a tingle of sensation reverberating through her body. She began to receive myriad sensations about this man—a long-harbored and deep grief…depleted energy…frustration…physical pain. Most immediate to her, though, was the instinctive knowledge that he was on the verge of pneumonia.
At least he’d come to the right place for healing. He probably didn’t know he’d found a medical person, of sorts. Well, tonight was his lucky night, she thought with wry humor.
“Please come inside and we’ll discuss your situation,” she said. “You need to get out of this weather.”
He glanced around as though only now aware of the sleet stinging his face. With a shrug of resignation, the man reached inside the car, turned off the engine and lights and slammed the door behind him.
He strode across the driveway toward the front door.
As soon as he stepped onto the porch, she opened the door and motioned for him to enter. Now that she was closer to him, Fiona knew her sensory impressions had been correct. Her unexpected visitor was far from well. She felt certain he had a fever. That, together with his croupy cough, informed her that if he didn’t already have pneumonia, he was close to succumbing.
McTavish followed her visitor into the house, staying between the stranger and Fiona, totally focused on the man who had entered their home. Fiona smiled to see how seriously McTavish took his role as her protector whenever a stranger appeared. She rarely had visitors whom she didn’t know. She found this one to be particularly intriguing, whether from a healer’s point of view or as a woman aware of a very attractive man, she wasn’t certain.
However, she intended to find out. She closed the door behind them and moved toward him with a smile.
Greg looked around the hallway, then back to her as though bewildered. She held out her hand. “I’m Fiona MacDonald…and you are…?”
He blinked. “You’re Fiona MacDonald? I don’t believe it! You’re the woman I’ve been looking for. I’m Greg Dumas,” he said, and shook her hand.
The contact shook her. Or maybe her reaction was due to his comment.
She was the woman he’d been looking for, was she? Quite a startling revelation, if he were to be believed. Had he had the same reaction to her as she had to him?
Somehow she doubted it. Her own true love arriving at midnight on a stormy night proclaiming—with an American accent!—that he had been searching for her and at last had found her was a little much, even for her romantic soul.
His stare tended to unnerve her. If he hadn’t known her before, he would certainly know her after this, she decided, slipping out of her heavy jacket.
She gestured to the living room. “You’re chilled, which is to be expected with the weather as it is. Your jacket isn’t much protection on a night such as this one. Please warm yourself by the fire. I’ll be right back with some tea to help ease your throat.”
He stared at her blankly and she wondered if he had understood her. He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them, blearily focusing on her.
After a pause, he replied, “Oh, that’s okay,” as though her words had finally registered. “I can’t stay.” He swayed where he stood. “What I really need are directions.”
Oh, my. He was going to be very stubborn about this. She’d certainly read that jawline correctly. He was operating on sheer willpower alone. He blinked his eyes again, as though trying to improve his vision. When he saw her watching him, he smiled uncomfortably. She found his lopsided smile endearing. He was exhausted and refused to admit it.
She nodded toward the front room. “I won’t be long,” she said, showing that she could be just as stubborn. “Go ahead and get warm, now.” She spoke in firm tones, much as she would to an obstinate child.
Fiona hung up her jacket and went down the hallway to the kitchen, which was located at the back of the cottage.
Greg turned to watch her as she walked past him and disappeared down the hallway. He wondered if she were a mirage, like the wings and pointing finger.
This was Fiona MacDonald? he thought, forcing himself to focus on his present situation. Nah. Couldn’t be. The woman he was looking for had to be in her late thirties or so. This woman was barely out of her teens, if that. But then, MacDonald was a fairly common name in Scotland. He rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his head from side to side.
Too bad he’d found the wrong one. It would be too much to hope for that his search would end so easily.
This Fiona MacDonald had vivid red hair that framed her face and tumbled over her shoulders in thick waves. She was no more than a couple of inches over five feet. The top of her head might reach his shoulder…if she stood on her toes.
He shook his head, needing his brain to kick in and start working again. He was exhausted and needed to find a place to sleep. All he’d asked of her were directions. Hadn’t he made himself clear?
