Chapter 6

Chapter Six

A ihan stirred. Her chest hurt, her throat was raw, her head ached. Her laboured breathing rattled in her ears, every breath was a struggle, and she felt exhausted. She had managed to get out the window, but as she attempted to flee across the grass, she’d passed out from lack of breath and the pain in her chest. And now she was back in his bed and too weak to get up and try again. Setting fire to the mattress had perhaps not been such a good idea after all. A shiver wracked her body, and she pulled the bedclothes more tightly around her.

She was stuck here, the Shaolin would sail without her, and she couldn’t go after her brother while this foreign devil held her captive. Another shiver. Why am I so cold? Her head felt stuffed and achy. She couldn’t think properly. I need find a way to get free . A convulsive shiver. But for the moment, she was just too exhausted to do anything but sleep . . . .

Col sniffed. The house still smelled strongly of smoke, a reminder of what damage she could have caused. Fergus was right: She was trouble, and he should let her go—when she was well enough.

He was hungry, and remembered he hadn’t had breakfast. He raided the kitchen for food. Fergus was wheezing while he chopped vegetables for a stew.

“Shouldn’t ye be resting, man?” he asked, preparing himself a plate of bread, cheese, and pickles at the big kitchen table.

“Nae, I’ll be fine in an hour or two,” said Fergus, wiping his dripping nose on his sleeve.

“Ye want some of this?”

“I already ate, thank ye, milord. I fed the boys and meself earlier, while ye was out.”

“Thank ye, Fergus, I dunno what I’d do wi’ out ye.” He filled the bread roll with cheese and pickles and squashed it flat before taking a bite.

“Do we have anything suitable to give the lass?” he asked when he’d swallowed a mouthful. “Her throat will be raw, I’m thinkin’.”

“We’ve some honey and lemons,” offered Fergus.

“Excellent suggestion, I’ll make up a mixture when I’ve finished this.”

“I can siphon off some broth from the stew later, if she’s not up to swallowing solids?” added Fergus, sniffing.

“Good idea.” Col drank half his tankard of ale and resumed his bread roll, his thoughts roaming back to his last conversation with Rory. “Fergus, did ye know Rory has this notion that reiving ain’t thievery? My father’s filled his heid with all sorts of nonsense!”

“Oh aye, the old laird was full of those tales, and the boys lapped em up.”

“Not in my hearing,” grumbled Col.

“Aye well, he knew that, which is why ye didnae hear ’em,” said Fergus, reaching for another turnip.

“It was one of the few things I agreed with Merlow about.” Col got up to wash his plate and tidy away the remnants of his meal. Then he went into the pantry to find the honey and lemons.

“Ye’re a mite taken with this lassie, ain’t ye?” said Fergus with a look from under his bushy eyebrows.

Col dropped the lemon he was squeezing into a jug, flushing. “It’s nae that. I fear she means mischief for Merlow, and I’ll not have that. And now she’s sick, which will keep her tied by the heels for a mite longer so I can figure out what to do wi’ her. I wrote to Merlow about her.”

“Well, that’s probably the most sensible thing ye’ve done yet!” said Fergus, beginning on the pumpkin. “Got his head screwed on straight, does master Merlow. Allus said that. Shame the old man gave him such short shrift.”

Col raised his eyebrows at this. Fergus was being unusually garrulous.

“I didnae know ye had a soft spot for Merlow.”

“Allus have. All the staff did, back in the day. The way the old Laird treated him was right cruel, and ye weren’t much better.” He threw Col a look under his eyebrows again.

Col flushed. “Ye’re right, I regret that.”

“And ye wonder why he wouldnae come home?”

“I understand it better now.”

“Ye was miffed with him when he went south and didnae come back until he brought the lassie.”

Col shrugged. “I was hurt that he stayed for so short a time. I’d missed him more than I realised.”

“Aye, I ken that, but I’m nae sure he did. Did ye tell him?”

