‘Oh!’ she cried aloud. ‘Thank God. Thank God.’
* * *
Lucas opened his eyes at the sound of the voice that had echoed through his dreams, that entrancing voice that was the lifeline he’d grasped on to. Next to him sat a dark-haired young woman whose pale skin and blue eyes seemed ethereal in the lamplight.
She broke into a smile. ‘You are awake!’
He had just enough energy to nod.
She jumped up from her seat and came even closer. ‘You should drink something. Are you able to sit? Let me help you.’
She placed her hands, so warm and gentle, on his bare skin and helped him pull himself up. Where were his clothes? Why was he half-naked in front of this exquisite creature? He couldn’t speak.
She turned to a table and picked up a cup, bringing it to his lips. One sip convinced him he was very thirsty. He drank all of it.
And could finally speak. ‘I don’t remember—’
‘What happened to you?’ she finished for him. ‘You have been very ill with a fever, but it has broken now. You’ll soon get well.’ She sounded very relieved.
He remembered now. Remembered fevered dreams. Dreams of Bradleigh, impaled by the French cuirassier. Dreams of an angel. ‘You.’ His voice rasped. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No. You are not from here,’ she responded. ‘My brother and sister found you. We brought you here.’
‘Here?’
‘Scotland. Ayrshire.’
That was right. He’d wanted to get as far away from Foxgrove as he could and he’d not cared where. He’d headed north into Scotland and ridden from inn to inn, drinking enough whisky to keep him so constantly in his cups he didn’t have to think about...anything.
‘Village?’ Not that it mattered.
‘You are not in a village,’ she explained. ‘You are in the home of my father, the Baron of Dunburn.’
She was a baron’s daughter? Not a tavern maid? He’d assumed this was an inn. ‘How did I get here?’
She sat again. ‘My brother and sister found you on our land, insensible from fever. We have taken care of you.’
He had a glimmer of a memory. Of leaving an inn where the stranger with whom he’d shared a room had coughed and hacked the night through. Of somewhere losing his horse and climbing hill after hill in the rain.
He opened his mouth to speak, but his words caught. ‘More. Drink,’ he finally managed to gasp.
She rose and poured more tea into the cup and brought it to his lips again. This time he wrapped his hands around hers and held on while he drank.
‘How long have I been here?’ he asked.
‘Three days,’ she said.
Three days?
He stared at her, the angel whose voice had called him back. She’d stayed by his side for three days? A baron’s daughter?
She poured him another cup of tea. ‘You were very feverish.’ She handed him the cup this time.
He drank gratefully.
‘You kept calling out for Bradleigh.’ Her lovely brow knitted. ‘Was he with you? We searched, but could not find him.’
He glanced away from her. ‘My brother. He was not with me.’
‘Thank goodness.’ She sighed. ‘I was quite worried.’
No need. Bradleigh was beyond worry.
Lucas wished there was whisky in that cup. He slid back down in the bed.
‘Sleep now,’ she said and lifted his blankets to cover him up like his mother used to do when he was in leading strings. ‘Now that your fever is gone, I’ll leave you to sleep. But I’ll be back in the morning.’
She extinguished the lamp and the only light in the room came from the glowing coals in the fireplace.
When she reached the door she turned back to him. ‘Goodnight. Sleep well.’
Lucas woke to daylight and a strange room. It took a moment to remember. He was in the house of a Scottish baron and had been cared for by his angel of a daughter—or had that merely been another fevered dream? His head pounded, his mouth tasted foul and his throat felt parched.
He sat up in bed, waiting for a moment until his head stopped spinning, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. When his bare feet touched the cool slate tiles of the floor, he looked down at himself. He wore only his drawers. Where were his clothes? Where was his satchel? His money?
Folded on a nearby chest was a nightshirt. Lucas tossed it aside and opened the chest. There were some clothes in there, but not his own. He rummaged through the chest and found a shirt and breeches that had been made for a more corpulent man. They would fit, especially with the set of braces at the bottom of the chest. Still seated on the bed, he put them on, having to rest at intervals from the exertion. When he gathered strength again he rose and took a step towards the door. His legs wouldn’t hold him and he collapsed on to the bed again.
Voices sounded from outside the room. One voice came closer. A woman. A familiar voice. ‘He is in here.’
The door opened and the lovely creature of his dreams entered the room. Lucas expelled a grateful breath. She was real. In the daylight from the window he could clearly see she was taller than most women, elegantly so. Her mahogany hair was coming loose from its pins, framing her face with its arched brows, nearly perfect nose and lips and an unmistakable look of intelligence.
He managed to stand.
‘You are awake.’ She sounded surprised. ‘And dressed.’
He gestured to the chest. ‘I found some clothes.’
With her was an older man in a black suit, carrying a black-leather bag. ‘This is the doctor, Mr Grassie.’ She turned to the doctor. ‘As you can see, he is much better.’
The doctor had seen him before? Of that he had no memory.
His legs weakened and he grasped the bedpost to keep from falling. ‘Forgive me. My strength fails.’
‘No need for apology,’ the doctor answered. ‘Please do sit on the bed and let me examine you.’
The doctor opened his bag and took out a glass tube, which he placed against Lucas’s chest. ‘Breathe in and out.’ He moved the tube to various spots on Lucas’s chest before putting it down. ‘Your lungs are much improved. Almost no congestion. How do you feel?’
‘My head aches and my throat feels dry.’ Lucas stole a glance at the young woman, who waited by the door with her arms crossed. There was a warmth in her expression that loosened one of the knots inside him.
‘Open your mouth,’ the doctor ordered.
Lucas complied.
After looking inside Lucas’s mouth, the doctor stepped back. ‘Your throat is better, too. A little red still, but that might be from lack of fluids. You’ve had a bad case of the grippe. There is too much of it going around. It can be very contagious, you know. Your fever has broken, so that is a good sign, although it will return if you exert yourself and you might not be able to throw it off next time. You need rest.’
The baron’s daughter frowned.
Lucas turned back to the doctor. ‘Mr Grassie, I presume I am imposing on this family’s hospitality. Perhaps I should gather my