“Ye’ll have broth,” she said, rolling down her sleeves. “I’ll go prepare it.”
“Ring for it. There is no need to trouble yerself.” Mared calmly finished buttoning her gown, then turned to face him, her hands firmly planted on her hips. “Ye will have broth until the physician says ye may have food, milord. And ye are no’ to leave this bed, aye? I must go and prepare the broth for ye, as everyone else has fled.”
“Donna jest now, Mared,” he said weakly.
“It is no’ a jest. They’ve all gone, for they feared another Killiebattan.”
Payton blinked and tried to absorb that. “They’ve gone?”
“All save Beckwith.”
“How long?”
“This is the sixth day.”
“Who…who tended me?” he asked, fearing her answer. “Beckwith, then?”
She smiled broadly. “Beckwith has no’ stepped foot in this room.”
“Then who?”
“Who do ye think, lad?”
Who…he had a sudden rush of memory—the scent of lilac, a soft pair of hands cooling his brow, the shadowy figure of a woman standing before the windows and looking out. It seemed impossible—of all the people on this earth to tend to him in his darkest hour of need, it seemed impossible that it might be Mared.
He blinked again, and Mared’s smile grew brighter. Another memory came back to him—Mared, on the edge of his bed, the end of her braid tickling his chin as she leaned over him, wiping his brow. Then his arms…and his torso.
The memory spawned a rush of gratitude and overwhelming dismay—he panicked at the thought of being in such a vulnerable state, but at the same time, his heart swelled with thanks for the care she must have given him.
“Ye put yerself at risk,” he said quietly. “Ye might have contracted it.”
“Aye. But I’ve no’, apparently,” she said as she quickly braided her hair.
“It took courage to stay.”
She smiled softly and glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “There was never any question of it. I’ll fetch yer broth,” she said and glided out of the room.
He tried to imagine what had happened, but he was still far too weak, and closed his eyes until he was aroused by a rap at the door.
Beckwith entered cautiously. “I’m right thankful to see ye well, milord. We all feared for yer life.”
“Thank ye, Beckwith,” he said, wondering why his loyal butler hadn’t been the one to stay by his side. “The staff?…”
“Gone, milord. But I am confident we can round them up.”
They’d all deserted him. Even Beckwith. Only Mared, fearless Mared, had stayed by his side. He pondered it until she returned with the broth, but by that point, he was too exhausted and ravenous to think. Mared watched him warily as he ate, as if she thought he might expire yet. When he had finished the bowl of broth, she took it away. When she returned she gazed down at him, her eyes roaming his face and his upper body.
“Aye,” she said, nodding. “Ye’ve a wee bit of color. I donna believe ye will expire…at least no’ from this fever. So if ye will excuse me, milord, I shall take my leave of ye for a time.”
For some reason, that alarmed him. “Leave? Go where?”
“To my room, to have a bath and sleep.”
“But I’ve only awakened,” he protested.
“Here ye are,” she said, walking to the bureau and picking up a silver tray. “Ye may amuse yerself with the post. These letters have come during yer illness.” She put them by his side, turned around, and walked to the door.
“Mared!”
She paused, turned halfway toward him.
“Thank ye,” he said sincerely. “From the bottom of my heart, thank ye for saving my life.”
With a laugh, she tossed the braid over her shoulder. “Donna thank me. My motives were entirely selfish—who would be left to enslave me if ye were gone, then? Beckwith?” With a wink, she went out, her braid bouncing above her hips.
Eighteen
M ared’s patient went from helpless and dying to demanding and pouty.
She returned to his room several hours later after bathing in ice cold water, because she was too exhausted to heat the water for her bath, and choking down a few bites of stale bread and broth, because she had no time to prepare anything. She was beyond fatigue.
When she rapped lightly on his door, he bade her to enter. He was sitting up in his bed, his hair wild and sticking out in every direction. His six-day growth of beard obviously bothered him, for he scratched it mindlessly, and his wrinkled bed shirt was gaping open so that she could see his naked chest.
“I should like to know how long I am expected to be abed,” he demanded as Mared entered carrying fresh bed linens and a clean nightshirt.
“Three days at least.”
That earned her a glower. Then, “When will Dr. Thomson come round again?”
“Day after the morrow.”
“But I canna wait as long as that!” he complained loudly. “Surely he has something that will put me on my feet!”