Greg took a few steps so that he could see into the front room. The comfortably furnished place looked cozy and the warmth lured him closer to the fire. Without further thought, he headed toward the fireplace and held out his chilled hands. Another coughing spell hit him and he quickly covered his mouth.
Once he caught his breath, Greg sank into the wingback chair nearest him. The giant dog watched him from the doorway and Greg wondered if he was being sized up for the monster’s next meal.
On the other side of the fireplace a yellow-striped cat stared balefully at him from the arm of an overstuffed chair. A lap robe lay on the other arm and an open book was upside down on the small table nearby.
From the evidence, it looked as though Fiona had been reading while seated in that chair when he arrived. Great deductive reasoning for a private eye. His gaze returned to the fire and he squeezed his eyes shut. They burned from fatigue.
A sudden thought made him groan out loud. What if the directions he’d received were for the wrong Fiona MacDonald? Wouldn’t that be just the news he needed to round off his day?
He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and leaned his head against his hand. All his efforts for today had gotten him was thoroughly lost and too tired to care.
The warmth of the room contributed to his drowsiness and he fought to stay awake when all he wanted at the moment was to fall asleep. This would never do. He had to fight whatever was causing his light-headedness. If that woman didn’t return soon, he would—
“Here’s some tea,” Fiona said, interrupting his hazy thoughts. He forced his eyes open. “It should help you to feel better,” she added. She held a large ceramic mug toward him, with steam lazily rising.
“I really can’t—” he began, but she hushed him with a gesture and gently smiled at him.
Whoa, what was happening here? The way she was standing with the light from the fireplace behind her, she looked as if she glowed. There was no other word to explain it. Her hair shimmered in the light like a halo.
“Drink it,” she said softly. “I promise I’m not trying to poison you.”
Reluctantly Greg reached for the cup. He brought it to his mouth and sniffed. The stuff didn’t smell all that bad, but he’d never been much of a tea drinker. Coffee was his drink of choice. However, it was something hot that might help him to get warm. Besides, she’d been kind enough to make it. The least he could do was to drink it.
The warmth of the mug felt good and he wrapped both hands around it. He hadn’t realized how chilled he was until he’d come inside. Greg absently noticed that Fiona sat in the chair across from him. Her cat immediately jumped into her lap while continuing to eye him with disdain.
When the tea had cooled enough, he brought the mug to his lips and sipped, allowing the pleasing warmth of the liquid to slide over his tongue and soothe his throat. He didn’t know much about teas, but this one wasn’t half-bad. He took another sip and then another. Before long, the mug was empty.
He glanced over at Fiona. “That was quite good, actually,” he said politely.
She smiled. “You sound surprised, Mr. Dumas.”
Embarrassed, he muttered, “I’m not much of a fan of tea, as a rule.” He coughed and hastily set the mug on a nearby table. When he finally managed to control the wracking coughs, he sighed and dropped his head against the back of the chair, closing his eyes once more.
When he opened them sometime later, Fiona stood before him, holding his mug full of fresh tea out to him. “This will help,” she said, her voice gentle.
He sighed, looking up at her. She was being very kind, he thought. The coughing spell had taken so much out of him that he had trouble focusing on her or the mug.
As though she could read his mind, she leaned over and held the warm drink to his lips. He wanted to tell her he wasn’t a child, but speech took too much effort at the moment. Greg found it easier to drink the tea in silence.
He rested his eyes as soon as he finished the tea. He knew that she didn’t immediately move away from him. The light scent of flowers drifted past him, bringing a vision of sunshine and meadows and happiness and… She must have stepped away because the fragrance gradually dissipated along with the sunshine and happiness.
He needed to thank her for the drink. He needed—
She spoke and her voice sounded far away. He forced himself to open his eyes. She continued to shimmer, as though she were a figment of his imagination. Not even his fertile imagination could have conjured up a woman like this one.
Greg gave his head a shake in an effort to clear his thoughts. It didn’t help. Thinking took too much effort. He gave up trying to figure out what she was saying to him. Instead, he allowed himself to drift while he listened to the soothing sound of her lyrical voice.
“It’s much too late for you to attempt to find the village tonight, Mr. Dumas. You’re not well and you need to rest. Come with me. I have a guest room where you’ll be more comfortable.”
