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 bewrapped 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.
