The Lord’s Highland Temptation. Diane Gaston

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      A worry line creased her brow. ‘I suppose so.’

      Had Lucas misread her earlier warmth?

      Lucas directed his gaze to her. ‘I will not stay if I am imposing.’

      The doctor packed his bag again and shut it. He glared at the young woman. ‘Miss Wallace, shall I speak to your father or mother about whether this man may recuperate here?’

      So her name was Miss Wallace. Not married, then. An eldest daughter.

      Her face coloured. ‘You need not trouble Papa or Mama, Doctor,’ she retorted in as sharp a tone. ‘We will not turn away a sick man.’

      ‘Excellent.’ The doctor picked up his bag.

      ‘About payment?’ Miss Wallace sounded uncertain as the doctor walked towards the door.

      Lucas spoke up. ‘I am well able to pay. Assuming my purse is with my clothing.’

      ‘I will send a bill,’ the doctor said. He hurried out of the door without once asking Lucas’s name.

      Lucas’s gaze met Miss Wallace’s and held, but before either spoke, two young people burst into the room.

      ‘You are awake!’ The girl appeared to be a younger version of the beautiful Miss Wallace, this one on the verge of womanhood rather than in its finest bloom.

      With her was a youth, a brother by the family looks they shared. He, also, was younger than Miss Wallace. He reminded Lucas of the young ensigns sent to war when barely breeched.

      ‘How are you, sir?’ the boy asked. ‘Mairi said your fever broke during the night. What did Mr Grassie say?’

      Her name was Mairi.

      Mairi Wallace ignored her brother’s question and shooed them back to the doorway. ‘You two must leave at once. Wait for me. I will be right out.’ She closed the door and turned back to Lucas. ‘My brother and sister. Your rescuers.’

      ‘I hope I might thank them,’ he said, although he wasn’t yet sure whether he was glad he had not perished.

      He tried to stand, this time bracing himself against the side of the bed. ‘Miss Wallace, no matter what the doctor said, if you prefer I leave—’

      Her expression softened again. ‘No. No. We will not turn you out. You must forgive me if that is what you thought.’

      He looked around the room, which seemed plainly furnished and devoid of decoration. ‘Whose room am I in? I gather this is not a guest room.’

      She nodded, but her expression seemed...uneasy. ‘This is our butler’s room. He...he left our employ recently, so this room was not occupied. The silver is kept in another room, not here. And, for now, the housekeeper holds the keys.’

      Why mention the silver? Did she think he might pinch it?

      He looked down at himself. ‘Are these the butler’s clothes I am wearing?’

      ‘They were in the chest? We did not realise he’d left anything behind.’

      Had the man left in haste? Lucas wondered. ‘And my clothing? My satchel?’

      ‘They were washed and brushed,’ she replied. ‘Possibly they are dry now. I will check. I charged Niven with keeping your purse.’

      ‘Niven?’

      ‘My brother.’

      The intruding youth, no doubt.

      She turned to leave.

      He stopped her. ‘Miss Wallace, wait.’

      She turned back.

      ‘You should know who I am.’ It was on the tip of his tongue to introduce himself as Lucas Johns-Ives, son of the Earl of Foxgrove, but was he not now Viscount Bradleigh—his father’s heir—his brother’s title? He could not bear to be that person, could not bear taking his brother’s name and rightful place. Disappointing his father. He wanted none of it.

      ‘I am... Lucas. John Lucas.’

      That was who he would be, plain John Lucas.

      She nodded and smiled, albeit sadly. ‘I will bring you something to eat, Mr Lucas. You must be hungry.’

      He smiled back and fancied his smile a reflection of hers. ‘I am ravenous, Miss Wallace.’

      * * *

      Mairi’s heart raced as she stepped into the hallway. In daylight, without the pallor of illness, he was quite the handsomest man she’d ever seen, even with three days’ worth of beard. Even more disturbing was the connection she felt with him, as if nursing him through his fever had somehow linked him to her in a way she did not understand. She shivered, trying to shake the feeling away.

      Davina and Niven accosted her.

      ‘Is he recovered?’ Davina asked. ‘What did Mr Grassie say?’

      Niven chimed in. ‘What was wrong with him?’

      What was wrong was that he was a stranger—an Englishman—who would now be a guest in their house for at least ten days.

      She pushed past them. ‘I need to speak with Cook. He needs food and water.’

      They followed her to the kitchen.

      ‘At least answer us!’ Davina cried.

      Mairi held up a finger to warn them to give her a moment.

      Cook was busy stirring something in a pot over the fire.

      ‘Mrs MacNeal, our patient is hungry. What might I bring him?’

      Mrs MacNeal’s wrinkles creased into a sympathetic look. ‘Oh, the poor lad. I take it he is feeling better?’ Cook had kept her supplied with broth and tea for him the last three days.

      ‘He is much better,’ she replied. ‘His fever has broken.’

      Cook winced as she tottered over to a shelf where the servants’ dishes were stacked. The poor woman’s arthritis must be paining her. She ought to be given a nice pension and a little cottage on the estate, not running the kitchen with only one kitchen maid to help.

      ‘Let me help you,’ Mairi said, hurrying to her side.

      ‘Thank you, Miss Mairi.’ The old woman pointed to a high shelf. ‘One of those bowls and a plate will do. The soup is ready. I’m keeping it warm for dinner. And there is fresh bread.’

      ‘I’ll cut some bread,’ Davina offered. She skipped over to the bread box and took out a loaf.

      ‘He’ll want some ale, I expect,’ Niven added. ‘Shall I get him some?’

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