Col’s mouth gaped. “Ah, nae.”

“Hmmph,” said Fergus, dropping cubes of pumpkin into the pot.

Col fetched the kettle and added hot water to the honey and lemon mixture and stirred it thoughtfully.

Taking the jug and a glass, he went upstairs to check on his patient.

Her breathing was still laboured, rattling badly in her chest. And her face was flushed, her eyes closed, lids flickering.

Setting the jug and glass down on the table beside the bed, he bent over Aihan and touched her forehead lightly. Her skin was hot and dry to touch. As he watched, he saw her body shudder. She was running a fever! This was not good. Childbed fever had taken his Cat, along with the infant girl who only breathed a few moments after her birth.

The doctors had done nothing for Cat except bleed her and recommend that he pray. He wondered now if Merlow’s superior medical knowledge could have saved her. In any case, Merlow wasnae here, and he shied from fetching the local leech. The man hadn’t saved Cat, no more than his colleague from Edinburgh. Both men had shrugged and said that it was God’s will to take women in childbed. Col had lost his temper and thrown them both out. Nae, he wouldnae have those infernal leeches in the house. He’d nurse Aihan himself, be damned to them. She is young and strong; she can beat a fever, can’t she?

He recalled the conversation with Merlow and Hetty about the typhus fever they had dealt with in Pinner. Now, what had Merlow said? Cool compresses, or if the fever was really bad, a cold bath to get the patient’s temperature down. And he’d made some concoction from Chinese herbs that helped treat the symptoms. Pity he hadn’t left any here—or had he? Col hadn’t been paying much attention at the time but if he had— Fergus will know!

He pelted back downstairs to the kitchen, where Fergus was scraping the meat into the stew pot over the fire.

“Fergus, d’ye recall if Merlow left any medicine for fever when he was here?”

“Aye, why?”

“Ye mean he did?”

“Aye, there’s a jar of it in the pantry. Brown bottle with a wax seal. On the top shelf on the right.”

“Bless ye, man!” said Col coming out with the bottle.

“The lassie poorly?”

“Aye, burning up. I’ll take a bowl of cold water and some cloths up.”

“Ye want me to send Willy to fetch the doc?”

“Nae. I’ll not have Henderson in the house after what happened to Cat. Useless as tits on a bull!”

“Hmmph!”

Col filled a bowl with water, fetched a pile of cloths from the linen cupboard, and went back upstairs to tend to the lass.

He set everything down on the table and looked at the label on the bottle. One teaspoon every four hours. Damn, he’d not brought a teaspoon up with him. He glanced over at Aihan; she was restless and shivery still. He needed more pillows to help her sit more upright. That might help her breathing, too.

He fetched a teaspoon and more pillows and, lifting her, he banked up the pillows behind her. She was such a slight little thing, so slender and small-boned in his hands he was almost afraid of breaking her. Her skin was hot and dry to the touch, and the shudders that wracked her small frame scared the living daylights out of him.

“There, lassie,” he murmured, stroking her hair off her flushed face and reaching for a cloth. Wringing it out, he draped it over her head, causing droplets of water to run down her forehead to her nose. He caught the drop with his thumb and swept it away. Her skin was so smooth and soft. Her eyelids flickered restlessly, and she still breathed with difficulty.

He needed to get the medicine into her. It probably tasted foul. If he tried to tip it down her throat, she’d choke.

“Aihan,” he said, touching her face gently and patting. “Wake up, lass, I need ye to swallow this.” She moved her head and whimpered something unintelligible. “Aihan!” he spoke more sharply to try to break through her delirium.

Her head jerked and her eyelids fluttered open. She stared at him, and he wasn’t sure that she even recognised him. He offered the spoon. “Here lass, it’ll make ye feel better.”

She parted her dry lips, and Col slid the spoon in. She grimaced as he withdrew it and swallowed convulsively. Then she coughed. It was a hacking, painful cough, and it made him wince in sympathy. He offered her some water to wash down the medicine. She took little sips between coughs, then subsided back against the pillows, visibly exhausted.

