He nodded but still did not yet move away. He couldn’t. He couldn’t get his feet to work. It was like he was rooted to the spot. “She’s very cold. Don’t have her out from the covers for very long.” He glanced to the fire. “That needs stoking.”
“Marcus. We know what to do. Now go.” Poppy shook her head at him. Behind her the maid pulled down the covers from Alyse and started on her shoes, unlacing the ugly boots. The toes were almost worn through, he noticed. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? They were more than ugly. They were inadequate. Hardly ideal for this weather. He cursed himself, not liking himself very much right then for his thoughtlessness.
“We have this under control, Marcus.” Poppy touched his sleeve, her tone softer, her eyes gentle as she scanned his face. “Now go. We will send for you.”
Mackenzie was waiting at the door.
Poppy made shooing gestures with her hands for him to go. “Go with Struan.”
With a sigh, Marcus obeyed. Reluctantly. He strode out of the room backward.
“Come now,” Mackenzie said as they stepped out into the corridor. “I’ll get you some whisky.” They walked in silence for a moment, their steps a scratching hush over the carpet. “Housekeeper, huh?” His voice was rife with amusement.
Marcus bristled. “That’s correct.”
“I never once looked at a housekeeper the way you’re looking at that lass in there.”
“That so?” he asked tightly.
“Aye. I’ve only ever looked at Poppy that way.”
Marcus stopped in his tracks.
The fair-haired giant lumbered away. Marcus glared after him, certain he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. His hands opened and shut at his sides, curling and uncurling. He’d only been in the company of Struan Mackenzie a handful of times. But every time did this to him. Made him so mad he could taste it like copper in his mouth. It didn’t make sense. He knew that. It was an irrational anger.
“I’m not you,” he tossed out. Indeed not. They were nothing alike. Not even in appearance. Well, not too much alike in appearance.
Mackenzie chuckled lightly. “That much is clear. You were the golden one, our father’s pride and joy . . . I was the dirty secret.”
“Only not so secret,” he reminded.
Mackenzie shrugged. “Well, not anymore.”
True. Not anymore.
Mackenzie had surfaced a little over a year ago, making himself known to the family and rattling Marcus. He had never imagined he had another sibling . . . much less an older brother. Struan should have been his father’s heir. Had he been born on the right side of the family blanket, he would have been.
It was also a strange bit of irony that Mackenzie looked more like the late duke than Marcus did. Same fair coloring. Same eyes. Similar features. Stranger still that Marcus was the heir. The legitimate one. The one that counted among the ton. The one that had mattered to the old duke himself.
Only a twist of fate determined that Mackenzie was the by-blow. The bastard.
Shaking his head, Marcus followed the man down the hall. None of it mattered now. His father was dead. He was the duke. Struan was not. And the two of them were strangers to each other, blood related or not.
They entered a rich, mahogany paneled study. Mackenzie poured them a whisky.
“So.” His half brother offered him a glass. He accepted it with a nod of thanks. “Who is the girl really? And don’t say housekeeper. I won’t believe it. You care about her and not like one cares for a housekeeper.”
He opened his mouth to deny it, but then closed it with a snap. Mackenzie had already made his mind up about the two of them. Why protest?
He couldn’t bring himself to deny Mackenzie’s allegation. The girl was sick. Clearly, he cared. He’d ridden Bucky hard to get her here. He cared, damn it.
He glanced to the open door of the study. Alyse was several rooms down being well cared for. She was in Poppy’s hands, so he had no doubt of that. She would be well. She would recover and they would resume their journey.
He lifted his glass to his lips and took a heavy sip, wondering how soon he could return to her chamber and check on her without looking foolishly anxious. Swallowing, he peered down into the amber liquid and was reminded of her topaz eyes. Hopefully they would open soon and he would once again see her usual fire there.
With a muttered curse, he downed the remaining whisky and set his glass down with a clink. “I’m going to see how Alyse is doing. The physician should be here by now.” And if he wasn’t here Marcus would do something about it. Even if it meant going out and scouring the city himself. He would not fail her.
“I wouldn’t. Poppy said she will send for you and I wouldn’t disobey my wife.”
“Disobey?” He looked his giant of a half brother over coolly. “I’m not afraid of your wife.”
“You should be. She’s tenacious and fearful when thwarted.”
He lifted up from his chair. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable that I’m concerned for my employee. Poppy will understand.”
Mackenzie chuckled. “Employee. Right.”
Ignoring that gibe, Marcus exited the room and proceeded down the hall, determined to claim his place in that bedchamber and oversee Alyse’s care, making certain everything was done for her. Everything within his power.
He’d taken responsibility for her the moment he opened his mouth in that village square. He wouldn’t shirk his duty now. They’d come this far together. She fell ill on his watch. He felt to blame.
He saw a flash of those shoddy shoes. The pale face. The feverish skin and glazed eyes. He should have done better for her.
He’d do better in the future.
Chapter 17
The dove had never fallen ill before.
She always told herself the bars of her cage kept sickness out. She told herself this because she needed to believe there was something good about being in a cage. She’d been wrong.
Searing pain lanced her skull as she first opened her eyes. Immediately she closed them again and took several shallow breaths. After a moment she tried again, opening her eyes to a shadowy room and, thankfully, less pain.
Without moving her head, she swung her gaze left and right. A big room. No. This wasn’t a room. It was a chamber. A chamber fit for a king. Not for the likes of Alyse Bell.
She swallowed and cringed at the dryness of her mouth. She must have made a sound because suddenly someone was there.
“Here.” A hand slipped under her neck, lifting her. A cup pressed to her mouth and water met her lips. She gasped and then drank, greedily, sloppily. Water dribbled down her chin. “Whoa. Easy there.”
“Oh,” she murmured, feeling a little embarrassed.
Her gaze followed up the arm to the person being so very kind to her . . . so very—
“Mr. Weatherton?” she managed to get out. She didn’t know who she expected it to be, but she didn’t expect him. Not that she had been traveling in the company of anyone else, but he was her employer. He shouldn’t be caring for her as though she were a child.
His lips twitched. “I think we are beyond surnames now, don’t you, Alyse?”
She swallowed and this time it didn’t hurt quite so much. “That wouldn’t be appropriate. We should cling to some manner of propriety.”
“We’ve been traveling together. Alone together. I think we’ve left appropriate far behind.” His smile slipped and his eyes took on a somber gleam. “I was worried about you.”
Her chest tightened at the look in his eyes . . . at his words. She did another quick glance around. He seemed sincere and she didn’t know what to do with that. She didn’t know what to do with his sincerity or her reaction to it. Pleasure suffused her. Contentment to know he had been worried. He cared that much.
Clearing her dry throat, she asked, “Where are we? This chamber is . . . impressive.”
He seemed to search her face before arriving at words. “People I know live here.”
People he knew? Well that sounded mysteriously vague. “Well, that’s good to know. At least we’ve not made ourselves comfortable in a stranger’s home.”