The Groom Says Yes (5 page)

Sabrina attempted to appeal to whatever love he had for her. “And what is to become of me, Father? Where is my place in this new household you are creating?”

There was a heavy beat of silence, then he said, “As my wife, I will expect Lillian to receive all that is due to her.”

Her heart dropped . . . because now she understood. She felt quite ridiculous actually. Any authority Sabrina believed she had carried had been an illusion. Male that he was, her father would let Mrs. Bossley take her mother’s place and also determine what was best for Sabrina.

Her life stretched bleakly in front of her as a long, lonely road.

And there was nothing more for her. Charitable works and playing the pianoforte for other people to dance were how she would be remembered if anyone thought of her at all.

She turned to the door. There wasn’t anything left to say. She felt empty, abandoned . . . she thought of Mr. Enright.

Now was probably the best time to mention their guest. She’d wait a bit. However, she had made a promise to Mrs. Kinnion.

“One other matter,” she said softly, unable to meet his eye. “Mrs. Kinnion is concerned for her husband’s welfare.”

“His welfare?” Her father’s interest sharpened dramatically as if he was relieved with a change of subject.

“He went to Edinburgh on business. He should have returned days ago, but she hasn’t heard a word from him.”

“She hasn’t?” her father said.

“Did you know he was gone? The deacon spoke at services last week, but I had not realized Mr. Kinnion was traveling.”

“Yes, I had some knowledge of his trip,” her father responded, sounding distracted.

“Well, he’s only late returning a few days,” Sabrina emphasized. “Still, his wife is concerned. Mr. Kinnion went to visit his uncle, who is the rector at St. Jude’s Kirk in Edinburgh’s Grassmarket. I said you might be willing to send a note to the uncle just to inquire that all is as it should be. I hope that was all right?”

He frowned at her now as if she had grown two heads, and he couldn’t comprehend a word she was saying. But then he seemed to recover, and murmured, “Of course, of course. St. Jude’s.”

“Ebenezer Kinnion is his uncle’s name. Would you like me to write it down for you?”

He dismissed her with a curt wave of his hand. “I know him.”

Sabrina frowned. Mrs. Kinnion’s request seemed to have grabbed hold of her father’s mind. He stood as if uncertain of which way to turn and what to do. “Father, is something the matter?”

He gave a start, then barked, “Why do you say that?”

Sabrina blinked at his abruptness. “The Reverend Kinnion’s absence seems to have upset you.”

For a second, her father appeared shamefaced, then he fired back with a burst of anger, “You say the man is missing and that his wife is worried. Why would I not be concerned? He is my friend. Or has my offer for Mrs. Bossley so completely tainted your opinion of me that you can’t believe anything good of me?”

Sabrina held a hand up as if to ward him off. “I meant no insult. I just, well—” She broke off. She couldn’t very well chastise him for caring more for a friend than he did his own daughter. Not if she wanted peace. After all was said and done, her mother had taught her well. Her father’s needs were to be considered first, and she had already pushed him to his limit—for now. Sabrina knew she’d revisit the topic of Mrs. Bossley with him. She could not afford to lose this battle.

“I’m also worried,” she finished lamely.

But he was no longer paying attention to her. Instead, he had moved over to his desk and sat in his chair, but he did not pick up his pen. No, he just stared at the stack of papers with unseeing eyes as if he was working something out in his mind.

Sabrina lingered by the door. “Father?”

His head jerked up. “Go on about your tasks,” he ordered, sounding preoccupied. “I’m fine.” He picked up his pen and began fiddling with his papers.

The curt dismissal did not set well with Sabrina, not after the argument. He would probably explain everything to Mrs. Bossley.

And then she remembered that she had her own secret. Mr. Enright. She would talk to her father about him later, after dinner, when he’d had a glass of whisky and mellowed a bit. Mr. Enright would be content for the moment, provided she served him a portion of Mrs. Patton’s chicken broth.