She held out her hand and he stared at her for a moment before accepting it. When she tugged, he slowly stood. Greg felt the room shift when he tried to follow her. Something was wrong with him. There was a hum in his head that seemed to drown out all other sounds.
Fiona led him across the room and into the hall. After opening a door across the hallway, she flipped on a switch and quickly moved to the bed.
“Why don’t you take off your jacket and shoes?” she suggested with her angelic smile. He fumbled with the zipper of his leather jacket, but he couldn’t make the darned thing work. Must be stuck, he thought. She gently pushed his hands aside and quickly removed his wet jacket. When she motioned to his shoes, he sat on the side of the bed and clumsily removed them.
She walked to the other side of the bed and pulled the covers back. “I think you’ll be comfortable enough here for the night.”
He roused enough to realize what she was saying. “What did you give me to drink?” Delayed adrenaline kicked in, somewhat clearing his head. “You’ve caused this blurry feeling, haven’t you? Who the hell are you?” he demanded to know before the coughing took over once more.
“We can talk in the morning, Mr. Dumas. You’re safe here. Rest,” she said softly, going to the door. She turned off the light and pulled the door closed, leaving him in darkness.
Greg sat there, wondering how he’d ended up in this woman’s bedroom, wondering what she’d given him to make him feel so dopey. His arms felt as if invisible weights held them down. With his last ounce of energy, he removed the rest of his clothing except for his boxer shorts.
He shivered uncontrollably from the chill in the air and curled beneath the covers, their immediate warmth comforting him. All right. The most sensible course would be to stay there for the night, but then he would insist that this woman give him the necessary directions to continue his search for the correct Fiona MacDonald.
That was his last thought before sleep overtook him.
Chapter Two
Fiona woke with a start to the sound of her visitor’s breath-stealing cough echoing through the cottage. She glanced at her bedside clock and saw that it was almost five o’clock.
The tea had given him a few hours of rest, which he needed. Not that he would have admitted it. No, sir. Mr. Greg Dumas had certainly been convinced he could continue with his journey.
She sat up, yawning. He needed more of the herbal mixture she had given him. With that in mind, Fiona pulled on her robe and went downstairs to the kitchen, where she mixed the necessary herbs to relieve his cough and congestion, as well as bring down his fever.
While she measured and crushed, her mind wandered into the past.
By the time she was a teenager, she had known that she wanted to help heal people. She had worked with her dad—even though he had retired—with some of the older people who insisted on coming to him for treatment. Because of her interest, he had encouraged her to attend university and to consider medical school, which she had done.
She had left medical school disheartened and more than a little discouraged. She’d learned little to nothing about nutritional needs, preventative medicine or natural remedies that worked as well as pharmaceuticals but with fewer side effects. She and her father had discussed the wide range of healing modalities more than once. Instead of continuing with her medical studies, she’d taken courses in nutrition and natural remedies.
When her parents died, Fiona walked away from her studies and sought a place where she could be alone and come to terms with her loss. She’d stumbled onto Glen Cairn while exploring the Highlands, and on a whim checked to see if there were any available rentals.
The cottage was exactly what she had needed—close enough to people if she wanted to reach out—secluded enough to allow her time to heal. She had never regretted her move.
As word of her training and abilities spread through Glen Cairn, villagers had come to her with their ailments and she had found her grief being eased by helping others.
She’d never told anyone why she was so good at diagnosing illnesses. First, because they wouldn’t believe her. Secondly, because she didn’t want to be considered odd, as she had been in Craigmor.
The truth was that she saw shimmering colors around each person she met. Over the years she’d learned that certain colors represented physical problems, and certain emotions appeared to her in defining colors, as well. There was no way she could find the words to explain what she saw.
As a child she’d thought that everyone could see those colors and knew what they meant. She’d assumed that was how her father was able to diagnose what was wrong with his patients.
However, as she’d grown older she’d discovered that she was the only one around who witnessed what she saw. After being laughed at several times, she’d learned to keep quiet about seeing colors that no one else appeared to detect.
Instead, she used her knowledge and skills to diagnose and treat others with her home-grown herbs, salves and her intuitive messages.