“Thank ye,” she murmured hoarsely, and he smiled at her good manners.

“Ye’re welcome, lass. We need to get yer temperature down. Ye’ll nae mind if I bathe ye?”

She waved a hand, and it fell to the sheets as if the effort to keep it upright was too much. After the intimacies they’d shared, it seemed a moot point to be worrying about the proprieties, and in any case, there was no choice. There was no woman to bathe her; it had to be him.

He lifted her tunic off over her head. She was unresistant and floppy, virtually unconscious again. With the sheets pulled back to her waist he set about laying damp cloths over her torso. Her breasts were small and had little pinkish-brown nipples. With the coolness of the cloths, the nipples tightened into tiny buds. Her stomach was flat and muscular. Her arms were thin, but also showed muscle definition.

He resolutely blocked any lewd thoughts; the lass was ill and in his care. He changed the cloths after a few minutes as they heated with her body. And gradually, the shudders subsided. Whether it was the cloths or the medicine or both he didn’t know; he was just relieved to see some improvement. Her breathing was still painful to listen to.

He and Cat had nursed the boys through some fevers in their early years, so he had some knowledge of what to expect of a fever running its course. And he knew enough to keep her fluids up.

He spent the whole of the afternoon and evening by her side. The dogs scratched at the door for admittance, having tracked him upstairs. Gussie lay at his feet and Hector took up his usual spot on his lap. He read a book between changing her cloths and feeding her sips of water and the honey and lemon mixture.

As the sun was going down, Fergus brought him some stew, some bread, and a small bowl of broth from the stew for Aihan.

“If she can sup it?” Fergus asked with a worried frown.

Col sighed and scrubbed his face. “Aye, if I can rouse her enough to take it.”

Fergus went to the fire to build it up and then lit some candles as the light was fading fast and the temperature outside dropping. Summer was a memory as they passed into autumn.

“Ye want some help with the lass?” asked Fergus, coming to his side after pulling the curtains across the window.

“Aye, if you’ll put another pillow behind her, while I hold her up?”

Fergus did as he asked, and he lifted Aihan higher, careful to keep the clothes covering her upper body in place, settling her against the pillows.

“Where ye fixing to sleep, milord?”

“Here,” said Col shortly. “I cannae leave her alone in this state, her breathing’s too troubled. I’ll no sleep much anyways.”

Fergus headed to the door but looked back and said, “The lads are fair riled up about this, ye ken.”

“Aye, I’ll speak to them tomorrow, when I hope she’ll be faring better. But ye needn’t be thinking I mean the lass any harm. She’s ill, I’m not the sort of man to take advantage of that!”

“I ken that right well, milord,” said Fergus roughly.

“It’s a pity my own son doesnae think so well of me!”

“It ain’t that so much as it being yer marriage bed, milord.”

“Where else was I to put her? We have no other beds beyond the Daffodil Room, and she burnt the bluidy mattress from that one. There wasnae time to make a new one!”

“I ken, I ken,” said Fergus soothingly.

Col breathed out slowly and nodded. “Thank ye, Fergus, ye’re a good man.”

Fergus gave him a lopsided smile and whistled to the dogs. “I’ll feed em for ye,” he said, and left the room followed by the canines. Col looked at Aihan, still breathing sluggishly, her eyes closed.

She looked thin and fragile, lying against the pillows. Her temperature seemed lower; she had stopped her terrible shuddering. Removing the damp cloths, he ran a towel over her body lightly to dry it, and then pulled the bedclothes up to her chin.

She stirred and opened her strange dark eyes and blinked at him.

“Sceacháin,” she murmured, her voice still hoarse and low.

“Col,” he said roughly. “Do ye care for a little sustenance, lass?” He offered the bowl of broth.

She swallowed as if her throat hurt and whispered, “Thirsty.”