“I need to see to supper,” she said.

Her father didn’t reply. He acted as if he hadn’t heard her.

Sabrina didn’t understand his mood, but then, to be honest, since her mother’s death, there were times the two of them acted like strangers. Her best course was to prepare their meal and see to her patient.

She marched into the kitchen and crossed to the fire, where Mrs. Patton had left several pots hanging on hooks. The bread baked for the day was cooling on a good-sized trestle table that took up the center of the kitchen. It was here Sabrina and her father ate instead of the dining room. There was a pantry in the far corner, and the chairs for the table were lined up against the wall.

The broth was scalding hot. It should have been removed from the fire’s heat some time ago. Sabrina picked up a cloth and lifted the pot off the hook. She’d just set it on a marble slab on the hearth to cool when she heard the back door slam shut.

She listened, and she didn’t hear another sound. Had her father left? She went to the hall. No one had come in, and the study door was open. The room was empty.

Her first panicked thought was that her father had gone out to the stables for whatever reason and would discover Mr. Enright. She dashed to the door.

She was right. He’d just gone through the garden gate and was taking long strides toward the stables.

Sabrina flew out the door. She hurried down the step, scampering as fast as she could with any dignity toward the stable, her mind awhirl with a plausible story about Mr. Enright’s presence, and that is when she came to a halt.

She couldn’t tell her father she’d just come across the man in a bothy and brought him home. In the mood her father was in right now, he would never let the man in the house. She could tell him Mr. Enright was a friend of someone she’d come across today and that person had asked the Davidsons to keep their friend for a bit.

That wouldn’t work either.

Her father might ask the name of the person. And then what would she say—?

Her father came riding Rainer out of the stables at a high gallop. He even slapped his reins against the bay’s sides, urging him to go faster. The horse was happy to oblige. Mud and stones were kicked up into the air as his huge hooves dug in and surged forward.

“
Wait.
” Sabrina ran to the gate, wanting to know where he was going, but her father didn’t stop. Indeed, he acted as if he didn’t see her. In a blink of an eye, he galloped across the bridge into Aberfeldy and was gone from view . . . heading in the direction of Borlick—home of the Widow Bossley.

Sabrina stared after him, stunned by his abrupt abandonment.

He hadn’t said a word to her about leaving. Her father had never done that before.

And if she had needed a demonstration of exactly where she fell in his affection when compared with the widow, she had received it.

Within the half hour, her father and Mrs. Bossley would be cozying up together and giggling over how “innocent” his daughter was.

Sabrina reached down, grabbed a handful of stones, dirt, and new grass and tossed them at the road her father had just taken. She was furious and feeling more than a little betrayed. She
hated
her life.

Caring for her mother had not been easy, but at least she’d had a purpose and reason for being.

Now, she had nothing. Even her cousins had married and gone off on their own. Why had the Almighty given her a keen mind and common sense if all she was supposed to do was arrange flowers and dust tabletops—?

A frantic whimper interrupted her temper tantrum.

Rolf had come out into the stable yard. He stood in indecision, as if wanting to cross to her but afraid to leave the building.

He whimpered again.

“What is it?” she asked, walking toward him.

He disappeared inside the stable, then returned to stick his head out to be certain she still followed, and her thoughts went immediately to Mr. Enright. She lifted her skirts and began running.

Satisfied she understood the urgency, Rolf ran ahead to the pony cart. He whimpered, pacing as if anxious she check on her patient.

Mr. Enright was curled up in the bottom of the cart, sprawled exactly as she had left him, but he was quiet. Too quiet. And his skin had the look and texture of wax.

He didn’t even move when Rolf jumped against the cart, making it rock to and fro—and Sabrina’s immediate thought was that he was dead.

P
anic propelled Sabrina into the cart.

The vehicle bounced beneath her as she scrambled over the bench so that she could check him closely. Dumpling, always curious and in the stall next door, put his head over the wall as if he had something to say about the goings-on in the stable. Rolf whined and paced as if he thought he should be doing something.