Fiona poured the steeped herbal tea, let it cool a bit and took it to her guest bedroom. After tapping on the door and getting no response, she quietly turned the knob and walked into the bedroom. Rather than turn on the overhead light, she reached for a small lamp near the door. Once there was light, she turned and looked at her guest.
The covers were bunched around his waist, displaying his bare chest. He lay on his back, his head turned away from her, his latest coughing spell still echoing in the room.
“I’ve brought you some tea.”
He slowly turned his head toward her and the light, his eyes appearing unfocused.
She touched his arm and discovered that he was burning up. She gave his shoulder a light shake. “Can you sit up for me, please?”
He blinked. When his eyes opened a second time, they were somewhat clearer. “What do you want?” he asked, his words slurred.
“I want you to drink this,” she replied, sitting on the edge of the bed and offering him the cup.
He came up on one elbow and took the cup, draining it as though he was thirsty. Without a word he handed it back to her and fell back on the bed.
She smiled, almost amused at his change in attitude. Perhaps he was too sick to care what she gave him. Fiona went over to the tall dresser in the corner and opened one of the drawers. She pulled out a large flannel shirt and brought it back to the bed.
“Here. Put this on…. You need to stay warm.”
Greg opened his eyes and frowned at her. “I’m hot. I don’t need a shirt.”
“Take my word for it. You really do need to keep your chest warm.”
His frown grew, but he sat up and pulled the shirt over his head without another word. With a glare that spoke volumes, he rolled over so that his back was to her and said, “Turn out the light when you leave.”
He sounded as gruff as a grizzly disturbed in his rest. She may not know much about her visitor, but he’d made it clear he would not be an easy patient to look after.
She turned on a night-light, turned off the lamp and returned to the kitchen to find the salve she needed for his chest.
McTavish had followed her downstairs and now sat just inside the kitchen door, giving her a disgruntled look. “Yes, I know,” she said soothingly. “I have disturbed your rest, as well. Go back upstairs. I’ll be there shortly.”
With a muffled snort the dog went into the hallway, pausing for a moment in front of the stairs to glance at the closed bedroom door before he trotted up them. Sometimes he acted as if he understood every word she said.
Perhaps he did, she thought.
Fiona quietly reentered the guest bedroom with the jar and more tea. The night-light cast enough of a glow for her to see the bed and nearby table. She placed the items on the table and sat beside him on the bed.
Once again he lay sprawled on his back, his arms thrown wide. When she brushed her hand against his forehead, she knew she had to do whatever was necessary to break his fever.
His immune system was struggling and needed help. No doubt Mr. Dumas pushed himself beyond his physical limits on a regular basis, which made him human, she supposed, but didn’t help when an infection managed to overcome him. He had little energy in reserve to combat his illness.
She reached for the ointment.
He stirred, turning his face toward her. “Jill?” he murmured. “I’ve missed you so much.” He took Fiona’s hand and tugged her toward him. She managed to catch her balance enough not to fall directly on him. Instead, she now lay next to him, her head on his shoulder.
“Mr. Dumas,” she said softly. “We need to bring your fever down. I’m also going to rub an ointment on your chest to ease the congestion there.”
She pulled away from him and reached for the cup.
He didn’t let go of her hand. “Jill?” He sounded puzzled.
“No. My name is Fiona.”
She pulled her hand away from him and slid her arm beneath his head, raising him slightly. He opened his eyes without a sign of recognition before closing them again.
Fiona held the cup to his lips. “This will help your cough and your fever, I promise.”
He drank as greedily as he had earlier. Once he finished, she returned the empty cup to the table and lowered his head back to the pillow.
She picked up the jar again and took out a dollop of the salve with her fingers. She cupped the ointment in her hands to warm the soft mixture. When the creamy medication reached body temperature she lifted his shirt and stroked her hand across his chest.
A charge of energy shot through her hand and arm, catching her off guard. She felt as if she’d just stuck her finger into a live electrical socket.
Greg Dumas was a powerful man regardless of his present condition. At least he was having a powerful effect on her. She forced herself to move her hand with a calmness she was far from feeling and applied the soothing mixture over his chest.
