Page 8 of Romancing the Scot
“One morning? Tell me what happened.”
He heard a commotion down the hill behind him and turned to catch a glimpse of one of his grooms riding off at breakneck speed toward the village. Finally.
“In the month of June . . .”
“It’s still May, but June is coming,” he said. He would say anything to have her continue. As long as she was talking, she was alive.
“While feathered warbling songsters . . .”
Her eyes remained closed, but Hugh recognized what she’d done. She unearthed memories long buried. He almost never spoke of the war. He tried not to even think of it, but the nightmares remained.
He struggled to stay in the present, focus on her. He needed to make sense of what she was saying.
“What are you trying to tell me?”
“Their charming notes.” She was determined to continue, regardless of her difficulty breathing.
Her voice trailed off into a cough deep in her chest. When it subsided, blue eyes squinted up at him. He looked back at the rain-darkened hair, at the high cheekbones and straight nose.
“What is it? What are you trying to say?”
“Bright . . .”
Another bolt of lightning flashed in the direction of the river and he looked at the house looming up ahead. They’d nearly reached the east wing. A footman appeared around a bend, running toward them and carrying an umbrella.
“We need to settle you into a bed. My sister will get you the care—”
“The bonny Bunch of Roses, O.”
Understanding came with the ensuing clap of thunder.
“Blast me if that doesn’t sound like a poem. You can’t even breathe, lass, but you’re reciting a poem.”
Her chin lifted slightly. The eyes once again trying to focus on his face. She struggled to say something under her breath. He couldn’t make out the words. When he shook his head, she repeated it.
“A ballad,” she whispered.
“Oh. My apologies. A ballad.”
Her eyes had again closed. Had she really just corrected him?
A half-dozen footmen and maids were waiting for them at a service door. His sister pushed through them.
“I have her. Make way,” Hugh ordered, sailing through the entry.
“Go straight up the stairs,” Jo told him.
Mrs. Henson, the housekeeper, appeared at the top. “We’ve opened the first bedchamber, m’lord.”
Servants bustled around them while others ran ahead.
The woman coughed—a dreadfully painful sound—and gasped to draw air. A fear ran through him that he’d been right. She’d used all her strength to recite a blasted ballad.
A footman held open a door. As Hugh carried her through the sitting room into a bedroom beyond, servants pulled back covers. He laid her down on the bed.
As Jo gently patted her face dry, the young woman coughed again, tried to breathe, and her lips moved.
“The rest of the ballad?” he asked. He brought his ear close to her lips. A faint sound emerged.