Mr. Enright’s skin was still hot, but that did not always mean life. Fever had so consumed old Mrs. McDavid that her skin had been heated to the touch for a good fifteen minutes after her death.

Sabrina searched for his pulse in the vein along his neck and listened hard for sounds of his breathing.

His heart beat—and then Rolf jumped right on top of him. The dog had leaped right into the cart, landing on top of the man’s waist and shoulders. He stuck his cold, black nose right into the crook of his neck.

Mr. Enright jerked as the dog’s weight squeezed the air through his lungs. He gasped as if needing more air and unable to receive it—
but he was alive.
Albeit just barely.

“Move, Rolf,” Sabrina ordered, shoving her dog out of the cart with both hands. Rolf didn’t take offense at being dumped to the ground. He sat up, his tail wagging as if he understood he’d performed a good service.

Her patient had settled back into his fetal position, his breathing labored but strong, as if he’d momentarily given up but now continued the struggle to survive.

His dark hair was pressed against his head in damp rings. Shadows emphasized the hollows of his face. If she didn’t act quickly, she could lose him.

“I’m moving you,” she said to him. “I’m taking you into the house.” She started climbing out of the cart as she spoke. “When we reach the back step, I will need your help. I can’t move you alone, and no one else is here.”

Her father would not approve. She should have spoken to him, but it was too late now, and she wasn’t about to keep Mr. Enright a moment longer out here in the stables. He needed good care.

Besides, her father was already so annoyed with her, he’d charged out of the house. Carting home a sick stranger would be just one more thing about her that irritated him.

“He and Mrs. Bossley can discuss this transgression as well,” she muttered under her breath as she picked the cart up by the shafts and began pulling it out of the stall. It wasn’t difficult to pull, just awkward, and she decided to see if she could guide it all the way to the back door without dealing with Dumpling.

For his part, the pony watched her efforts with interest, as if wondering if she found being hitched to the cart as much of a chore as he did.

Rolf trotted along beside her.

The dog’s interest in Mr. Enright’s well-being was very curious to Sabrina. She could only surmise that the man must be a halfway-decent sort if Rolf gave his approval. She hoped that was true. After all, she knew nothing about Mr. Enright. Why, he could be some brigand.

But he didn’t seem to be such a character. If anything, he struck her as a man who’d had a measure of bad luck. There were telltale signs, from the good leather of his boots with their run-down heels to the quality linen of his filthy and sweat-stained shirt. He needed some kindness.

Offering kindness could help her as well.

The cart’s height fit perfectly the top back step. She propped the door open.

Now came the hard part, physically moving him. She’d opened the cart door. All he had to do was step from the vehicle into the house. Simple really . . . if one were conscious.

“Mr. Enright,” Sabrina called, shaking his shoulder. “Mr. Enright, you must rouse yourself.
Please.
I can’t take you inside without your help.”

He didn’t budge. There was no movement. Not even the flicker of an eyelash.

She could ask for help from a neighbor, but for some reason, she was reluctant to do so. Perhaps because of the promise Mr. Enright had extracted from her. Perhaps because she felt her father should be informed first before she mentioned her patient to others.

Or perhaps because of her own stubbornness. Sabrina had rarely asked for assistance when she was tending her mother. She didn’t like to bother others, and, yes, her pride was involved as well. She was independent by nature. Doing a task herself was easier than letting others pry into her business.

She rushed up to her bedroom and pulled the counterpane off her bed. She took it downstairs and spread it on the floor by the door.

“Mr. Enright,” she called again, this time shoving his shoulder since he hadn’t reacted to her gentle shaking, “I need your help.”

Nothing. No response at all.

“
Please, Mr. Enright.
”

He seemed to settle in deeper.

Finally, she took a lesson from Rolf. She took both hands and all of her weight and pounced on him.

