“Mared,” he croaked.
The sound of his voice startled her; her head jerked up and the book went flying off her lap. “Payton!” she cried and clambered to her feet, rushed to his bedside, and knelt beside it, her hands clasped on the edge of the bed, her eyes nervously roaming his face. “Ye’re awake! Thank heavens, ye are awake!”
“Aye,” he said, wincing a little as he pushed himself up. She quickly stood and reached for the pillows behind him, propping them up so that he might lean back. It took every ounce of strength he had. “I’ve been quite ill, it would seem,” he said, uncertain as to what, exactly, had happened to him.
“Aye, ye have.” She sat carefully on the edge of the bed. “A wasting fever…like the one in Killiebattan.”
That startled him—he closed his eyes.
“But ye have survived it,” she said and reassuringly touched his hand. “Ye’re out of danger, thank the Lord.”
“Are there others?”
She bit her lower lip and dropped her gaze. “The master brewer,” she all but whispered. “They found him dead. Dr. Thomson believes ye did indeed partake of a green batch of barley-bree. He believes the water was tainted with sheep dung.”
“Mi Diah,” he whispered and thought of the brewer, an old man who had made whiskey his entire life. “There was a cask of it—”
“Properly disposed of, I am given to understand,” she said.
Payton forced his eyes open and looked at her. “I thought I was dying.”
She nodded. “Ye…ye actually came quite close to doing just that.”
“I remember that ye gave me water.”
Mared smiled a little. “I did.” Her smile deepened into dimples. “Are ye surprised? Did ye think I’d deny yer last wish?”
In spite of how awful he felt, Payton felt a hint of a smile on his lips. Mared rose from the bed. He heard her move to the bureau, heard her pour water into a glass. In a moment, she returned and handed him the glass, and he gratefully accepted it, drank it in one long swallow.
She took the glass from his hand. “Ye should rest now, Payton,” she said and caressed his brow. “Ye must regain yer strength.”
Payton did not argue. His lids were sliding shut and he felt as if he could not lift his limbs.
When Payton awoke again, the sun was streaming in through the windows, and he was in desperate need of a privy. It took great effort for him to push the bedclothes off him, but he managed, and swung his legs over the side and tested his weight. He felt dizzy, and his legs felt as if they would collapse beneath him, so he grabbed the post of his bed and lurched forward.
The sudden movement of a head popping up at the foot of the bed startled him badly, and he lurched sideways, banging up against the bed and rattling the posts.
“Milord!” He didn’t recognize her at first as she pushed herself up to her knees. Her hair was unbound, flowing wildly around her, and her housekeeper’s gown was loose at the collar, unbuttoned to her bosom. She scrambled off the bed so quickly that Payton could not gather his thoughts.
“What are ye doing there?” he demanded, eyeing the bed suspiciously.
“What are ye doing there?” she returned, ignoring his question as she hurried to slip an arm around his waist. “Ye’re no’ to be up and about. Bed rest is what the physician said.” She draped his arm around her shoulders.
“I’m in need of the privy, but I donna need ye to escort me there.”
“Of course ye do! Ye’ve been abed five days now—do ye think ye will just stand and walk about as ye please? Here then, put yer weight on me—”
“Mared…I am grateful for yer care and concern, but I canna abide ye escorting me to the privy.”
“Fine, then,” she said and suddenly stepped away from him. Payton’s knees began to buckle, and he grabbed onto the bedpost again. She folded her arms and watched him through narrowed eyes. “Go on, then. To the privy with ye.”
He glanced at the privy door—he could no more reach it unassisted than he could stand. With a sigh, he gestured for Mared to help him. Wearing a pert little smile, she stepped up, put her arm around his waist, and helped him to the door of the privy. At least he was able to convince her he’d find something to hold onto within and shooed her away.
He managed to return to his bed by himself but she shadowed his every step, her arms out wide, as if she meant to catch him if he fell. When he was safely in his bed again, the bedclothes tucked neatly around him, he drank more water and asked for food.
“Ye may have a bowl of broth.”
“Broth?” he groused. “I donna want broth! I want a wee bit of food. Have Cook prepare something.”