He put the bowl down and offered her some of the honey and lemon water. She took several mouthfuls before the coughing stopped her again.

The coughing was painful to listen to and Col flinched at the sound, offering her a handkerchief to wipe her streaming eyes. She took it, blowing her nose and wiping her face.

“Let it be a lesson to ye, lass, nae to set fire to things when ye cannae get away from the smoke!” he chided gently.

She blinked at him miserably, and he took her hand and squeezed it in sympathy. A more woebegone sight he’d seldom seen.

“Thank ye,” she managed again.

He smiled at her careful copying of his intonation. She’d be getting a Scottish accent to her English. Could he teach her the Gaelic or was that a step too far?

He held out the bowl and spoon again. “Can ye manage a sup, lass?”

She nodded, and he sat on the bed to feed her. By the look in her widened eyes, this surprised her. But she accepted the teaspoon he held out and swallowed slowly.

She smiled. “Good,” she said.

“Aye, Fergus is a fair cook when it comes to meat and game. He’s nae so good at the baking,” he said, spooning up more of the broth for her.

She finished most of the bowl before another coughing fit put paid to anymore. He wished he had something to give her to soothe her throat; it must be raw, between the coughing and the damage wrought by the smoke.

She settled back with her eyes closed once the coughing stopped, and he sat and ate his own meal. He had just finished wiping up the last of the broth with his bread when a scratch at the door heralded the return of the dogs. He set his bowl down and opened to the door to let them in.

“Fed and watered, are ye?” said Col as they bundled into the room, wuffling a greeting.

Aihan stirred and opened her eyes. Gussie lunged for the bed, and a slight look of alarm on Aihan’s face made him say sharply, “Gussie, sit and give a paw.” The deerhound immediately sat and put a paw on the side of the bed.

Aihan’s eyes widened in shock. The scruffy, grey-haired, long-legged beast lowered her muzzle to the bed, and with soft ears flopping either side of her long-muzzled head, gave her best impression of an apology.

Col chuckled at this display of disingenuity as Aihan stared at the dog, fascinated.

“Pat her,” suggested Col, and made a stroking motion with his hand. “Her name’s Gussie. Augusta,” he added.

Aihan put out a tentative hand and stroked the wiry fur on Gussie’s head.

Col grinned, and Hector got up on his hind legs, pawing at the side of the bed and whimpering, clearly also wanting a pat. Aihan reached her other hand to the terrier’s head and patted both dogs, a smile breaking across her face. Hector, in his enthusiasm, tried to leap into the bed and fell back, making Aihan start with a gasp, which in turn made her cough.

Col clicked his fingers and gestured to the dogs to move away. Obediently, they retreated to the hearth rug before the fire. Col gave Aihan some more lemon and honey water to soothe her throat.

She subsided back into the pillows and nodded. “Gussie,” she managed.

“And Hector,” said Col with a wave to the little terrier, who lifted his head at the mention of his name.

“Hector,” she repeated with a weary smile.

“Close yer eyes, lass, and I’ll read to ye, hmm?” he said, waving his book.

She lifted an eyebrow and nodded, nestling back into the pillows and closing her eyes.

She seemed to be understanding him more and more. If not his words exactly, his gestures and intent anyway.

He settled into his chair, opened the book where he was up to, and began to read. The words would be meaningless, but he hoped the cadence of his voice would lull her to sleep.

A little while later, he thought he had achieved his objective, and continued to read in silence until the clock on the mantle tinkled ten o’clock. Conscious of his own exhaustion—he’d not slept much last night—and noting that her breathing seemed a mite easier, he rose quietly and got a plaid from the cupboard to use as a blanket. He removed his jacket and boots, cleaned his teeth, and lay down on the other side of the bed, wrapped in the plaid. He murmured a prayer to Cat—part of his nightly ritual—and closed his eyes.

