Page 55 of Never Kiss a Scot
His study? Why would Tate be upset about that? Many wives of great houses were heavily involved in the running of the accounts. That was nothing out of the ordinary. Unless…
Unless Tate had something to hide.
Brock stopped himself from growling and curling his hands into fists. “Duncan, you are to forget your other duties until my wife is better. You and I will take shifts to watch over her for the next few days. She must never be alone.”
“I understand, my lord.” Duncan straightened his shoulders, and Brock nodded in approval.
“Now, off you go. Bring me some chicken broth and boiled water. Keep a watch on Mrs. Tate. If she challenges you, say it was my orders.”
Duncan rushed off to do his bidding. Brock joined Joanna on his bed and carefully moved to lay her flat in his arms, making sure she was warm and comfortable. She murmured something before she curled into him, and he wrapped his arms around her.
My poor English flower. I will find out who did this, and they will pay dearly.
20
Brock spent three days feeding Joanna chicken broth and letting her drink water that had been boiled under Duncan’s supervision. The cook was none too pleased, but she would adjust to his orders until he could figure out who was trying to harm his wife. There was a chance that Mrs. Tate was involved too, or the maid. What was her name? Maura? Yes, that was it. He’d rarely seen the girl; she was quiet and kept to herself. Once he discovered who was responsible, as the local magistrate, he would deal with the matter himself.
On the fourth day, he lay sleeping fitfully next to her and woke to the feel of her kissing his forehead. He blinked, wondering if he could believe what he was seeing. Joanna was sitting up, her face no longer deathly pale and her eyes neither cloudy nor overbright.
“Lass?” The word came out hoarse on his tongue since he’d barely spoken in days except for brief words with Duncan.
“I feel better, so much better.” She brushed his hair back from his eyes, and his throat tightened painfully as he realized how easily he could have lost her, could have been digging a grave beside his mother’s in the cemetery beyond the loch. The thought made his eyes burn, and a flood of dangerous emotions rose up and threatened to choke him.
“I’m relieved,” he whispered. He sat up beside her, carefully pulling her into his arms. There were a thousand things he wanted to say. Instead he said, “More broth?”
“Please, no more,” she begged. “I couldn’t stand another bowl.”
“The doctor said you should eat. It’s important for your strength.”
“Then bring me anything but broth.” She ran her fingers up and down his chest, toying with the white shirt and the bottle-green waistcoat he presently wore.
“If you feel you can stomach it, I will bring you something heartier.” He searched for any hint of uncertainty or signs that she was still ill. But he saw nothing except a bright smile and a rosy blush on her cheeks.
“Let me summon Duncan.”
She moved away from him, climbing off the bed before he could stop her. She took her dressing gown off the nearest chair and shrugged it on. Her long blonde hair rippled down her back in a cascade. She looked at him over her shoulder.
“I can walk, husband. Now let’s go. The walking will do me good.”
He slid off his bed and joined her when she reached the door, ready to catch her if she were to suddenly faint.
“And after we eat, we could take the coach to the village.”
“No, lass, not yet. I wish to have Dr. McKenzie return to check on you first.”
“But”
“No arguing with me on this, lass. I will put my foot down, and I dinna want to be that sort of husband. I’m not above tying my pretty wife down to the bed if it means she will be safe.”
Rather than be upset with him, she laughed. “Tie me down? Why do I think you would like to do that?”
He grinned. “I might indeed.”
Raised voices greeted them as they reached the kitchen. Duncan and Mrs. Tate were squaring off with one of the wooden tables between them. The cook’s face was red as she sputtered that the lad needed to mind his own business and keep to his own chores. Duncan held his ground, a blush staining his cheeks as he faced Mrs. Tate. The cook planted her hands on her hips and shouted at the lad to leave.
Joanna watched as Brock took charge of the situation. He towered over Mrs. Tate, not in an imposing way, but in a manner that distracted her away from Duncan.
“My lord, tell this boy to leave me be!”