He smiled without opening his eyes. The smile unnerved her. She smoothed the ointment more swiftly, wanting to be finished with this part of the healing process. His chest was broad and muscled, and touching him created a fluttery feeling inside her, a sensation she was unused to experiencing.
Fiona made certain she’d covered the area adequately before she withdrew her hand from beneath his shirt. Or tried to. As soon as she began to withdraw, he trapped her hand beneath his.
As calmly as she could, Fiona said, “You need to rest now, Mr. Dumas. It’s early yet. Try to sleep a few more hours.”
He opened his eyes. They glittered in the faint light. He stared at her for a moment before he said, “I’ll sleep but I want you here beside me.”
He no longer sounded like a bear. Instead, he had become a virile male who knew what he wanted, and at the moment he wanted her in his bed.
Fiona had never run into this situation before. For one thing, she’d never had an occasion to treat a male without another family member being present. For another, she had never expected any male, regardless of his fevered condition, to show a personal interest in her.
“I don’t believe that would be a good idea,” she finally replied, speaking as softly and soothingly as possible. The man had no idea what he was saying and probably wouldn’t remember any of this once he recovered from his illness.
In the meantime…she wasn’t sure what to do.
Greg took matters into his own hands, literally, by pulling her toward him until she tumbled onto the bed beside him. With a grin that enhanced his attractiveness, he wrapped his arms around her.
“Now I’ll sleep,” he said, as though keeping a promise.
The man was much stronger than she’d realized. Fiona wasn’t certain she could get up without a struggle. Her most startling realization was that she was in no way frightened of him, despite the fact that she’d never been this close to a male other than her father.
She forced herself to relax, hoping he would release his hold on her. The tea she’d given him should ease him into sleep in a few minutes.
He turned his face toward hers and nuzzled her neck.
“Mmm,” he murmured, “you smell nice.”
She froze in disbelief. He flicked his tongue along her earlobe, causing her to shiver. When he slipped his hand beneath her robe and gown and stroked her bare breast, she almost strangled on her gasp. He made a sound of contentment as he continued to stroke and caress her, causing her nipple to pucker in the palm of his hand. A surge of pure sensual pleasure swept over her.
Fiona panicked. She could not allow this to continue. He would be horribly embarrassed later on—as would she!—when he recalled what he had done.
Greg nibbled on her ear before he licked it again.
“Mr. Dumas,” she managed to say when she was able to catch her breath. “You really need to rest.”
He ignored her and trailed kisses along her neck and the curve of her shoulder. “Stay with me,” he whispered, his husky voice vibrating in her ear. “I’ve missed you so much, sweetheart. There were times when I thought I’d die from the pain of losing you. But you’re here now. Stay with me and let me love you.”
Finally, the soporific effect of the tea kicked in and his hand slid away from her breast. She swallowed, willing her heart and breathing to slow down.
Fiona carefully left the bed, watching him with a combination of dismay and an unexpected yearning she’d never experienced before. His thick dark hair fell across his forehead. His face was flushed with fever and Fiona had an almost uncontrollable urge to push his hair away from his face and thread her fingers through its silky softness.
She knew better than to act on her impulse. She slipped out of the bedroom before temptation became too much for her to resist and hurried to the kitchen. She needed a dose of her own herbal tea to soothe and relax her.
While she sipped from her cup a few minutes later, Fiona reminded herself that Greg hadn’t known what he was doing. His fever had climbed rapidly since he’d gone to bed, which wasn’t a good sign.
She was worried about him. She gathered up supplies, including tea and ointments, and returned to his room. She felt she needed to keep a closer eye on his condition.
Fiona found him restlessly moving his legs, muttering incomprehensibly. He said the name Jill several times, as though she were there. He was talking to her, pleading with her.
His fever needed to come down. Fiona had mixed stronger herbs to help contain the infection that was causing the fever.
She sat beside him and said, “Mr. Dumas…please drink this.” She slipped her arm beneath his head, held the cup to his lips and managed to get him to drink without spilling it.
Once the cup was drained, she stepped away from him. She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, knowing that the infection appeared to have progressed enough to overcome him.