He was jerked awake by an arm thumping him in the chest. Blinking in the light of the guttering candles, he turned his head to see Aihan, arms flaying as she appeared to be fighting off an invisible assailant and muttering something in a hoarse undertone in her own language. He sat up on one elbow and leaned over her, catching her flailing hands in one of his own.

“Aye, lass, settle, settle!” he said soothingly.

She gasped and her eyes opened. She blinked up at him, then stared as if having trouble bringing him into focus.

“Ah!” She let out a breath, her body relaxing as she visibly came back to herself. “Mac Sceacháin,” she said hoarsely.

He squeezed her hand. “Col,” he reminded her gently.

“Cou,” she managed awkwardly, and grimaced.

He smiled at her mangling of his name. Realising he was still holding her hands, he let them go and sat up. “You want a drink?” He mimed lifting a cup to his mouth.

She nodded and he got up, coming round to her side of the bed to offer her some more of the honey and lemon water.

“Bad dream, lass?” he asked, not expecting to be understood.

She swallowed. It was visibly painful; her throat must be so raw. He set the glass down when she’d had enough and found her grasping his hand tightly in both of hers. “Must go,” she said slowly.

“Ye’re nae well enough to go anywhere, lass. Ye saw what happened when ye got out the bluidy window!” He waved to the window. “Ye collapsed!” He made a falling motion.

She shook her head. “Must go!” She tried to get up, and he pressed her back into the pillows. “Nae, lass, I’ll not let ye kill yerself!”

She slumped in defeat, closing her eyes, and the tears seeped out from under her lids.

He wiped at them. “Nae, lass, dinnae cry!”

She turned her head away, sniffing audibly. Col found another handkerchief and gave it to her, feeling helpless. He’d hated it when Cat cried, and he found he hated it equally when this lass did too. What was it about lasses that brought him undone? If his daughter had lived, he would have been putty in her hands for sure. The thought provoked a lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he said, stroking the hair stuck to her forehead off her face. She stared at him for a bit and then closed her eyes. He wished he could communicate with her better. Seeing that she meant to sleep, he got up and went back to his side of the bed. Wrapping himself once more in the plaid, he settled himself to sleep.

He woke a second time to sounds of the dogs growling. He sat up and saw Aihan standing in the doorway, bailed up by the dogs. She was visibly shaking. He wasn’t sure if that was from fear or the ague. Either way, he was out of bed in a shot and coming towards her. “Gussie, Hector, stand down!”

The dogs obediently stopped growling and sat on their haunches. Aihan bolted for the stairs. She had pulled on her tunic over her silk pants, but she wasn’t dressed for venturing out into a Scottish night, even if she were well.

With a curse, Col gave chase as she ran barefooted down the stairs. She obviously hadn’t been able to find her boots—he’d stashed them in the wardrobe. She stumbled as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and he could hear her rasping breath as she raced towards the front door. It was bolted, and as she wrestled with the stubborn bolt, he caught up with her.

“Nae lass! D’ye have a death wish? Ye’ll catch the devil himself out there in yer flimsy silk outfit!” He pulled her round to face him and stared down into her eyes. In this light, they were dark pools of despair that tugged at his heart. Since when have I been such a softy? His father would be disgusted. Yet Cat had gutted him with a mere look. He was a sap for a woman. And this fragile little flower had her hooks well and truly sunk into him. He wasn’t letting her go kill herself for anything.

He hefted her over his shoulder as he had done on their first acquaintance and carted her back up the stairs to the bed chamber. She struggled at first and then began to cough. He righted her in his arms at the first cough, carrying her upright the rest of the way as she coughed helplessly in his arms.

He tucked her back into bed and sat down on the edge, offering the lemon and honey mixture when she could stop coughing long enough to take it. Her abortive attempt to escape and the coughing fit had exhausted her, and she lay gasping for breath against the pillows.

“Why, lass?” he asked, setting the water down and taking her hand. Her desperation to escape was manic. Was her love for this Ming Liang so strong she’d put herself at risk to try to reach him? Was she the whore Rory had accused her of being? How to explain her forward behaviour with him, if Liang was her husband?

