Treasured (38 page)

Hating to drag Hamish from his sleep to help her give Jack a dose of medicine, she woke her aunt and Jack’s mother to help her. When they were finished, Elizabeth once again offered to relieve Isobel for a few hours.

“No,” Millicent said. “Let me.” She put her hand on Isobel’s arm and looked into her eyes. “You can sleep on the cot, and I will call you if he needs you.”

Isobel cast an uncertain look back at Jack. She was not sure that she could sleep, but her brain was foggy and her back ached. It would help to at least lie down a bit.

“Please, dear,” Millicent urged her. “I know I’m— I’ve
never been the mother Jack should have had. But I can do this. I want to. And you know that I would cry for help at the first sign of trouble.” She gave a wry flicker of a smile, and for just an instant Isobel could see a flash of Jack in her.

Isobel nodded. “Thank you.”

Isobel managed to doze, floating in and out of consciousness, troubled by vague, restless dreams. It was almost a relief when Jack’s mother woke her.

“I think he needs more medicine,” Millicent told her, her brow creased with worry. “He was better at first, but now he’s very hot and restless again.”

Isobel nodded and made the mixture. He did not, she thought, seem quite as agitated as earlier, and they were able to get the medicine down him between the two of them. Isobel persuaded him to take a few sips of water as well. Millicent left, looking relieved, and Isobel settled down beside Jack’s bed to begin once more the routine of ceaseless waiting.

She leaned her head against the mattress, trying to fight the despair that threatened to overwhelm her. Meg had told her to be patient, but here, in the darkest hours of the night, Isobel found it hard to hold on to hope.

“Isobel?” Something touched her head, and Isobel jerked awake. The room was light and she realized she must have fallen asleep. Her neck felt permanently crooked.

“Isobel,” came the faint voice again.

“Jack!” She shot upright and stared at him, stunned.

His skin was not flushed, and his eyes were weary, but clear. “Isobel? Why are you sitting there?” His tone was vaguely puzzled. “I don’t feel well.”

“Oh, Jack!” Isobel began to laugh, then her slightly
manic laughter turned into tears. She leaned her head upon the mattress again and wept.

“’S all right.” Jack patted her head weakly. “Don’t cry, Izzy.”

She took his hand in hers and raised it to her lips.

“’S all right,” he mumbled, and when she lifted her head again, she saw that his eyes were drifting closed.

Isobel sat for a moment, watching him, as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. Still holding his hand, she laid her head down again and slept.

“Blast!” Jack, when he awoke a few hours later, was not only clearer of head, but also louder of voice.

Isobel, who had been soaking in the sunlight at the window, turned and smiled. “Good day to you, too.”

“What the devil happened?” Jack raised his head and started to push himself up, then grimaced and muttered an oath. His head dropped back to the pillow. “I feel as if someone shoved a red-hot poker through my chest.”

“Do you not remember?” Isobel came back to him, reaching down to feel his forehead. It was far cooler than it had been, though still warmer than she would have liked. “You were shot.”

“Shot!” His brows rose and he looked away, thinking. “I was riding home. I remember—something slammed into my shoulder, and I dropped the reins. Pharaoh reared—yes, there was a bang—I went flying.” He paused. “It’s . . . very vague after that.” Jack ran his hand over her face and back into his hair. “I’m weak as a kitten.”

“That’s no surprise. You lost a great deal of blood. I didn’t know if you—” Her voice caught. “You must have been lying there for hours.”

“Isobel . . .” He reached out to take her hand. “You’re not going to cry again, are you?”

“No. Of course not.” She smiled determinedly. “I was . . . tired before.”

He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. “You have been taking care of me. I—I remember a little.” He looked a little fretfully toward the carpet. “Was there water on the floor?”

“No.” She chuckled and sat down on the side of the bed, keeping her hand curved in his. “Though you apparently thought there was. You were delirious with fever.”

“Everything seemed . . . a bit mad.” He frowned.

“What else do you remember?”

“About getting shot? Nothing, really. I woke up now and again. The sun was in my eyes. I think—yes, I tried to walk, but I fell. Was Coll Munro there?”

“He found you and brought you home.”

“I remember being on a horse; my shoulder hurt like hell every step he took.” He frowned. “That redhead—Meg Munro was here. Did she take the ball out of me?” His voice rose in astonishment.

“Yes. And a very good job she did, too. She made the medicine as well.” Isobel went on carefully, “Did you see anyone? When you were shot, I mean.”

“You mean the chap who shot me?” Jack shook his head. “Unless it was Coll.”

Isobel made a face. “I do hope you won’t accuse him again.
Coll did not shoot you. He brought you home; he saved your life. Would he have done that if he had just shot you?”

Jack grunted softly. “I suppose not.”

“Coll thinks it may have been a poacher. An accident.”

“Perhaps.”

“You’re tired. You should sleep.” Isobel stood up, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “I’ll ring for some broth.”

At the door, she paused and swung back around. “I told your mother and Aunt Elizabeth that you had awakened and were better. They were very happy to hear it. Your mother sat with you while I slept last night. I know she would like very much to come in and see you.”

He looked at Isobel for a long moment, then sighed. “Very well. Send her in.”

When Isobel left the room, Jack lay, looking up at the tester high above him. He felt like a turtle on its back. An empty and weak turtle. He tried to squirm higher on his pillow and discovered that any movement set off the fire in his chest and shoulder. Clearly he could do nothing on his own. The thought galled him. It was bad enough that he had been carried back to the house by Coll Munro, but it shamed him even more to think of Isobel seeing him in such a state.

