Chapter 10

Dear Miss Halliday,

I am unwell. My head pounds and I am hot one moment, cold the next. I feel utterly wretched but most of all I am bored beyond bearing. Please do come and visit me. I look a positive fright, but I beg you will not judge me too harshly, for I suffer dreadfully. We ought to have gone to London for the season, for Papa promised me I might, and now this. I am so wretched I want to die.

My maid, Abigail, is a horrible nurse and is trying to kill me by opening the windows and letting cold air into my room and feeding me noxious tinctures. I shall scream if she brings me another posset, I do declare.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Jessie Fleming to Miss Clara Halliday.

10 th June 1850, Wick, Caithness, Scotland.

It was several days before Hamilton had to face Miss Halliday again, for which he was grateful. Though he'd been quite honest in telling her he was not bevied, he had drunk a good deal, and it had certainly made him reckless, a fact that was coming home to him with some force.

Though Miss Halliday would be well within her rights to cut him dead and never speak to him again, he suspected she wouldn't. Oh, she'd be cross as crabs, and she'd likely ring a peal over him the first opportunity she got, but she wouldn't ignore him. She couldn't, and that was the devil of it. She'd liked his kisses very well. He knew it and so did she, and what's more, she knew he knew it and that's why she was furious with him. Hamilton didn't blame her. He was furious with himself too, because now he knew what she tasted like, what she felt like in his arms, and damn him but he wanted more. Much more.

Try as he might to put the woman out of his mind, she crept back in. He told himself he had no intention of trifling with an innocent girl, he certainly had no intention of marrying her, and even if he were to consider such a daft thing, her father would shoot him before he let him anywhere near his daughter. All of which amounted to one conclusion, the same conclusion he'd come to from the start and was having the devil's own job remembering. Clara Halliday was off limits, and he needed to stay away from her.

After he'd apologised.

He knew he owed her that much, but the idea of it still rankled. He did not wish to apologise. Kissing her had been a rare treat, and not just for him. Though he knew he was a conceited arse, he could not help but suspect she had daydreamed about those moments in his arms regularly ever since it had happened. Not that she'd ever admit as much to a living soul. Certainly not to him, devil take her. Nonetheless, he had to apologise for taking liberties and, damn his eyes, promise it would never happen again. It couldn't. Not unless he wanted to walk headfirst into a world of trouble, and he was not that stupid.

So, he left the Fisherman's Retreat after checking in on progress and walked the short distance to call in at the back door of the vicarage.

"She's not here," Mrs Macready said sourly, regarding him with a baleful expression. "And if ye had the sense ye were born with, ye would leave her be, unless ye mean to walk out with her."

Hamilton opened his mouth to protest but found he couldn't. He was in the wrong and he damn well knew it. He rubbed the back of his neck, wishing Mrs Macready didn't make him feel like a grubby boy. "Aye, I mean to do so… leave her be, that is. I just… I need to speak with her before—"

"Before ye leave her be," Mrs Macready said with a snort.

"Aye," Hamilton replied irritably. "If I have yer permission?" he retorted, glowering.

"I'm nae yer mam, nor yer conscience. Ye will do as ye please, ye always do, but she's still nae here. She went to visit that silly chit, Miss Fleming, who's acting as though she's dying, though she's only got a nasty cold. I told the lass to stay away. It's the fourth time this week with that wretched child running her ragged like she's some kind of nursemaid. She'll make herself ill, she will, and that's a fact."

"Well, why did ye nae stop her, then!" Hamilton demanded, though he knew it was unfair.

Mrs Macready shot him an unloving look. "I tried, did I nae? I just told ye. If ye are so worrit for her, fetch her back yerself, aye?"

"Aye, I will," Hamilton shot back, riled. "See if I don't," he snapped, turning on his heel and striding back through the town. He'd gone three streets before he recollected that he could do no such thing. Hammering at Miss Fleming's door and demanding she send Miss Halliday home would do none of them any good. Still, he was too restless and annoyed with both himself, Mrs Macready and Miss Halliday to turn around, so he carried on in the direction of Miss Fleming's house and found himself unaccountably relieved when he spied Miss Halliday walking towards him.

Her steps were slow, her head bent, which struck him as unusual. Clara Halliday usually walked briskly and with purpose, her head up, a quick and friendly smile ready for anyone who greeted her politely and the poise of an ice queen towards anyone with the temerity to be impertinent. The thought made him smile, and he realised he admired her a good deal. His smile fell as he crossed the street towards her and saw her stiffen.

"Miss Halliday," he said, before she could tell him to go to the devil. "I beg yer pardon, but I must speak with ye."

"Oh, do go away," she said wearily, but there was no heat behind the words, only exhaustion.

"Lassie? What's wrong?" Hamilton asked, laying a hand on her arm.

"Nothing. Only I do not have the energy to scold you as you deserve, my head is aching dreadfully, and I cannot deal with you right now."

"Ye dinnae need to do a thing. I'll nae vex ye, my word on it. Only let me see ye home, aye? Ye have caught Miss Fleming's cold, just as Mrs Macready feared, I reckon."