But she didn’t answer him, closing her eyes with a kind of fatalistic despair that quite smote him in the chest. He wished he understood more about her motivations.

He sat holding her hand until he was quite sure she was asleep, then he rose, locked the door, and put the key in his pocket. He climbed back into bed with the plaid and prayed the lass would say put for a bit.

He woke a third time with the dawn and to the weight of the dogs on his feet and belly. They had snuck up when he was asleep, but he hadn’t the heart to rouse them. Their warmth and weight was a comfort. He looked over at Aihan, who appeared to still be asleep.

He rose quietly, washed, put on a clean shirt, donned his waistcoat and jacket, and let the dogs out, locking the door behind him. He hated having to lock her in like this, but she gave him no choice. He wasn’t going to let her out to collapse and die out in the fields somewhere. Once she was better, he’d let her go, of course. He had no right to keep her penned up forever. But by then, he hoped they might have established better communication, and he could grasp what threat, if any, she posed to Merlow.

He refused to think of the physical attraction that tugged at him whenever he looked at her or touched her. It was inappropriate and born, he was convinced, of his self-imposed celibacy. He hadn’t thought of or touched another woman since Cat died, and he thought his libido had died with her. Apparently, it hadn’t. Aihan had woken the beast by touching him. That was all it was, and when she was gone, he’d address the problem by finding a suitable woman to treat his malady. ’Til then, he would show some self-control. He wasnae a beast, even if he felt like one.

Having let the dogs out to do their business, he went to the kitchen, where he found Fergus coughing over the breakfast parritch.

“Man, ye’ll cough up a lung!” he said, alarmed at the hacking and wheezing. “Ye sound almost as bad as the lass. Ye should be in bed!”

“Nae, I’ll be fine,” croaked Fergus, wiping his streaming eyes. “It was the smoke.” He waved at the wood-fire stove. “I made the mistake of breathing in when I shouldn’t have.”

“D’ I have to come all lord of the manor on ye and order ye to go to bed?”

“Nae milord, I’m fine, really,” he said, blowing his nose with a loud honk.

“Hm.” Col eyed him sceptically. “Is the parritch ready to eat?”

“Aye, should be. I was about to serve it up to the lads. Ye going to join us?”

“Aye, when I’ve seen to the lass.”

He made her a cup of tea with a generous dollop of honey and lemon and put a small portion of parritch in a bowl with some sugar and salt to flavour and took these up.

He unlocked the door and entered to find her standing in the middle of the room. Likely she’d used the chamber pot, which reminded him to empty it. He was relieved to see she was well enough to get up. He set the tray down on the table and offered her the mug of tea.

“Better this morning?” he asked, patting his chest and raising an eyebrow.

She grimaced and nodded, accepting the tea from him, she sniffed it and sipped. “Thank ye,” she said politely, seating herself in the other chair that was still near the hearth. The fire needed tending, and he knelt to deal with it while she sat and sipped her tea. He was conscious of her bare feet on the hearth rug in his peripheral vision. They were small, neatly shaped feet like the rest of her. He should give her something to put on them; they must be cold, surely? In fact, she needed to be wrapped up. A plaid to keep her warm. That outfit did not offer enough protection for the cooler days ahead.

Satisfied that the fire was burning nicely, he rose and rummaged in his drawers for some socks. They would be too big for her, but at least they would offer some warmth.

He held them out to her. “Here, keep yer feet warm,” he said.

She looked up at him, surprised. After a moment she set the tea down and took them. Unravelling them, she quirked a smile and said, “Thank ye,” again. She was polite when she wasn’t trying to kill him or beat him up, he reflected.

He pointed to her bag in the corner. “Your things are there. I’m going to have breakfast.” He mimed eating and pointed to the bowl on the tray. “If ye want?”

She nodded her comprehension. He grabbed the chamber pot and left her, locking the door again behind him.