Page 26 of Never a Duchess
“Good Lord!” Miss Ware gripped Callan’s arm now. “We must get him into the house and give him space before he injures himself.”
The carriage came to a crashing halt outside MacTavish’s home on Pall Mall. Callan kicked open the door, clambered over his friend, and vaulted to the pavement.
“Fetch a footman, Miss Ware. Hurry. Take Ailsa. Have them draw a bath and light the fire as there’s nae time to heat the water.”
Both ladies climbed out and raced into the house.
Callan grabbed MacTavish around the waist and hauled him over his shoulder, his stomach churning at the thought of losing someone else he loved. “Saints and demons! Can I nae take my eyes off ye for a second?” he said, breaking into a thick Scottish drawl.
It took all Callan’s strength to hold MacTavish tightly. Passersby hurried away as if the man’s weird jerks and moans were contagious. Still, Callan managed to get the writhing fellow into the house.
Lady MacTavish raced to the door, patting down her wild red curls. “Upon my oath, what the devil has happened? Angus? Are ye drunk?”
“It might be poison.” Callan strived to mount the stairs with the hefty fellow on his back. “We need a doctor!”
He could almost hear the lady’s thoughts as she hurried behind.
Yer mother’s death was an accident.
Dinnae let suspicion cloud yer judgement, lad.
Callan burst into MacTavish’s bedchamber and threw him down onto the mattress, the four-poster bed creaking under the strain. That’s when the lady’s composure faltered, and she saw her husband’s movements were wild and unnatural. Feral.
“What wickedness is this?”
“I’m convinced it’s poison.” By God, if MacTavish had ingested something foul, he might not live to tell the tale. “Sit with him. Keep him propped on his side. Stop him rolling onto his back and choking on his tongue.”
Mother, dinnae die!
Please, dinnae die!
The words echoed in Callan’s mind.
Two footmen barged into the room, hauling a copper tub, their timely arrival banishing the ghosts of the past.
“We need water. Quickly.” Callan was already shrugging out of his coat. “Has someone sent for the physician?”
“The maids are filling buckets, Your Grace. And your coachman went to fetch Dr Mackenzie. The master will see no one else.”
Callan nodded. “One of ye light the fire.” A Scotsman could suffer the cold, but not while sick and bathing in cool water. He yanked off MacTavish’s boot and threw it to the floor. “We need to get Angus out of these damn clothes.”
A maid arrived, lugging a heavy bucket. She emptied the water into the tub before hurrying from the room. Like an army of ants, the other servants followed suit.
Amid the chaos, Miss Ware appeared like an apparition. Her complexion pale, her bearing sad and mournful, hesitance in every step. She looked defeated, ready to instruct her maid to air her black crepe mourning gown.
Seeing her always caused an inner conflict—a battle between pleasure and pain, hope and sorrow.
He’d tried hard to forget her.
But she lived under his skin.
He could scratch, draw blood, and it wouldn’t ease the ache.
She met his gaze, and Callan saw his own panic reflected there. Without saying a word, she knelt before the fire.
Callan didn’t ask if she knew how to use the tinderbox. A woman who wished to travel the world would need to be resourceful. For the same reason, he did not demand a maid resume the task.
Amidst the servants’ comings and goings, and him removing MacTavish’s neckcloth and coat, he sensed Miss Ware watching him.
