Page 27 of Never a Duchess
“Ailsa is bathing,” she eventually said, her timid tone mirroring her despair. “Must we burn her clothes?”
“It’s unlikely we’re contaminated. We would have shown similar signs of illness,” he said, restraining MacTavish to stop him injuring himself as he writhed on the bed. “But best we all wash and change. Make sure ye clean yer hair.”
Although frantic thoughts plagued Callan’s mind, he imagined playing maid to Miss Ware, pulling every pin, letting the silky strands slip through his fingers. Touching her in all the ways he shouldn’t.
“I pray he recovers,” was all she said before leaving the room.
Dr Mackenzie arrived promptly. He questioned Lorna MacTavish about her husband’s morning meal and asked where he might find the rat poison.
Callan explained what had occurred in Baudelaire’s perfumery.
Dr Mackenzie kept his gaze on the patient, though MacTavish had stopped flailing since the doctor had shoved three spoonfuls of activated charcoal down his throat. “How long after inhaling the scent did he become ill?”
“Within twenty minutes.”
“It’s likely he had a reaction to the perfume. But I’ll stay until after supper. We cannot have him lapsing into a fit.”
“But ye think the worst is over?” Lorna said, teary-eyed.
“Whatever he inhaled probably entered his bloodstream through the nasal membranes. I’m certain it’s not potent enough to kill him, but we should alert the local police office and have them remove the bottles for inspection.”
A knock on the door brought Ailsa, who hurried to her father’s bedside. The woman went to great efforts to make herself look plain. Yet with her wild red hair flowing, she looked like a Scottish temptress.
Still, Ailsa was like kin, and Callan’s heartbeat remained constant until Miss Ware entered the room.
“How is Lord MacTavish?” she said, oblivious to her effect on him.
It should have been easy to answer the simple question, but he could not stop staring at her loose auburn hair, the shade darker being so damp. He tried to regain his composure, but seeing her dressed in Ailsa’s red tartan gown sent his desire spiralling.
Miss Ware looked every bit a Scot. She belonged in the Highlands. He’d known it the first time he’d taken her in his arms and waltzed her around the floor. When he’d seen a beautiful future flash before his eyes. A vision he could not erase.
Wicked thoughts entered his head.
How he might use his mouth and tongue and cock to brand her.
“Dr Mackenzie thinks the worst is over,” Callan said.
“Thank heavens.”
They locked gazes, though she was the first to break the spell.
“Ye should wash, Dounreay.” Lorna looked up from mopping Angus’ brow. “Have a footman fill the tub in the spare room, as there’s nae hope of me leaving Angus. I’ll have Miss Ware bring ye some clothes, though I cannae promise they’ll fit.”
Callan nodded, keen to wash the stress from his tired limbs. While waiting for the staff to fill the bathtub, he wrote a note informing Daventry of recent events and arranged for his coachman to deliver it to the Hart Street office.
Miss Ware appeared, a red tartan kilt and white lawn shirt draped over her arm. “Lady MacTavish asked me to bring these.”
He took the garments and placed them on the bed. “How are ye faring? Ye seemed shaken earlier.” So shaken he’d wanted to kiss every worry away. “Understandably so, I might add.”
She gave a half-shrug. “I may appear confident most of the time, but I’m not so good when tragedy strikes.”
Her honesty proved refreshing.
It only made him want her all the more.
“We all have our weaknesses.” She was his. Yet he could not help but prolong the seconds he spent in her presence. He remembered she had lost both parents, too. “The thought of losing someone close never gets easier.”
“No.” She glanced at the bathtub. “I should leave you. I promised to keep Ailsa company and agreed to stay the night. Once we know Lord MacTavish is well, we can continue with our investigation.”
