Her appetite having returned, Eala tucked into the last of the cold roast chicken. In the long year of their acquaintance, Evan had never once stirred the wanton feelings a stranger had managed to rouse in one brief moment. She ought to be consumed with guilt but couldn’t wait to meet the new doctor face-to-face on the morrow.
* * *
After introductions were made, the elderly servant brought a meager meal of watery soup and stale bread. Ambrose was still ravenous after downing the tasteless broth in a trice.
Their host never stopped talking throughout the meal, except when he swigged more whisky directly from a flagon.
Giles’ frown deepened as he became increasingly agitated with Calhoun’s gloom and doom predictions about the failure of the Jacobite rising and Scotland’s future in general.
He and Giles were finally able to seek their chambers when Calhoun dozed off in mid-rant.
Ambrose felt he’d climbed a mountain to the fourth floor landing. He stepped into the tiny room barely big enough for the poor excuse for a cot. There was no window so that couldn’t be the source of the draft that settled on his shoulders.
Shivering, he stripped off his clothing quickly and donned a nightshirt—a garment he didn’t normally bother with. He blessed his mother who’d assured him one day he’d be glad of it.
As he might have expected, the mattress was lumpy, the linens damp and musty smelling. His feet hung over the end of the cot, so he got up again and pulled on his hose. A loose board banged against the exterior of the house every time the wind caught it. Resigned to a wretched night’s sleep, he pulled the linens over his ears and directed his thoughts to his faraway cozy chamber at Kilmer.
Racing Heart
It was still dark when Ambrose rolled over the next morning to perch on the edge of the wafer-thin mattress. He’d expected to sleep well after the long journey and even longer dinner table conversation with Rory Calhoun. He chuckled part way through his yawn.Conversationimplied more than one person’s contribution.
He yanked off his nightshirt, stuffed it in his bag and dressed quickly. After poking a finger into the thin layer of ice on the water in the ewer, he poured enough into the basin to rinse his face. “Now, I’m awake,” he gasped, blinking away drops from his eyelashes. It was far too cold to retrieve his shaving kit from the portmanteau. This unwelcome sojourn was perhaps an opportunity to let his beard grow.
Receiving no response when he knocked on Giles’ door across the landing, he began the slow, careful descent of the steep, creaky stairs, pausing to inhale an intriguing perfume that lingered on the second floor. Mistress Calhoun’s chamber must be nearby. The feminine aroma reminded him of his sisters, although there was something sultry about it. Exotic, almost.
He shook his head. Clearly, his sleep-deprived brain was getting the better of him. Still, the perfume was a pleasant relief from the musty odor of the rest of the house.
Hoping the cook had boiled up oatmeal for breakfast, he expected to find Giles alone in the parlor cum dining room. He faltered upon entering, thrown completely off guard when his gaze met a pair of wide, brown eyes.
His cock went into full salute.
“Ambrose Pendray,” Giles announced. “May I present Miss Eala Calhoun.”
Grandson of an earl, Ambrose had been raised in a cultured home. He’d been taught the manners of a gentleman. Seven years of university had brought him into contact with many learned men and women. He was considered a polite and witty man in his social circle.
He reached for the dainty hand extended by the Greek goddess with the chestnut brown tresses and stuttered like an ignoramus. “Calhoun…Miss…Eala. Er…pretty name…unusual…pleased…I mean…forgive me…I didna sleep well and the journey…”
Stop now before ye make a complete fool of yerself.
Her stunning smile sent more blood rushing to his manhood. He resisted the urge to look down at his crotch, hoping the bulge in his breeches wasn’t obvious.
“My name is Gaelic for Swan,” she said softly.
He was lost, swimming with swans in a placid lake, stroking their long, graceful necks…
Giles coughed loudly, jolting him back to reality.
“Thank you for coming to our aid, Dr. Pendray,” she said, extricating her hand from his manic grip.
He almost launched into an apology that he wasn’t yet a doctor, not really, but Giles’ glare brought him to his senses. This beautiful woman was depending on him to save the life of the man she loved. “I hope I can be of service,” he finally managed from his dry throat.
* * *
Seated next to Dr. Pendray at the table, Eala had a difficult time swallowing her oatmeal. For some reason, it was stiflingly hot in the normally drafty room. Bees buzzed in her brain as she half-listened to Dr. Raincourt explain his various patients’ afflictions to the newcomer. Clearly, she’d come down with some illness in the wretched hovel where Evan lay in torment. One of the bairns had been coughing…although, she wasn’t coughing…perhaps there were other symptoms of disease. If Dr. Pendray examined her…
“So,” Raincourt concluded, bringing an abrupt end to her reverie, “you can take Mistress Calhoun to the Molloy cottage in the berlin. I’ll ride to check up on the less urgent cases.”
She gasped—too quickly. The breath caught in her throat, causing her to cough.