When his mother tiptoed hesitantly into his room, he was swept with relief. At least he would not have to ask Isobel to help him sit up now; his mother could do that. “Thank God.”

Millicent blinked at his unusually enthusiastic greeting,
but hurried over to his bedside. “Oh, Jack, I have been so worried. I thought you would die, hating me, and I could not bear it.” Her eyes welled with tears.

“Yes, I know. For pity’s sake, don’t cry about it. I don’t hate you, and in any case I didn’t die.”

“You are always so cold.”

“Mother, please. I need your help.”

She gaped at him.

“I cannot sit up by myself.”

Her face cleared. “Ah . . . you don’t want to have to ask Isobel.” She stepped forward with a little chuckle and slid her hands beneath his head and chest. “You see? Sometimes having a mother about is not so bad.”

With her help, and enough pain to leave him white-faced, Jack managed to sit up, and Millicent plumped up the pillows behind his back.

“There now.” She patted his leg and sat down in the chair beside him, then launched into a description of her emotional reaction to his arrival, half-dead, at the house.

“I am glad I provided you with some drama.” Jack’s wry smile took the sting out of his words.

“Oh, you.” Millicent gave an airy wave of her hand.

“What about everyone else?” he asked casually, straightening out a wrinkle in the sheet.

“We were all amazed! Isobel had been worrying. I could see that. You know I notice little things that—”

“Was she . . . surprised?”

“Of course she was! Everyone was.”

“What about her brother? Was Andrew there?”

She furrowed her brow, thinking. “No, I don’t believe so. You know, I don’t think he has even been by to see how you
are, which is most unlike him. He is usually so courteous.” She narrowed her eyes. “Jack, these are very peculiar questions. What are you thinking?”

“Cui bono
.”

“What? You know I don’t like it when you use those legal words. There are times when you are very like my father.”

“Who benefits,” he explained.

“Who ben—” She stared at him. “You think it was someone here who shot at you? Somebody in this house? No. Don’t be silly. It was a poacher, that’s all. An accident.”

“That seems to be the popular explanation.”

“You cannot suspect Isobel!”

“No, no, of course not.” His mind skittered away from the thought.

“She has been at your side the whole time. She’s barely slept or eaten. She wouldn’t even let me in the room at first, and I am your mother.” Millicent added with a touch of resentment, “I must say, Isobel is a bit of a martinet, though you would not think it to look at her. Do you know, she had a maid pour out that little bottle of my cordial, which was a gift, you know, from Sir Andrew, and purely medicinal, besides. She doesn’t serve wine at the table now, either, which seems a bit rude when one thinks about it.”

“Did she really?” Jack’s mouth quirked up on one side. “She is something of a manager.”

“I suppose it’s the money. Well, you know how the Scots are.”

Jack laughed. “No, Mother, I have found I don’t know how the Scots are at all.”

“But I don’t think they would try to
murder
you. It’s clear that Isobel loves you madly.”

“Is it? You see romances everywhere, Mother.”

“That is because I look instead of ignoring them. You might try it sometime.”

“What about Andrew? Where was he?”

“I don’t know, dear. He was not with me, but then a young man is not likely to be sitting about with two old ladies, is he? Oh! I believe that was the day he went to stay with Gregory, so you see, it couldn’t have been him.”

“Yes, I see.”

“I cannot imagine Sir Andrew would try to harm you. He is a gentleman through and through—such address, such courtesy.”

“It would be rather impolite to shoot one’s host.”

“It’s the fever.” Millicent nodded. “I am sure that is why you are thinking such morbid thoughts. But don’t worry. I won’t let on that you suspected Isobel and Andrew.”

That, Jack thought with an inward groan, undoubtedly ensured that she would tell everyone.

Millicent leaned in toward him. “This is so nice, isn’t it? Talking together like this. It is just as it used to be. Remember when you were little? I could talk to you about anything.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“You were a wonderful little boy. Such a support to me during all the bad times. You took good care of my Dolly. You loved her so.”

“I did.”

“Don’t be sad, dearest.” Millicent patted Jack’s arm consolingly. “She is in a better place, I’m sure.”

“Yes, I am sure she is.”

“Ah, there, I’ve made you tired. I can see it in your face. Isobel will be quite out of humor with me. I told her I would
not stay long. You should sleep.” She stood up and bent to kiss his cheek. “Shall I help you lie back down?”

“No. I prefer this.” He watched her leave, letting his head sink back into the pillows. He felt weary to the center of his bones. She was right; he should sleep. But though he closed his eyes, he could not stop the thoughts drifting through his head.

Isobel would not have tried to kill him. But . . . if he died, she would have her beloved Baillannan back. He had made a new will leaving the estate to her; that was another of the tasks he had performed in Inverness. Jack thought of Isobel’s eyes, her smile, her mouth soft on his. It could not be her. Much more likely her brother. Andrew could not get his estate back, but he would be able to live on Isobel’s largesse. Was he one of the young gentlemen who visited Manton’s shooting club? It was possible, and killing someone from a distance would suit his nature.

Or Coll—though he seemed more the sort to attack close up and straight on. Jack was sure it was Coll who had spared his life that night with the highwaymen. And Coll had also brought Jack back to the house. But perhaps Coll was certain Jack would soon die and thought to make himself look more innocent by pretending to save him. Love could drive a man to do strange things. Despite Isobel’s protestations, Jack found it hard to believe that the man didn’t harbor a desire for her. How could he not?