Page 30 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

Desmon stared at her for a moment, then gave her a small salute before striding in the other direction. Fortunately, he kept his footsteps light.

Clara hurried on toward the kitchen. Once there, she careened from kettle to preparation table to larder and back again. Ordinarily, she and Olive attended to the Ballantines, and with far greater forewarning. On her own, and with nothing in readiness, it became an all-out war to serve something, anything, in a relatively timely fashion. There was some bread, and cheese, and leftover roast of beef that could be thinly sliced, but no cakes or sugarplums, which would have to be fetched from the village—yet there wasn’t time. It would have to be a lean repast, of necessity.

Desmond appeared at the servants’ door, her trug looking miniscule in his large hands. Silently, he set the container down on the table and watched her ricochet around the kitchen, wearing a faintly puzzled frown.

“Let me help,” he said.

She went at once to the trug and pulled out the willow bark.

“Hand me a mug,” she commanded.

Desmond did as she bade him, bringing her a glazed earthenware mug. She put the willow bark into the mug.

“Bring me the kettle,” she said, as she lightly crushed the bark with a wooden spoon. When he obeyed, she poured boiling water over the willow. At once, fragrant steam rose up in curlicues. She took a crock from nearby and drizzled honey into the brewing tea, which would make it more palatable.

“There’s a mortar and pestle on the shelf,” she threw over her shoulder.

Desmond retrieved it, and looked on wordlessly as she ground up the yarrow. From a basket, she retrieved clean cloths and made a poultice of the yarrow.

“Grab the tea,” she said to him. “We’re taking these to Hugh.”

Without waiting for him to acknowledge her command, she sped from the kitchen and darted down the hallway, then upstairs to her patient’s room. Her steps faltered slightly. Dear Lord, she had just been ordering a highwayman around as though he was a footman. She must be losing any semblance of rationality.

In the Blue Bedchamber, she found Hugh damp with perspiration and shifting uncomfortably beneath the bedclothes. He offered her a tight but kind smile. Standing at the foot of the bed was Gideon, watching Hugh with a small frown of concern.

“Apologies for the delay,” she said, peeling back the blanket to look at Hugh’s leg. The wound was a little angrier now, red and slightly puffy. She took the poultice and secured it in place so that the medicinal herbs would have good contact with the injury.

“No need for apologies,” Hugh said through clenched teeth. “So long as I see your sweet face, any wait is worthwhile.”

“Charming the doctor won’t get you out of drinking this.” She motioned for Desmond, who handed her the mug, and she presented it to her patient.

Hugh took a sniff of the steaming liquid, and grimaced. “Surely there’s some rancid cabbage I could eat, instead. It has a far more pleasant flavor.”

“Rancid cabbage won’t bring your fever down. Now, drink.” She pressed the cup to his lips.

He sipped, and made another face. “Must I?”

“You sound like a petulant child,” she said, “not a fearsome highwayman.”

“At heart, I’m just a wee lad.” When her expression revealed that she would brook no argument, he sighed, and then drank down the contents of the mug.

When he was done, he laid his head back on the pillow.

“It should help you sleep a little, as well.” Clara stroked Hugh’s forehead, pushing back the damp strands of his hair.

“Will I dream of you?” Hugh asked.

“I make no guarantees as to the content of your dreams,” she answered softly. “But I hope they’re pleasant.”

“Then I will dream of you.”

Her cheeks heated. “Never have I had such a flirtatious patient.”

“As I said, I don’t flirt without meaning it. Just wait until I’m well again. I’ll be chasing you around the bed.”

I might want to be caught.

The thought leapt into her mind, and her face warmed even more. “Rest, now.”