"Oh, don't you say ‘I told you so,' too," she said, sounding utterly wretched. "I couldn't leave the poor girl by herself. Miss Fleming is my friend, and she hasn't the least bit of patience or idea of how to entertain herself, and she was utterly wretched."

"Ye ken very well, that I never say I told ye so," Hamilton replied with a smile.

She gave a soft huff of laughter at that before adding, "I must say, if she felt like this, I… I quite understand how…" She paused, swaying and put a hand upon the wall beside her.

"Miss Halliday?" Hamilton said in alarm, worried now, for her cheeks were blazing, her eyes too bright.

"I'm… I'm perfectly fine," she said stubbornly. "I only need to get home."

"Take my arm," Hamilton told her. "Lean on me and just put one foot in front of another. I'd carry ye and with pleasure, but the town will be gabbing about it before sun sets if I do."

"You will do no such thing," she retorted, with a glimmer of her usual fire and Hamilton had to smile.

"Ach, dinnae pretend ye would nae enjoy it," he told her, before holding up a hand and shaking his head when she glared at him. "Nae, dinnae say it. I ken very well. I promised I wouldnae vex ye. I take it back, aye. I'm sorry."

She let out a sigh and took his proffered arm, leaning heavily on him. "If you want the truth, I should dearly love to let you carry me, you odious creature, for it seems a very long way."

"It's nae far now, lassie," he said gently, simmering with frustration for he wanted to carry her, wanted to sweep her up and take her home and see she was tucked up in bed and that she was warm and comfortable and taking her medicines as she ought. The sudden urge to do something so cosy and domestic as taking care of a woman who looked a shocking sight and was suffering from a disgusting cold, startled Hamilton into silence and he held his tongue the rest of the way lest he say something appallingly stupid.

They had turned onto the street where the vicarage stood when Clara stopped, closing her eyes and simply leaning against him. Hamilton caught her as her legs gave out, sweeping her up into his arms.

"Oh, but…" she protested weakly as he carried her swiftly along the road.

"There's nae a soul about, dinnae fash," he told her soothingly, kicking open the back gate and then using the toe of his boot to knock on the kitchen door. Mrs Macready snatched it open a moment later, her mouth open to reprimand him for making such a racket, and then she saw Clara.

"Holy mother!" she exclaimed in shock, pulling open the kitchen door so he could carry her in.

"Is the reverend in?" Hamilton asked, relieved when Mrs Macready shook her head.

"Nae, it's old Mr Brodie's funeral today and—and just where do ye think ye are going?" she demanded, as Hamilton carried Clara out of the kitchen and headed for the stairs.

"I'm taking her to her bedroom, unless ye reckon ye can carry her up yerself?" Hamilton replied. "And dinnae start making a fuss, for I'm doing it, so ye had best lead the way and see propriety is served, aye?"

"Good heavens!" the lady said in outrage, bustling by him. "Ye are the most—"

"Aye, aye, I ken it well enough, stop ye blethering and show me to her room."

"You are a dreadful man," Clara told him, her head resting against his shoulder, yet her arms had curved about his neck, and he could feel her fingers toying with his hair, tickling the back of his neck. "An unrepentant rogue."

"Aye, lassie, ye have that right," he told her, feeling an odd sensation kicking about in his chest.

"How dare you set foot in my bedroom," she added weakly, though he felt she said it because she ought, not because she gave a damn. He suspected she didn't care about much past the fact she was utterly wretched, and that made him feel anxious and irritable and so out of sorts he didn't know what to do. Instead, he stood in her bedroom like a lummox, holding her in his arms and quite unwilling to let go.

"Well, don't stand there like a numpty, put her down on the bed, ye great gowk," Mrs Macready scolded him, forcing him to relinquish his hold on her and settle her gently on the mattress.

She sank into the eiderdown with a soft moan, turning her blazing cheek so it rested upon the cool cotton of the pillow.

"She's burning up," Hamilton said in alarm.

"Aye, she's caught herself a lovely fever and she'll be sick as a dog for a day or two, but it's just a nasty cold, same as Miss Fleming," Mrs Macready said, her voice soothing this time, and Hamilton looked around at her, surprised to see her expression had softened.

She was looking at him rather oddly and it made him at once defensive for reasons he was uncertain he wished to consider. He opened his mouth to make some scathing remark, found he couldn't and looked helplessly back at Clara, who had closed her eyes.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked, knowing he was only adding fuel to Mrs Macready's obvious speculation but too worried to care.

"Nae, laddie. I'll take good care of her, dinnae fash. She'll be right as a trivet in no time, I promise."

Hamilton frowned, feeling too big and out of place in Clara's bedroom. Not that it was a pretty room or contained any feminine accoutrements of the kind he might expect. Moyra's bedchamber was stuffed full of luxurious fabrics and pretty pillows and silk wall hangings, but then she had the money to indulge in such things and no husband to tell her she couldn't. Hamilton supposed the vicar must disapprove of anything that smacked of vanity and indulgence, and that made him suddenly wretched. Clara was a beautiful young woman, and she ought to be cosseted and spoiled and surrounded with pretty things that made her smile and gave her pleasure to look upon. But that was not something he could do, not without causing speculation from more quarters than just Mrs Macready. What's more, it would lead Clara to have expectations of him of the kind he could not allow.

