“Let her stay,” Evan’s mother said softly when she arrived.
“Ye can both stay, if ye remain quiet and dinna interfere,” Ambrose declared.
He shooed away the servants and drew the draperies around the bed, cocooning the three of them inside.
She heard Evan’s father curse and storm out of the chamber, but his mother’s skirts swished as she moved to the chair by the hearth and sat down to keep vigil.
* * *
For the next few hours, Ambrose struggled with two different men warring within him. The dedicated surgeon worked to comfort his patient and bring down his fever. He’d had very little sleep, but the need to ensure Evan’s survival kept him wide awake, going over in his mind everything he’d been taught about amputations and resulting fevers.
The Ambrose who’d fallen in love with Eala Calhoun cursed himself for loving another man’s fiancée and questioning why it was so vitally important he save that man’s life when his death might make things easier.
As well as exhaustion, he saw the same confused emotions on Eala’s beloved face as she labored to help him. Neither of them gave voice to the truth but he saw it in her brown eyes. If Evan died, he would forever come between them.
As the long night progressed, they took turns to sit with Mrs. Bruce by the fire. She asked about Evan’s chances, and he replied as noncommittally as he could. He deemed it odd she never requested to see her son. Clearly, the Bruce family wasn’t a close-knit one, unlike his own.
When Eala joined Evan’s mother, there was no conversation. He pitied both women. Mrs. Bruce apparently couldn’t bring herself to thank her future daughter-by-marriage for her efforts to save her son, and it seemed Eala was ill-at-ease with her fiancé’s mother.
Mr. Bruce didn’t reappear until well after dawn. By then, Ambrose was confident Evan would survive.
* * *
Male voices startled Eala awake. She gasped when pain arrowed into her neck. Dozing in a fashionable but uncomfortable armchair wasn’t a good idea. Daylight filtered through the expensive brocade draperies at the floor to ceiling windows, revealing that the other chair was empty.
Eala bolted upright, every muscle in her body objecting to the movement. She thought perhaps the stress had as much to do with her aches and pains as the chair.
Surprised to see the four-poster’s draperies pulled aside, she gripped the back of her chair. Standing beside Evan’s bed, Mr. Bruce was nodding. Clutching a kerchief, his wife was smoothing a hand over her son’s forehead. Ambrose was speaking softly to Evan’s parents, the grim mask that had marred his chiseled features gone.
Evan would live.
She held on to the chair for dear life, not certain if her betrothed’s survival augured well for the future or not.
Life Is Precarious
Ambrose accepted Mr. Bruce’s bone-crushing handshake, glad to see tears of gratitude welling in the stern fellow’s eyes. Perhaps he did love his son after all. “I canna thank ye enough, Dr. Pendray,” he gushed. “My wife will see to a chamber for ye. Ye must be worn out.”
After some hesitation, Mrs. Bruce finally stood on tiptoe to peck a kiss on Ambrose’s cheek before scurrying off to do her husband’s bidding.
Ambrose glanced over at Eala, appalled the Bruces had made no effort to thank her, or even acknowledge her presence. “And, of course,” he said to his host, “Ye’ll see to Miss Calhoun’s accommodations.”
Evan’s father narrowed his eyes, muttered something unintelligible, then harrumphed his way out of the chamber.
“I hope that means ye’ll be given a proper guest chamber,” he said to Eala as she slowly approached the bed.
“More likely a cupboard,” she replied with a wry smile. “Ye’ve probably surmised they dinna approve of me.”
“Their opinion doesna matter,” Evan suddenly rasped, surprising them both.
Eala hurried to hold his hand. “Evan! ’Tis good to hear yer voice.”
“I ne’er thought to see yer lovely face again, Eala.”
“’Tis thanks to Dr. Pendray ye’re still alive. He refused to give up on ye.”
“It helps when a doctor has a patient with a strong will to live,” Ambrose replied modestly.
“Nevertheless, I thank ye, doctor. I’m nay sure how I ended up here, at home. Last I recall, I was in a filthy croft out on the moor with screaming bairns.”