Mr. Enright woke, his glassy eyes opening.

“Stand up,” she ordered, as she lifted his arm and placed it around her shoulder. This man was solid. Weak but muscular. “Please, stand,” she encouraged, and to her blessed relief, he did.

He unfolded himself and with her aid, stood in the rickety cart. For a second, they wobbled, then she pushed him forward. He grabbed the side of the door and stepped inside the house. She jumped after him.

“You can lie on the blanket,” she said. “I’ll be able to drag you to the stairs.”

Mr. Enright half turned to her and stared as if trying to make sense out of what she was saying, then he began a lurching walk down the hall.

Sabrina was ecstatic. This was better than she had hoped. They managed to reach the stairs. “All right,” she said. “Let us climb them. One at a time.”

He shot her a look that said he thought her quite mad and sat on the stairs, like a stubborn toddler who could not take one step more. He leaned his shoulder against the wall.

For a second, she debated leaving him here. She looked around the rooms off the hall. The dining room was one of the smallest rooms in the house, and the table, chairs, and sideboard took up any floor space that could accommodate a man of his size. Nor would he fit in the tight space between the foot of the stairs and the front door.

She could fashion a comfortable bed for him on the floor of the sitting room. Her pianoforte was in one corner, and there were chairs for conversation by the front window, but they could be moved. However, Sabrina didn’t want her father to walk in the door and see Mr. Enright until after she’d had a chance to explain his presence.

So, how to guide him up the stairs and to the back bedroom that was reserved for guests?

Mr. Enright solved her conundrum by turning on his own and half crawling, half climbing the stairs. She had to step lively to catch up with him.

Nor was he truly conscious. A part of him was acting on instinct. He trusted her because he had no choice. He could not fend for himself.

At the top of the stairs, he didn’t walk down the hall toward the guest bedroom by the attic door but turned sharply to the right and trudged into her own bedroom. He fell facedown upon her bed.

Sabrina stood in the doorway, relief mixing with dismay. She had not had the difficulty she had anticipated carrying him up the stairs. However, he had chosen
her
bed. He could not stay there, and yet he appeared to have lost consciousness again.

She walked to the bed. This room was her sanctuary, the one place in the house that was hers alone. The bed was a simple four-poster and could certainly bear Mr. Enright’s weight. However, she was very particular about the pillows and the sheets. Mrs. Patton and her father always accused her of being fussy about wanting her sheets clean and fresh. She liked plump pillows, too. She added feathers as she found them to the three pillows until they were just the way she liked them, and she did not share. Especially with someone who had his boots on her sheets.

As if he read her thoughts, Mr. Enright rubbed his hairy face against the smooth pillowcase Sabrina had sewn and embroidered herself. He snuggled in deeper.

And Sabrina’s frustration rose to the top. “You can’t stay here.”

He didn’t move. He probably hadn’t heard her. However, if he could climb the stairs, then he could rouse himself to march down the hall.

“
Come,
” she ordered, reaching for his arm to drag him out of the bed.

He didn’t move.

Worse, the fever had hold of him again. If anything, he was hotter to the touch than he had been before.

Sheets could be cleaned, but she was not going to let this man die in her bed. Oh, no.

She flew across the room to her washstand and poured water into the basin. The water had been sitting all day and was just the right temperature. She carried the bowl over to the bed and set it on the nightstand before leaving to collect clean cloths from the linen press in the hall.

Sabrina began to do what she could to cool him down. She pressed compresses to his forehead and his chest beneath his shirt. She had a good supply of herbs and ointments in her mother’s medicinal chest. She prepared an herbal poultice that contained eucalyptus leaves to clear the lungs and bound it to his chest.

She removed his boots. They were not difficult to pull off. Mr. Enright had obviously lost weight during his illness or perhaps before. This alarmed her more than anything, that and the pasty color of his skin. He might not have the resources to see him through his fever.

