Conran did find it interesting that Lady Evina hadn’t seemed embarrassed by his nudity either though. Most ladies would have blushed and stammered and probably even turned their back while they spoke to him, if not leave the room altogether until he’d clothed himself. But she’d stood there, just inches away, as if he were fully garbed. Her gaze had never dropped below his face though, Conran thought, running the past few minutes through his mind as he worked. Interesting. Maybe. He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t figure the woman out. Just when he thought he knew what to expect, she surprised him . . . which fascinated him.
Conran was just finishing the last pleat when a white shirt appeared before his face. Pausing, he sat back on his heels and glanced to the man holding it out to him. It was the one who had attacked him under the falls, the smaller of the two soldiers. Although that description was misleading. The man wasn’t small by any means. In fact, he was about his size, but next to the mountain of a man that was the other soldier, this one looked wee.
“Yer shirt,” the soldier said quietly. “I tucked it in me saddlebag and brought it back fer ye.”
“Thank ye,” Conran said grudgingly as he took the shirt. He tugged it on quickly, and then donned the plaid, and turned to the people waiting patiently on the other side of the bed. Raising his eyebrows, he said, “So . . . if ye’ll take me to yer father, I’ll see if there is aught I can do.”
He expected Evina to lead him out of the room. Instead, she walked to the bed, and peered down at the top of the pile of furs stacked there. “Da? Rory Buchanan is here. If anyone can save ye, ’tis him. Are ye awake, Da?”
Conran moved closer to the bed, his eyes widening when he spotted the shriveled old face just visible above the mountain of furs. Taking in the flushed cheeks and glazed eyes when the man opened them, he began to frown and leaned down to press the back of his hand to Fearghas Maclean’s forehead.
“Dear God, he’s burning up,” he said with dismay, and tugged his hand away. The man was hot enough to cook a meal on without need of a fire.
Frowning, Conran straightened, thinking the fellow did need his brother’s skills, and immediately. But if he was now at Maclean, it would take at least two days, more likely three, to ride to Buchanan and bring him back. If his brother would even come, Conran thought. Rory was very worried about the innkeeper’s daughter. The lass was a wee thing, and her husband was a big bull of a man. Rory was afraid the birth of their bairn could kill the lass. He wasn’t likely to be willing to leave her until the birth was done and over. That left taking the Maclean to him, but the state he was in, Fearghas wasn’t likely to survive the journey.
Conran frowned over the predicament and then uttered a soft but fervent curse. He’d have to do what he could for the Maclean himself, and try to get his fever down. If they managed that, they might be able to transport him to Buchanan for Rory to tend him. Fortunately for them, after helping Rory out so many times, he did know how to bring down a fever. He promptly began to tear away the furs on the bed and toss them to the floor.
“What are ye doing?” Evina asked with alarm, trying to stop him.
“He has a fever,” Conran pointed out, ignoring her attempts and continuing to remove the furs. Dear God, where the hell had they got all of them?
“Yes, but he was complaining that he was cold,” she protested, grabbing up the furs he’d just removed.
“Because he has a fever,” he muttered. But when she started to return the furs even as he removed them, Conran paused and straightened to glare at her, his mouth opening and then closing again as he really looked at her. The woman was pale as death, with great smudges under her eyes that could only be exhaustion. She needed sleep and wasn’t likely to seek it until she was sure her father was all right . . . unless she was made to.
“Do ye want me help or no’?” he said finally.
Her eyes widened incredulously. “Aye, o’ course, but—”
“Then get out,” Conran interrupted grimly.
“What?” she gasped with amazement.
“I want that damned fire put out, the window shutters opened, a cold bath brought up and ye gone,” he added firmly before continuing. “And do no’ return. If ye do, I will leave.”
“But . . .” The lost look on her face as she peered down at her father was almost his undoing and Conran nearly rescinded the words, but then he noted the way her hands were trembling, and he held firm. The lass was beyond exhausted. She’d probably been doing without sleep to tend her father before riding out for Buchanan, but he was quite sure she hadn’t slept at all over the last two or three days as she’d traveled to fetch him back. If the woman didn’t soon rest, she’d collapse and fall ill herself.
“Yer filthy, ye reek and ye’re swaying on yer feet,” Conran snapped harshly, suspecting gentle wouldn’t work with this woman. “Ye’re no’ fit to be in a sickroom. Take yerself out o’ it, find a bath and then yer bed, and do no’ return until I say so.”
“You—I—” she stammered, shock and anger coloring her cheeks, and Conran began to suspect he may have overdone it a bit.
Mouth tightening, he used the only weapon he had—her concern for her father. Lifting his chin, he growled, “Well? Are ye leaving, or am I?”
“Evina,” the older woman said gently, touching her arm.
Mouth tightening bitterly, Lady Evina gave a stiff nod and turned to stride from the room, slamming the door behind her.
“See that she has something to eat and then sleeps,” Conran ordered the old woman. “And tell her I’ll leave if she does no’ do both. I’ve no desire to be tending her as well as her father.”
Nodding, the maid rushed to the door to chase after her lady.
“And do no’ forget to order a cold bath fer yer laird,” Conran barked as the old woman slid into the hall.
The moment the door closed behind her, he turned to the two soldiers still in the room and repeated, “Open the window shutters and put out that damned fire. We have to get him cooled down or his brains will boil.”
The two men moved at once to obey, and Conran went back to removing the furs, his mind already on what he’d seen Rory do when he had a patient with a fever that he needed to bring down.
“The arrogant ass,” Evina growled, stomping down the stairs, aware that Tildy was on her heels. She’d glanced over her shoulder when she’d heard the bedroom door open and close behind her and had spotted the woman rushing after her. “Ordering me from the room. He is me father. I should be there.”
“Aye, lass, but mayhap this is for the best,” Tildy said a touch breathlessly as she followed her down to the busy great hall.
“How is it for the best that me father is being deprived o’ his daughter’s presence? He is ailing and needs me,” she said plaintively.
“He needs the Buchanan more just now,” Tildy said solemnly.
Evina grunted in response as they started across the great hall. The tables were still full of people enjoying their repast.
“And ye could do with food and a rest,” Tildy continued as they started walking along the trestle tables. “Why do ye no’ sit down? I’ll order the bath and ask Cook to prepare ye a meal. Ye can eat and then retire and rest a bit.”