Why?

The question popped into his brain, startling him. For all the reasons he knew very well, was the immediate answer, and he forced any further speculation away, telling himself not to be such an eejit.

"Right, well, I'll be off, then," he said briskly, though his feet seemed rooted to the floor. "You'll let me know if ye need anything, aye?"

"Aye," Mrs Macready replied, a knowing glint in her eyes as she smiled at him, which made him unaccountably irritated. She glanced at Clara, saw she had fallen asleep and lowered her voice as she turned back to Hamilton, looking far too pleased with herself. "Ye can stop by in the morning if ye like and I'll tell ye how she goes on. Flowers always make a lass feel better too, when she kens a fellow is thinking of her. Missing her, even," she added, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"Ye can stop that right now," Hamilton muttered and stalked out of the room, not allowing himself to glance back at Clara, though the effort it took not to take one last look at her was disturbing.

He was just worried about the lass, that was all, he told himself reasonably. It wasn't anything more than that. He was simply the kind of person who cared for his friends and would help anyone who needed it. All of which was entirely true, and didn't help a bit.

Clara woke the next morning and profoundly wished she had not. Her head pounded, her throat was of the opinion she'd swallowed broken glass, and everything hurt.

"Aye, I ken ye are wishing ye died in the night, but it will pass, lassie," Mrs Macready said comfortingly as she plumped Clara's pillows. She'd sat and watched while Clara had painstakingly swallowed a small bowl of porridge she hadn't wanted and refused to budge until it was all gone.

"Are you quite certain I didn't?" Clara asked grimly, her voice rasping.

Mrs Macready chuckled and picked up the earthenware mug she'd placed beside the bed, settling it in Clara's hands. "That's what ye get for playing nursemaid to a spoiled little chit who's no better than she ought to be. Drink that up now, every drop, and then ye will sleep for a bit."

"I've only just woken up," Clara protested, peering into the glass with interest.

"Ye need to rest and so ye shall sleep." Mrs Macready noticed her dubious expression and gave a snort of laughter. "It's a hot toddy, good for what ails ye."

Clara looked up, interested despite her miserable mood. "What's a hot toddy?"

"Whisky and hot water with honey and spices," Mrs Macready told her.

"Whisky?" Clara said in alarm. "Oh, but I can't. Papa—"

"Papa can speak to me if he doesnae like it, though in my opinion he doesnae need to be informed about it," Mrs Macready said sternly. "Ye will drink it, and it will do ye good. It's medicinal, aye?"

Clara investigated the mug uncertainly before lifting it to her nose and sniffing. Even though her sinuses were hardly working as they ought, it smelled wonderful. She took a tentative sip, her eyebrows flying up in surprise when she discovered it didn't taste like vile medicine.

"Good, aye?" Mrs Macready said in amusement.

Clara licked her lips and took another sip, which was answer enough for Mrs Macready, who looked pleased.

A knock at the door sounded before her father poked his head in, concern in his eyes.

"My poor dear. You do look dreadful," he said anxiously, which was not exactly what Clara wanted to hear, but it was nice that he was worried for her. "You're sure it's just a cold?" he asked Mrs Macready.

"Aye, Reverend. Dinnae worry yerself. I'll take good care of her."

Papa regarded her, his greying brows pinched together. "It's just that Clara is never sick," he added fretfully. "I don't like to see you looking so frail and out of sorts, my dear. Perhaps I shall pop into the apothecary and see if he can recommend something. Or perhaps Mrs Cameron will have a remedy, she's a wonderfully sensible woman, you know."

Clara admitted herself surprised by such solicitude. Though it wasn't entirely true that she was never sick, there was never anyone to nurse her, and she had never considered her father the sort to fuss around a sick bed, so she'd got used to seeing to herself and carrying on. She'd certainly never felt this ill before, though, so perhaps her father had never had the chance to show concern for her.

All the same, to take time out of his day to see to her needs was something she had not expected. She smiled at him gratefully, wondering if perhaps she had been too hard on him, and he was not so thoroughly selfish as she believed.

"Thank you, Papa, that is a kind thought, but there's no need. Mrs Macready is taking good care of me."

Her father nodded, looking somewhat reassured. "I'll bring you a book, then. Something frivolous," he said suddenly, apparently relieved to have thought of something she might like. "A novel," he said satisfaction, before leaving the room.

"Good heavens," Clara said, once he'd gone. "Papa disapproves of my novels."

Mrs Macready smiled and nodded. "Many men take women for granted. They talk about us like we're the weaker sex, when we're the ones that keep going no matter what. It's only when we're so sick we must take to our beds that they suddenly realise we're not invincible. I reckon it does them good," she added with a wink.

Clara smiled, hearing the truth behind the words. "Thank you, Mrs Macready. You are quite marvellous and I'm so grateful to you for looking after me."

"It's a pleasure, lassie. Now you rest up and get well," she added, and left Clara to finish her hot toddy in peace.