Do you know that you’re looking better than you were when I first met you? You no longer have that greenish cast to your skin.” She put her hand up, cupped his chin, and turned his face to one side, then the other.
The moment she touched him, she knew she shouldn’t have. She was warmed by food, whisky, and MacTarvit hospitality, and Trevelyan was much too human-feeling. She had meant to be sisterlike when she touched him; she’d meant to tell him he was growing more handsome with each passing day. But the very second she touched him, he turned those eyes on her, looking at her in a way that made her step away from him.
“I…I think we should see what Lord MacTarvit has planned.”
Trevelyan smiled at her, knowing what she was feeling. And why not? She was young and healthy and he, for all she referred to him as an old man, was not old. Grinning, he started to leave the cottage, but as a dizzy spell overtook him he held on to the door frame. He stood still a moment, not wanting to leave the warmth of the cottage because he was feeling the chill of the day begin to seep into his bones. Malaria was not something a person ever got rid of.
It was early afternoon when they left the cottage and it was dusk when they started home. During the long afternoon Trevelyan sat on the damp ground, trying to wrap his father’s plaid around him as he watched Claire with the growing crowd of Scots men and women. Angus had unearthed one piper, but soon there were two more people playing the pipes. Someone put two rusty old swords on the ground and a young girl began to dance over them. Claire asked if she could learn the dance.
Trevelyan sat on the ground, leaned against the wall, and watched as Claire, feet flying, moved over the swords. She picked up the steps quickly and within a couple of hours was doing quite well. The pipers, all of them flirts, as most Scotsmen were, picked up the pace of their tunes until Claire was moving so quickly one could hardly see her feet.
Trevelyan was used to being an observer. In his many travels he had sat and watched many things. He had seen, as Claire had said of him, savagery beyond compare. Once, in a village in Africa, to celebrate his arrival they had crucified a man. He had seen hundreds of slave caravans. The “civilized” world was so horrified at the indignity of slavery, but Trevelyan could tell them that what went on in the villages of primitive people on a daily basis made slavery look like a seaside holiday.
Someone always kept Trevelyan’s whisky glass full. Scotch was the best-known help for the wet cold of Scotland. The men started drinking it in the morning and didn’t stop all day. Yet rarely did you see a drunken Scotsman, for the cold took so much energy to fight off that it burned up what was in the whisky.
He sat there for hours, sipping the whisky and watching the people as they laughed and at times sang. It wasn’t long before people began to walk in from cottages miles away. It was said that a walk of ten miles was a mere stroll to a Scotsman.
He watched Claire and he began to believe what she’d said about being as much Scots as Angus was. Watching her now, he could see she was more Scots than either he or Harry was, or any of the other people living in the big house were. How long had it been since any of his family had been off the estate grounds? When Harry wanted something, such as new clothes or an adventure, he went to London. The rest of the family moved from one estate to another, not caring which house they were in. It was true that the MacArran title was Scots and in theory the duke was the clan chief, but how long had it been since that meant anything to his family? Trevelyan’s father had spoken of tradition but he had talked only to his oldest son, the son who was to inherit. To Trevelyan he had said little about anything—except to reprimand Trevelyan when he got into one scrape after another. The oldest boy had been his father’s darling and Harry had been his mother’s. Trevelyan had spent his time alone, finding out what he could about life and trying not to get caught.
But in the end he had been caught and he had been sent away, returning over the years for short visits. He had gone from being part of the family to being a guest—an ignored guest.
“You’re shivering,” Claire said, leaning over him. Her pretty face was pink with exertion and he’d never seen her look lovelier.
Trevelyan didn’t want a pretty girl to be a nurse to him. “Perhaps you need spectacles. I’ve never felt better in my life.”
Claire smiled at him, then announced to one and all that she was exhausted and must leave, that it was a long walk back. They were surprised that a lady would walk. “It’s merely a wee jaunt. It won’t take me but a moment,” she said, laughing.
She held out her hand to Trevelyan to help him up, but he got up by himself. MacTarvit took one look at Trevelyan and offered him the use of a wagon.
“It’s a cold day in hell when I can’t walk on my own two feet,” Trevelyan growled and started off through the brambles toward the big house.
After saying good-bye to the crofters, Claire ran after him. “That was certainly rude of you. They were very kind to us.”
“Kind to you maybe, but not to me.” Already he was beginning to feel his legs weaken. Now he wished he’d accepted the old man’s offer of a wagon, but he wasn’t going to return and admit his weakness in front of all those people. And, more important, he wasn’t going to be made to look a weakling in front of Claire.
Claire walked behind Trevelyan, wondering what he was thinking about so hard. He had his head lowered and his shoulders set forward; he looked as though he were a man with a mission. He stabbed the ground with his iron cane and when he moved he leaned heavily on it. Also, she wondered why he’d said the people’s kindness had been extended only to her. At least four times she’d seen men stare at him, then nod in recognition. And three of the older women had seen to it that Trevelyan had always been supplied with food and drink.
As they walked, twice he stumbled. The first time she went to help him, he waved her away. The second time, she wouldn’t allow him to push her away. She put her arm around his waist, and it was then she realized he was burning with fever.
She looked up at him, saw the determination on his face. In spite of the fact that he was very ill he had stayed with her because she’d wanted to stay, and when Angus had offered him the use of his wagon, Trevelyan had turned it down. Pride and stubbornness, she thought.
He started to push her away but she held on to his waist. “There’s no use pretending with me,” she said. “I can see that you’re so sick you’re staggering. You can keep your silly pride in front of them but you can’t keep it with me. Now hold on to me and we’ll get you home.”
For a moment Trevelyan was indecisive as to what to do, but then he relaxed against her and let her help him. “Friends, are we?” he said and there was amusement in his voice.
“Yes, I think we are.”
“Then what are you and Harry?”
“We love each other,” she said softly.
“Is there a difference between lovers and friends?” he asked as they crossed a stream.
“A great, great deal of difference.”
“And which is more important?”
She thought for a while. “I think a person can live without lovers but no one can live without friends.”