In the fleeting moment when the dark figure hesitated, she reached to the floor near the wall for the heavy branch she’d found in the yard earlier in the day. Heaven only knew who dared to interrupt her slumber, but she did not care. She struck a hard blow to the apparition’s shoulder and was rewarded with a moan followed by an indignant shout.
“Oy! Stop—it’s only me, Willa — Dr. Partlow. I meant merely to comfort you in your mourning for your father.”
Several wild possibilities flitted through Willa’s mind. No one would take the word of a young woman over that of a respected town physician. If he chose to say she was in an addled state of mind over her father’s death, she might well end up in an asylum for the insane. Willa’s innate sense of self-preservation forced her to project a sense of calm.
She was certain, beyond a doubt, no reasonable gentleman would extend sympathies in the dead of the night, unannounced, to a barely clad female. She also feared, a sour certainty in her belly, the position offered in the doctor’s practice was probably a ruse. His offer had had nothing to do with her skills as a physician’s assistant. She would pretend innocence of his intent and bide her time long enough to come up with a new plan. She would have to leave as soon as possible.
Thank Hera she’d been unsettled enough by his pack of unruly children to stow the branch as a cautionary tool for self-defense.
Finally, she lowered the coverlet, rose from her cot, and drew a heavy, dark blue wool shawl from the back of the only chair in the spare room, one with a gaping hole in the seat caning.
After firmly wrapping the shawl around her night dress, Willa said, “I very much appreciate your concern, Doctor. Perhaps we should continue this discussion over a cup of hot tea in the kitchen?” She strode toward the rough steps leading toward the lower level of the house, not giving him a chance to respond.
When she turned to back down the steep stairway and grasped a hand rail, he leaned close and squeezed her hand before following her down the steps.
Cullen had finally arrived in London and returned his second mount of the trip to the stables at the Swan Inn on Piccadilly. His mother’s MacKenzie Clan kept a townhouse at Number Fourteen Berkley Square. He covered the distance from Piccadilly easily on foot, glad to have the chance to stretch his legs after nearly twelve hours in the saddle during his hurried journey from Portsmouth.
His long stride carried him forcefully to his aunt’s current residence. He’d barely knocked on the elegant front door than it was flung open and there stood his aunt’s guard, Fergus.
“What?” he stood by helplessly while the man flung himself forward and embraced Cullen like a strong old bear, thumping him hard on the back.
He straightened quickly. “Please don’t blame Elspeth. You’ve brought this on yourself.” With that cryptic pronouncement, he turned and hurried back the long hall toward the family sitting room.
Cullen could not fathom what was so monumental that everyone had got themselves into such a fash. Furthermore, where the hell had all the servants gone?
He followed his aunt’s old retainer and guard more slowly, and when he entered the front sitting room, he found his aunt with her usually rosy, vibrant complexion, ensconced in a comfortable chair by a warm fire with a blanket tucked around her legs. The laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth had deepened a bit since he’d been gone, but other than that, she seemed the same healthy woman he’d seen two years before on one of his infrequent leaves home.
She remained silent, her expression stern, and pointed to the chair across from her.
Once he’d settled in, she poured him a steaming cup of tea and leaned back into the overstuffed chair.
Cullen took several long draughts of tea before speaking. “Now, will one of you please explain why I’ve ridden hard for two days because of a summons to see my sick aunt? Because, unless you’ve forgotten, I am a trained physician, and clearly, both of you look to be in the pink.”
Fergus had the good grace to redden, but Cullen’s aunt continued to give him one of her hard looks. The kind of look she’d usually reserved for nasty transgressions in his childhood, like the time he’d turned loose a prize pen of ponies, because he’d wanted them to be “free.”
Finally, Elspeth MacKenzie spoke. Her Highland lilt hardened. “I could not trust to send ye a letter with this kind of news, and heaven knows we don’t want it to be part of neighborhood gossip. Which is why we gave the servants the morning off.”
Cullen’s blood turned as cold as the waters of the deep loch on the MacKenzie lands.
“Dr. Morton is well known to our clan. He’s done us many favors over the years.”
“But what—?” Cullen interrupted her lecture.
She cut him short. “He did not have a son.”
Cullen mulled her words, confounded.
“Then who—”
“You’ve been sharing a cabin with Willa Morton,notWills.”
Cullen exploded in rage. “Of all the muddle-headed—”
His aunt cut him off again. “None of that matters. What matters is what’s to be done now.”
He lifted his face to her, his mouth open.
“Don’t look so befuddled. You know your duty.”
