He smiled inwardly at the sound of her gentled voice and managed to roll over, onto his back. He felt her hands at his neck, the fluttering of her fingers as she deftly untied the knot and unwound it from his neck. When he felt the last of it pull free, he opened his eyes, caught her hand. “Mared,” he whispered earnestly. “I think I’m dying.”
She laughed and gave him a charmingly dimpled smile. “That’s impossible, for if ye were to die, who would torment me? Ye’ve been felled by drink, sir, nothing more.”
“Are ye certain?” he asked, hearing the tinge of desperation in his voice.
“I am quite certain. Ach, and to think all this time I believed ye to be quite invincible,” she said softly. “Had I known ye might be brought down with a mere tot of yer own barley-bree, I would have brought round a full dram long ago.”
She thought him invincible. His eyes closed again and he smiled dreamily.
He had no idea how long he slept. It might have been a moment, perhaps hours. His stomach was rumbling fiercely, and his bowels cramping painfully. But he was awakened by a hand on his face and the soothing scent of lilacs.
“Diah, Payton, what is wrong with ye?” Mared exclaimed in a whisper. “Mo chreach, ye are burning with fever!”
“I’m a wee bit under the weather, that’s all,” he said and slowly realized Mared had already left him. “Wait!” he cried weakly. “Where do ye go?”
“To fetch Beckwith,” Mared said. “I’ll have him send for a physician straightaway.”
Mared hurried down the ground-floor corridor, frantically looking in one room after another for Beckwith. When she’d arrived to clean Payton’s chamber that morning, she’d been surprised to see him still atop the coverlet, still fully clothed, the cold cloth she’d pressed to his head flung to one side of the massive bed. She’d even chuckled to herself as she thought of the rather disagreeable day he’d have after that sort of drinking. But then he’d not roused when she drew the drapes, or when she shook him.
It wasn’t until she was sitting beside him and felt his fever that he opened his eyes, and a deep shiver of fear ran through her. The man was quite desperately ill.
Mared found Beckwith in the study. “He’s terribly ill,” she said. “He’s possessed of a raging fever.”
Beckwith’s eyes went round, and he quickly stepped back from Mared. “Fever?”
“Aye, fever!” she said impatiently. “Ye must send someone for a physician at once, Mr. Beckwith!”
“Aye,” he said, nodding. “Aye, straightaway.”
“And ye must help me undress him and put him to bed. He still wears the clothing from yesterday.”
“I’ll send Charlie—”
“No, Mr. Beckwith! We donna know what sort of fever possesses him! What if it bears contagion? We canna risk the health of the others.”
“Contagion?” Beckwith uttered, and the blood drained from his narrow face. Mared knew what he was thinking, for she was thinking the same thing: Killiebattan. It was a village on the northern edge of Loch Chon. All seventy some odd residents had died from a mysterious fever that emanated from their bowels and spread from house to house, taking innocents to their deaths. Locals said the wild dog that allegedly lived at the bottom of Loch Chon had bitten a fisherman. Whatever the true cause, it had been devastating.
Beckwith cleared his throat, straightened his waistcoat, and nodded. “Aye. I’ll send the gamekeeper’s lad to fetch the physician. Meet me in his chambers, then.”
Mared found Rodina and Una and bade them stay away from her and the master’s chambers.
“Is he very ill?” Rodina asked, wringing her hands.
“We willna know until the physician comes,” Mared said, fetching clean linens from the linen closet.
“A bad fever took all of them at Killiebattan,” Una whispered.
“No!” Mared said sharply, startling the two girls. “I’ll no’ allow ye to spread fear! This is nothing more than an ague, so go on about yer work!”
They dipped curtseys at her dark frown and scurried off. She hadn’t meant to be so sharp with them, but the mention of Killiebattan sent another shiver of fear through her heart. She’d known more than one soul in her life who’d been consumed by a mysterious wasting sickness and perished, but the devastation of Killiebattan had happened so quickly.
The thought sent her running.
When she reached Payton’s room, she was overwhelmed by the stench. A grim Beckwith appeared from the dressing room with a nightshirt draped over his arm. He nodded at Mared and walked to the bed and lightly shoved a sleeping Payton.
“Ach, what are ye doing?” Payton groused from the bed.
“We must change yer clothing, milord,” he said smartly and snatched up Payton’s boots and handed them to Mared.
“Why? It’s the bloody crack of dawn!” he complained, and she heard the creak of the bed as he sat up, looking very green.
“’Tis no’ the crack of dawn, milord. ’Tis nigh on eleven o’clock in the morning.”
He blinked up at Beckwith. “Is it?”
Beckwith nodded.