Fiona settled into a large overstuffed chair in the corner of the room. Within minutes McTavish showed up at the door. He watched her for a moment before he ambled across the room to the chair where she was. He stretched out on the floor in front of her, forming a footrest for her.
She pulled a blanket around her shoulders and began her wait for her newest patient to respond to the medications.
He couldn’t breathe.
A heavy weight rested on his chest, forcing him to push hard to get air into his lungs.
He coughed and a sharp pain shot through his chest.
Something was wrong with him.
The painful coughing continued, stealing what little breath he managed to get.
A voice murmured nearby. Soft hands cooled his body with a moist cloth that caused him to shiver.
“Jill?” he whispered hoarsely.
“It’s Fiona. Drink this…it will help.”
A soothing liquid trickled into his mouth and down his parched throat. He relaxed and allowed the moisture to ease his dry throat.
Fiona. He’d heard that name before. Did he know a Fiona? He couldn’t recall.
Oh. He remembered now. He was looking for a Fiona. He couldn’t remember why, but he knew finding her was important.
He must have found her. That was good because he had to get home.
Tina needed him.
Jill needed him.
No. It was too late to help Jill. He couldn’t do anything to save her.
Jill was dead. It was his fault.
Now he paid the price for not saving her. He’d been doomed to the fiery flames of hell for all eternity. He could feel the flames singeing him, sucking the air from his lungs.
He’d sometimes wondered if hell was a real place. Now he could tell the world it existed. It hurt. The heat was consuming him.
A young girl kept visiting him—offering him drinks, checking his temperature, bathing him, helping him with his personal needs.
He should be embarrassed. He didn’t know this girl but somehow it didn’t matter. What had she done to be consigned to hell? Must have been bad to have to experience this. Poor thing.
He was tired, much too tired to ask her why she was there.
Images of a strange bedroom flitted periodically through his world. At times the room would be so bright the light hurt his eyes, sunlight from a nearby window filling the area. Other times—only a minute or so later, wasn’t it?—the room had no light, just shadows moving around him. The light and lack of light did nothing to stop the flames that kept licking at him.
Greg saw the gun. He signaled to Jill to get out of the store before the stupid punk with the .38 spotted her.
Where had the other gunman come from? The patrol car should be here by now.
A spray of bullets shattered the glass around him. He had to stop the shooter. He had to check on Jill.
Blood. So much blood.
“Dear God,” he whispered brokenly. “Jill.”
“You’re dreaming. You’re safe here. You’re going to be all right. Just rest.”
The voice came to him—peaceful and soothing.
“Tina?”
“Fiona. I won’t leave you. Allow the medications to work on you. You’re doing fine. You’re safe,” she repeated.
Of course he was safe. It was Jill he’d left unguarded.
Fiona knew that tonight would be the crisis. Three nights had passed since her visitor had arrived. She had stayed with him ’round the clock except for short breaks to eat and bathe. When he was quiet, she managed to nap in the chair in his room. There were times when he would have lucid moments before falling back all too often into some nightmarish scene that haunted him.
She lost track of time. She measured her hours by bathing him with cool water to bring his fever down. Was his cough sounding less congested? Were his lungs taking in more air? She wasn’t certain. All she knew was that she couldn’t leave him to fight his battle alone.
His fever broke somewhere between four and five o’clock the morning of the fourth day, and Greg slipped into a deep, healing sleep.
Fiona was exhausted.
She forced herself to climb the stairs to her room, pulling herself up each step by hanging on to the handrail. With the last of her reserves, Fiona stumbled into her room, found her nightgown and dropped into bed.
She immediately slept.
Chapter Three
A steady rapping caused Fiona to stir. As she finally surfaced from exhausted sleep, she realized she had been hearing the noise for some time. Disoriented, she opened her eyes and looked around. Sunlight poured through the windows. She blinked. She didn’t usually sleep past sunup.
Then she remembered Greg and the past few days and nights. She hadn’t heard him cough in the past few hours. She hoped it was because he’d been resting better and not because she’d been too tired to hear him.
Fiona looked at the clock and groaned. It was after three o’clock in the afternoon and someone was at the door.