She turned to rush downstairs for the broth she’d left cooling in the kitchen and was surprised to see Rolf standing in the bedroom doorway. The back door must still be open. The dog watched with an anxious eye.

“He is not well, is he?” she said.

Rolfe did not wag his tail.

When she went downstairs for the broth, Rolf walked into her bedroom and sat beside the bed. He had been there many times before. When he was a small pup, she’d let him sleep with her. She was not happy with her father’s dictate that the dog stay outside, and she certainly was not going to order Rolf out now.

A few minutes later, she returned with a tray holding a large bowl of good broth and a spoon.

Sabrina had ladled food into many a patient, starting with her mother. The doctor from Pitlochry had claimed her mother would have died much earlier in her life if not for Sabrina’s care.

She now followed her usual procedure. She sat on the bed, picking up Mr. Enright’s huge head and resting it in her lap. “Eat,” she encouraged him. “Come along now, swallow.”

Of course, he did not obey, and she feared he was already too close to death to be saved.

M
ac didn’t know where he was.

He had been traveling, no, floating actually, through cavernlike halls with arched white doors lining the walls. The halls were connected with stone steps, two steps here, four there, and the path, the only direction he could go, seemed to lead deeper and deeper into a place he did not understand.

The sound of rushing water roared in his ears. A part of him thought if he could find a river or stream, then perhaps he could escape the darkness.

The darkness.

Oh, yes, it was dark, but the doors were a brilliant white. They didn’t just stand out in the shadows of this place, they glowed.

He moved past them, unable or unwilling to touch them. They had no handles, and they reminded him of the priests’ cubbies he’d once seen in an ancient monastery. Cells they were . . . and then he was in a cell.

The Old Tolbooth . . . and outside, beyond the building’s ancient walls, came calls for his execution. Disembodied voices shouted for his head on a pike. They were witnesses to his death, and he realized he was ready to give them what they wanted. He was tired. Done. Spent. Life had become a sorry burden, and for the first time in all his struggles, Mac was bloody exhausted from trying to hang on.

He was once again on the wrong side—always on the wrong side. Then again, he was Irish, it was his nature to rebel . . . but not any longer. He wanted peace—

“More. You must drink more
.”

The command was clear, the woman’s voice distinct.

He looked around the cell. She was not there. He was still alone, and yet, he heard her again.

“Another bit
,”
she ordered.
“
A bit more. Please, do you understand me? You are making me angry, sir. If you don’t eat, you’ll die. Now, please, try.”

She was a bossy bit.

And yet, her voice was melodic and warm and concerned. Anxious even. He saw himself open his mouth, wanting, yearning for the tenderness that only a woman could offer.

Did they know how strong they were? How they could make a difference in the way a man saw the world?

Mac had a fondness for women, all of them—young, old, feisty, and calm. They intrigued him. They teased him, and he enjoyed teasing them back. They were poetry and song in his life, but they were not meaningful. No woman had been meaningful after Moira. He wouldn’t allow it. Moira had taken too much from him—

“Mr. Enright, another spoonful. Now.”

Instead of obeying, he tried to open his eyes. It took superhuman effort. He hadn’t realized they were closed. It was as if he was lost in the depth of a dream—

Light hurt his eyes, and his vision was not clear. Nor were his senses operating the way he expected. The analytical part of his brain, the physician in him, immediately registered how ill he was. His chest was heavy and his breathing labored. He wanted to fall back into that peaceful obscurity.

Still, he needed to see her face.

“You are awake,” she said, a sense of wonder in her voice.

He struggled to focus, and slowly, her features came into view.

She was an angel. He should have known.

And angels were just as lovely as his gram had claimed they’d be.

Her hair was sable rich, thick and curling. Strands of it hung around her face as if it had become unpinned.

She had crystal blue eyes and clear, creamy skin. There were freckles, the very faintest ones across her nose.

His angel smiled at him, but a tear escaped from her eye. “You must live,” she told him. “You must fight hard.”