Chapter Eleven
Mal’s head felt heavy, and his skin was overwarm. Through a haze of pain, he could tell that something seemed off about Catriona, but he couldn’t really tell what it was. She’d been quiet since she’d seen her gift. Now she was back in the chair next to him, staring down at the music box in her lap.
“Do you like it?” He felt a little unsure, suddenly. He’d thought it a fitting gift—a box that played beautiful music for the woman he admired the most. But maybe she didn’t think she deserved nice things? If so, it was a belief he was going to change.
She didn’t answer him. “Where did you get it?”
He had to cast back in his memory. Which was more difficult than usual, at the moment. “Llynmore Castle. It’s the estate of the earl of Arden.”
“It’s his?”
“I don’t know.” He wasn’t sure why she was asking. Her head was still turned down, and he couldn’t see her face. “No…Lachlan was the one who broke into the castle—he’d heard the family was away…I think… Yes, he said it looked like a woman’s room. His wife, maybe. Or…sister’s?”
He thought he’d heard something about Lord Arden having siblings, but he hadn’t cared much at the time, and he cared less now.
“It’s not like any of them need it, though.”
“Why is that?” she asked quietly.
“Why? Why should they be the only ones who have fine things? You can’t tell me any of the Arden women put together are worth one Highland lass, and what do they get? Castles and music boxes and five-course meals, and working-class Highland women get this.”
He gestured to the cottage. Ignored a pang of guilt. There was certainly nothing wrong with these one-room homes. He’d grown up in one, him and his entire family, and they’d been happy. They’d been warm and safe; they’d learned numbers and letters and music at their mother or father’s knee—no matter how busy his parents had been, they’d always made time for that. They’d had a life there, a full one, before it was taken away.
No, it wasn’t the houses themselves.
It was the disparity of the thing.
“Those Arden women aren’t even fit to polish your boots, Catriona, but they’ll think it’s the other way around.”
She was silent for a long moment. “How do you know it didn’t mean something to her?”
“To who?”
“The woman you took this from.”
“Why should I care about some spoiled aristocrat’s feelings?”
Her grip tightened on the music box. “You shouldn’t, probably.”
“If ye don’t want it, you don’t have to take it.” Mal was agitated suddenly. It felt like they were fighting—Cat’s quiet disapproval was as loud as a shout. And he’d been shot mere hours before. And his head was beginning to pound. All in all, not a very good start to the day.
She looked up, and her face changed from smoothly implacable to stark with fear. “Mal?”
“What?”
“You’re flushed.” She reached out. She touched him. It was something she tried to avoid, he realized—usually, when they made contact, it was the other way around. But this, this was glorious. Her fingertips pressed to his forehead felt like ice against his hot skin.
His eyes closed, almost of their own volition. “Don’t stop touching me, lass. Never stop touching me.”
“Mal?”
But he was too far gone to answer. He was warm, and she was cool, and he was so, so tired.
…
Georgina could leave. She could gather up her things right now and go. She had what she’d come for.
But Mal was weak and feverish, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that if she left now, she would be abandoning him. He’d saved her, after all—he’d pushed her down when they’d heard gunfire, shielded her with his own body.
And she didn’t know if she could bear to leave him like this, anyway.
So, when Lachlan and the others came back in, she was waiting.
“He has a fever,” she said.
Lachlan paused. The gravity of that statement hit them all with the weight of bricks. “How does the wound look?”
“Fine.” While he slept, she’d removed his bandage and replaced it with another, relieved to see that the wound itself was unchanged.
“So it might not be infected,” Lachlan pressed.
Georgina worried at her lip. “I suppose not.” She didn’t know if there was any way to tell, until the fever either broke or got worse, or the wound actually showed signs of infection. And if it did, there wouldn’t be a thing they could do for him.
Except be with him. At the end.
Georgina felt tears sting the corners of her eyes.
She hated sickbeds. She had the overwhelming urge to run outside, swing onto the back of one of the ponies, and race across the moors like wolves were at her heels. They reminded her, too vividly, of a time when she’d been weak, when now all she wanted was to be strong.
But she found herself unwilling to leave Mal’s side.
She stood up, restlessness and fear making her heart pound. She had to do something. She would tear her hair out if she had to sit still any longer. “Is there quinine powder?”
The men looked at one another. “I don’t know,” Andrew said.
“I doubt Colin has a medicine chest,” Lachlan said.
Georgina moved toward the trunk again, rummaging through frantically. When a large, rough hand moved aside a piece of fabric, she looked up to see Ewan kneeling next to her.
“I’ll help you look, Cat.”
There was nothing in the wooden trunk. They started to search through a set of cabinets along the wall. Pots and pans. A kettle. Georgina was tempted to toss everything on the floor, though she didn’t think Colin would be very pleased when he returned.
She went to the beds, began lifting up the straw mattresses and peeking underneath them. Eventually, she’d searched every corner of the small house.
“There’s nothing,” she said, sagging against the wall. She felt like hitting something.
“None of us like not being able to help.” Ewan tried to place a tentative hand on her shoulder, but she stepped out of reach. She didn’t need to be coddled.
“I should clean off this dress,” she said suddenly. There were bloodstains in her bodice—she’d forgotten all about them.
A half hour later, after some skillful maneuvering to change clothes in the small but private confines of a box bed, she sat outside by a barrel of water, scrubbing at her blue dress until her hands turned pink and raw. The little ball of clove-scented soap and the cold, clear Highland water weren’t doing anything to the stain.
Lachlan came out, watched her silently for a moment, and then left again.
When she looked up, he was getting a fire started with the tinderbox, striking the flint and steel over a small batch of kindling and peat that he’d laid over a few dry logs. She watched as the kindling caught, burned.
Then he handed her a small, sharp knife.
Georgina’s fingers closed around the cool metal. She looked at him.
“When I’m upset, I like to burn things,” he said, with a shrug.
That, somehow, didn’t surprise her at all.
She thought it was worth a try. She started at the hem, cut into the linen-wool blend and then tore it apart with a fabulously satisfying sound, like it was being split at the seams. One small piece after another went into the flame, glowing bright for an instant before they curled and blackened, consumed by fire.
She gave Lachlan a small pile of shredded fabric, because he looked like he could use it, too.
Together, they fed the fire, and watched, inch by inch, as the dress turned to ash.