McTavish hadn’t barked, which meant it was someone they knew.
She went to the bedroom window and peered out just as she heard a feminine voice saying, “Fiona, dear, please answer the door. I really must speak with you.”
Mrs. Cavendish.
Oh, dear. Sarah Cavendish was an absolute dear without a hint of malice in her soul. Unfortunately she was also the biggest gossip in the entire glen. Fiona had no compunction about explaining to anyone how she had spent the past few days and nights, but she would prefer to do so once she had caught up on her sleep and her thinking processes were more clear.
Well, it couldn’t be helped. Mrs. Cavendish was here now. The rental car gave mute evidence of the presence of a visitor. Before dark the entire village would know that Fiona had company. There was no need for newspapers and television with Mrs. Cavendish around.
“Just a moment, Mrs. Cavendish,” she called from her window. “I’ll be right with you.” She turned away and spotted McTavish, who watched her from where he lay sprawled on the braided rug beside her bed.
“Fine watchdog you are,” she scolded, grabbing the first clothes she could find. “You could have given me some warning, you know.” Dressed in a sweater and trousers but still in her slippers, Fiona hurried downstairs to let Mrs. Cavendish in.
She paused to take a couple of deep breaths before she opened the door with what she hoped was a serene smile.
Mrs. Cavendish stood there looking bewildered by the delay, holding a large, obviously heavy basket. “Oh, Mrs. Cavendish,” Fiona said contritely, feeling convicted for leaving the poor woman standing at the door for so long. “I didn’t hear you right away.” She stepped back so that Sarah could come inside. “Let me take your basket.”
“Oh, thank you,” Sarah replied with heartfelt relief. “I was so afraid I would drop it. I had the mister drop me off at the beginning of your lane, thinking I wouldn’t mind a good walk. I swear the basket took on an ounce or more with each step.”
Because her hands were full, Fiona bumped her hip against the door until it closed. “You must be chilled,” she said. “Let’s go into the kitchen and I’ll make us some tea.”
Once in the kitchen, Sarah sat at the small table before asking, “Did I catch you at a bad time, dear?”
Fiona continued to measure out tea while waiting for the kettle to boil. She didn’t look around. “Why, no. This is fine.”
“Oh.” There was silence. “Well. I just wondered. Your hair is a little tumbled and you have your sweater on wrong side out.”
Fiona closed her eyes, wondering if she should explain why she looked as if she’d just gotten up. Was it really anyone’s business?
She wouldn’t be feeling so guilty if she hadn’t shared such an intimate moment with Greg the night he arrived. She needed to place what happened into perspective. He was ill and had been out of his head with fever. The matter was simple when looked at from that perspective. Unfortunately her emotions weren’t rational at the moment.
She forced a laugh that sounded exactly that—forced. She turned and ran her fingers through her hair, wincing at a tangle.
“I hadn’t realized,” she finally muttered. “How silly of me. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll set myself to rights while the tea steeps.”
Not waiting for a response, Fiona hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs once again. She closed her bedroom door and sighed. From there she could see her reflection in her dresser mirror. Her hair looked as though it had been styled by an electric mixer.
She hauled her sweater over her head, grabbed a bra from her lingerie drawer and put it on, and then she carefully turned the sweater right side out before slipping it back over her shoulders. She hurried into the bathroom, brushed her hair, pulled it back with a couple of combs, splashed water on her face, dried it and returned downstairs.
Sarah was pouring their tea. She had set out a pound cake and sliced off a couple of pieces. After setting the cups and saucers on the table, she put the slices on Fiona’s dessert plates and beamed at her.
“I baked a couple of these this morning and thought you might like to have one of them,” she said, motioning Fiona to sit. “Plus I brought you some fresh eggs and some homemade loaves of bread. I always make too much and I figured you don’t have much time for baking with all that you do.”
Fiona picked up her cup and drank, needing something in her stomach. She couldn’t remember when she last ate. Cake wouldn’t have been her first choice for nourishment, but it was better than nothing. She suddenly realized that she was starved.
“Thank you for finishing making the tea. I appreciate your bringing me the eggs and baked goods. It was very kind of you.”
