Heavy autumn rains impeded the progress of Munro’s coach from Shrewsbury to Birmingham. His frustration grew as the wheels bogged down in mud time after time, and the passengers were obliged to step out into the deluge. Cold, wet and miserable, they climbed back aboard when the coachmen succeeded in dislodging the conveyance from the mire. There was a great deal of grumbling, but Munro closed his eyes and thought of Sarah. He couldn’t recall ever being as excited about anything as he was about seeing her again.

The complaints gradually deteriorated into coughing, sneezing and sniffling. Munro took out his kerchief and held it over his face. There’d be no kissing and cuddling if he came down with an ague.

He fretted it would be too late to call into the shop by the time they arrived at The Swan. Sarah might think he hadn’t kept his word.

Eventually, he dozed off.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept when the coachman shook him awake. “Thou’s reached thy destination, sir.”

Bleary-eyed, he stumbled out of the coach, retrieved his baggage and wandered into the inn. The innkeeper greeted him. “Welcome back, Mr. Pendray. You don’t look too well. Best you go straight to bed. Same room as before.”

He made an effort to reply, but his head was pounding, his throat raw. He gripped the wainscoting as the foyer seemed to tilt. He was in trouble. There was something he had to do before he sought his bed.

A boy picked up his bag. What in tarnation was his name? “Er, Luke,” he rasped. “Can ye run along to the pothcary shop and tell Sarah, er, Mrs. North, I’ve arrived. I’ll see her on the morrow.”

The lad disappeared. Munro wasn’t sure if he’d given him coin or not.

Leaning heavily on the banister, he slowly climbed the stairs, nigh on swooning when a wave of heat swept over him as he entered his room.

He was ready to cry like a bairn at the exhausting effort it took to get his wet boots off. He removed his clothes with difficulty and climbed between the sheets. His teeth refused to stop chattering, but he was on fire.

Sarah lay in bed, listening for the sound of a knock at the door. She suspected Giles was doing the same downstairs. They’d both started the day in good spirits, looking forward to Munro’s return. When day turned to evening with no sign of him, Sarah sent her apprentice to The Swan. He came back with news the Shrewsbury coach had been delayed.

That buoyed their spirits through the evening meal, but as darkness fell and the hours went by, Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat and acknowledged he was not coming back.

Sick at heart, she was about to blow out the candle when she heard the rapping.

“He’s here,” Giles shouted jubilantly. “I’ll let him in.”

It was highly inappropriate to greet a gentleman caller in her night attire, but she didn’t care. Cinching the belt of her wrapper, she flew down the stairs, coming to an abrupt halt at the sight of a bedraggled urchin.

“It’s Luke, from The Swan,” Giles explained.

She gripped the banister afraid she might swoon. Something dire had befallen Munro. “C…come in,” she managed to stammer. “You’re soaked.”

Thankfully, Giles still had his wits about him, whereas she couldn’t gather her thoughts. “What’s happened?” he asked.

“Mr. Pendray came in on the coach. He told me to tell thee he’ll come on the morrow.”

She bristled. Did he not realize she longed to see him? He’d gone to bed while she lay awake worrying.

“Didn’t look too well,” Luke said.

Guilt assailed her. “He’s ill?”

“Everybody who got off the Shrewsbury coach looked peeked, coughing, sneezing.”

Sarah sprang into action. “Giles, get dressed, then mix a quantity of horehound juice with the diapenidion we made earlier. I’ll fetch the garlic and honey. Luke, go back to the inn and tell the cook…”

Raindrops spattered the walls as he shook his head vigorously. “Cook’s gone to bed. I’ll not be the one to wake her.”

Sarah took a deep breath. The weary-looking child should have been in bed hours ago. “Very well, I’ll make the onion tea here. Wait for us. We’ll accompany you back to the inn.”

She rushed back upstairs, saying a silent prayer of thanks there was one last onion. Gulping back the stinging tears, she quickly chopped it up and set it to boil in water.

She dressed while it simmered, unable to stem the persistent tears. “Find the oil of wintergreen,” she shouted to Giles.

Willing her hands to stop shaking, she poured the potent-smelling hot liquid into the empty cider flagon, more than grateful when it didn’t crack.

Her willow basket was barely big enough for the flagon. She slipped garlic cloves, a spoon and a cake of honey into her pocket, donned her shawl and went downstairs.

The boys were ready. Giles had a packet with the diapenidion in one hand, two vials of wintergreen oil in the other. The breath hitched in her throat when she saw he’d let Luke borrow his new cape, but she had to concentrate. “Can you think of anything else?” she asked her apprentice.

“I brought oregano oil as well,” he replied.

Of course! She should have thought of that.

“You smell funny,” Luke whispered.

She sniffed her fingers. There wasn’t time to rush back and wash off the onion smell. People at the inn would just have to understand. She was on a mission to tend a sick man.

They hurried out. Giles handed his key to Luke and the boy locked the door.

“I’m coming, my love,” she chanted over and over in her head as they hurried to the inn.