“The end is near,” Beckwith said ominously.
Mared glared at him. “His hands and feet have turned blue and he begs for water as if he were thirsting in the desert, and I donna know what to do! Ye must send for Thomson!”
“I’ll send for him,” Beckwith said, and in an uncharacteristic act of gentleness, he put a hand on Mared’s shoulder. “But the end is near, lass.”
She angrily shrugged his hand off and stepped back. “He willna die,” she said sharply and turned away, unable to look at Beckwith and his certainty. Exhausted and afraid, she returned to Payton’s room and found him hanging halfway off his bed.
“Payton!” she cried, running to him, and tried to help him up.
“Give me water,” he said thickly and looked at her with red-rimmed eyes. The skin beneath his eyes looked bruised, his lips were cracked, and his cheeks sunken. He was, she realized, truly nearing his end. Tears filled her eyes, and somehow, she managed to help him up to his bed.
The man was dying and his dying wish was to drink water. He grabbed her skirt with surprising strength and beseeched her. “Give me water!”
She prayed Donalda was right, for this was more than she could endure. She went to the basin, poured a glass of water from the ewer, and brought it to Payton. He grabbed for it, spilling some of it in his haste, and drank it like a dog. “More,” he said, handing the empty glass to her.
She gave him more. And when he finally had his fill, he fell against the pillows, his eyes closed, exhausted. But the wild look had left him.
Exhausted, Mared went to the kitchen and ate some bread, then returned with more water and wood, and built the fire up in his room. It seemed as if days had passed since she’d last slept. She eyed the settee…then his bed. It was huge. Too tired to care what she did, Mared crawled in beside him, fully clothed, and drifted into a deep sleep.
Sometime during the night, she was awakened by a hand on her shoulder. When she opened her eyes, Payton was looming over her, his hair wildly mussed, his dark eyes squinting. With a bit of a squeal, she came up.
His hand fell away and he blinked. “Did…did we marry, then?” he asked.
Mared bit her lip, quickly weighed her answer. “Aye,” she whispered, wincing inwardly at her lie.
“Ah,” he said and lay down. Mared stared down at him. Was it possible that he’d turned a corner? Was he mending? After a moment, she lay down, too, on her side, her back to him. But Payton moved until he was at her back, his breath on her neck and his arm securely around her waist, holding her to him.
She held her breath, did not move…and when she heard his shallow breathing, she sighed and closed her eyes. She was hopeful that he was improving and hopeful that if he did, he’d never remember her in his bed.
Aye, but she rather liked it. She felt safe. And warm.
Payton heard the physician talking above him, could feel him holding his hand. “I’ve read accounts from India in which the patient was given water and broth and brought round,” the doctor said and turned Payton’s hand over, traced a path down his palm with his finger. “’Tis no’ in keeping with what we know here in Scotland, but it doesna seem to have harmed him.”
His hand was laid at his side.
“Aye, it was the bloodletting that did it. The fever had left his body by the time ye gave him water, so it didna have an adverse effect.” Someone shook Payton; he opened his eyes. “Give him water when he asks.” The physician was peering down at him, holding a glass of water, which he helped Payton to drink. And then another. And then Payton closed his eyes, feeling incredibly weak.
“Aye.”
Mared. He knew her lilting voice, could detect the scent of lilac around him, the scent from his dreams. Or had he perhaps walked through a stand of lilacs? Everything in his mind was so faint and indistinct—he could only remember lilac.
“And a bit of broth, I suppose. He’ll come round, I should think, but he’ll be quite weak. I’d advise him to stay abed the next three days. I’ll be round then to have a look.”
That was followed by a clinking sound and a rustling of clothes or linens. Payton could feel them moving away from him, leaving a draft in their wake. He rolled over onto his side and slipped into a dream of lilac again.
When he next awoke, the room was dark. There was a flicker of light from the hearth, and he slowly turned his head in that direction, blinking several times to clear his blurred vision; everything around him seemed to swim in soft waves of weak light. His head throbbed, his throat was dry, but he felt truly awake.
As his eyes focused to the dimly lit surroundings, he saw her, seated in one of the winged-back chairs, her feet curled under her, her head bowed over a book. The thick braid of her hair lay over her left shoulder, and the sleeves of her housekeeper’s gown were rolled to her elbows.