Sarah flushed with pleasure. “Well, you do so much for all of us, dear, that I felt it was only fair to give something back.”
Fiona smiled. “I’m amply paid for my services, Mrs. Cavendish.”
Sarah waved that comment away. “Nonsense. You don’t charge nearly enough for the hours you put in. Why, Terese mentioned just the other day how you stayed with her two boys until whatever they had released its grip on them. I don’t know how you do it. You perform miracles every day.”
“Not at all. Remember my father was a physician and I’ve had training in the medical field.”
Sarah raised her brows. “He didn’t teach you about all those things you grow in the garden that you turn into tea and ointments, now, did he?”
“No, he didn’t,” Fiona admitted with a smile.
“I attended additional classes to learn the medicinal qualities of the herbs I use. I find natural remedies to be a great help in healing.” She rose and brought the teapot to the table. She filled both cups once more before she reseated herself and tasted the pound cake. It absolutely melted in her mouth. Why not, she thought, with all the sugar and butter used in it. She could feel her arteries clogging with each bite.
The two chatted for several minutes before Sarah glanced at her watch. “Oh, my, I hadn’t realized the time. I need to start back while there’s still some light.”
They both stood. “Thank you again for all the goodies,” Fiona said. “I can already see the weight I’ll gain, but I must admit it will be worth it.”
Sarah laughed. “Nonsense. You’re a skinny little thing and you know it. It would do you no harm to put on a few pounds.” With an arch look, she added, “The laddies do enjoy a curvaceous lass, you know.”
Not that again. Every woman in the village was determined to play matchmaker for her, whether she wanted one or not.
She walked Mrs. Cavendish to the front door. When Fiona opened it, Sarah took a step forward and paused. “I’m getting more and more forgetful in my old age, I declare. I meant to ask you when I first arrived. Whose car is that? As soon as you opened the door, I completely forgot.”
“Well,” she began, “I…uh—”
She was interrupted by the sound of coughing coming from the guest bedroom. Despite being flustered by the need to explain Greg’s presence, she was relieved to hear his cough sounding much better.
Sarah’s eyes rounded. “My goodness. Someone sounds really sick in there. I didn’t realize you had a patient or I wouldn’t have kept you so long.”
Fiona smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact I do need to prepare more tea for that cough.”
Sarah nodded. “Well, I won’t keep you. Is your patient from the village? I don’t recognize the car.”
“Um, no. No, he’s not. He’s from—”
“He? You have a man in your house? Oh, my, Fiona, do you think that’s wise? You should have called one of us and we could have come to stay here with you.”
“That wasn’t necessary, Mrs. Cavendish. He has been much too sick to be a threat to anyone.” It was unfortunate that she should recall at that particular moment his hand caressing her breast. She knew her face turned red at the memory.
Mrs. Cavendish never missed a thing. She nodded her head with a knowing smile. “Oooh, it’s that way, is it? Well, I won’t keep you.” She turned away and strode rapidly toward the lane.
Fiona closed the door. McTavish stood in front of the stairwell with a plaintive expression. “Yes, I know you’re starving to death as we speak. Let me check on our patient first, then I’ll feed you while I’m making more tea for him.”
She peeked into the bedroom and saw that Greg was still asleep. She walked to the bed and studied him. His color was much better than it had been, his fever had come down and his breathing no longer sounded labored.
Greg was officially on the mend. It was time for a light meal to help him regain his strength.
McTavish followed her into the kitchen. She fed him and let him outside before quickly preparing some porridge and dry toast. Before she finished, McTavish scratched at the door to return inside. “Oh, so you’re back on guard duty, are you?” she asked in a low voice.
McTavish gave her a doggy smile and lifted his paw.
She shook her head ruefully. She wasn’t certain who was in charge of whom in this household. She glanced up in time to see Tiger sashay through the doorway. No doubt the timing of his entrance was staged as a reminder that he was king of this particular castle.
He sniffed his bowl and looked around, his expression speaking volumes. “All right! But you’re a long way from starving, mister.”
After feeding Tiger, she placed Greg’s meal on a tray and went down the hallway. Fiona balanced the tray with one hand and tapped on the door with the other.
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