With a nod, Finn looked them over. Each of them appeared the worse for wear. Work-haggard faces ashen and slack. The illness that had afflicted his children was far more common in the village than it was in the castle proper. Odd, that. A majority of the townspeople and the crew working on the castle suffered from mild to debilitating symptoms, whereas a scant few castle workers and residents suffered from the mysterious ailment. At least no one had succumbed to the illness. That was good news.
“Can ye tell me where he lives? I’d like to pay him a call.”
Armed with directions to a house on the western perimeter of the village, Finn turned up his collar and headed that way. The streets were winding, some no wider than alleys. A recent meeting with the steward, Derne, regarding the duke’s correspondence had revealed that the duke was considering moving the village beyond the ready view from his new castle’s windows.
The idea smacked of madness on paper. Argyll would have been better off reconsidering the placement of his new castle rather than relocating an entire town and the sum of its inhabitants, regardless of the vista he wanted from his bedchamber window. Nonsense, all of it. Walking these streets now, Finn could at least appreciate the concept of a well-planned layout with proper avenues to traverse.
As it was, he was unable to scan the street farther than twenty feet ahead until he turned onto the main lane leading west. He’d covered half the distance when a flash of rich foxlike hair at Boyce’s door caught his eye. Partially obscured by people and handcarts crowding the street, he couldn’t identify the figure with absolute certainty before they disappeared around the corner of Boyce’s residence. He broke into a run, eager to catch up.
By the time he reached the building, she was gone.
If it was her.
He turned to the front of the house where the door hung wide open. “Boyce?”
* * *
“Mr. Boyce? Hello?”
With no response to her knock, Aila pushed open the door and stepped into the cottage where the miller resided. In truth, it was more of a house than a cottage as one might picture with the reference. Wood clad with a slate roof similar to the small shops and businesses that lined the main avenue, it exhibited a level of prosperity other dwellings in town lacked. There were others like it on this end of town whereas most she passed along the way were stone or peat with thatched roofs.
Boyce lived on the posh end of town.
The stench that hit her when she stepped inside certainly wasn’t a fine potpourri. While tidily kept, the place reeked of vomit and other unmentionable bodily fluids. Tugging the collar of her shirt up, she covered her mouth and nose. “Mr. Boyce?”
There was a thump above stairs. She called for Rab to follow her. He hung back by the door and — she swore — shook his head. Aila didn’t blame him. She was about ready to gag herself. “Some protector ye are. I should no’ have listened to Brontë when she said to bring ye along.”
Both her friend and Tris believed that Donell wouldn’t have insisted she keep the animal close if there wasn’t valid reason for it. Aila argued there didn’t appear to be any validity to half of the old man’s design. She’d been overruled.
“Fine, then,” she told the dog. “Dinnae go far, though. The minute I’m done here, we’re gone.”
There were no fires lit to stave off the autumn chill. Upstairs, she found Boyce in one of the two bedchambers lying on a bed with one bare foot listing over the edge from beneath the bedcoverings. Aila went to a window, pushed the heavy curtains aside and opened it wide, shedding light — and necessary fresh air no matter the temperature — on the dire situation.
“Oh my God! Mr. Boyce!” She ran to the bed and gawped at the more faded version of the already pallid man she’d met days ago. Gone was the light of humor and jolly smile. If she were honest, he looked like he was hanging on by a thread. “Are ye all right? Obviously, ye’re no’ all right. Why isnae anyone caring for ye?”
A chamber pot filled with vomit sat on the floor next to him. Since he looked as though he may need it any second, she was hesitant to do the unsanitary thing and heave it out the window. He retched and she changed her mind, returning it to him as fast as she could. Aila patted his back and offered a sympathetic coo or two until he finished and collapsed back on the bed.
“Why is there nae one here with ye?” she asked. “Where are yer sons?”
“Gone to Inverness years ago. We had a falling out,” he rasped out. “Never been back. Why are ye here, lass? What are ye wearing?”
She hadn’t planned on staying long, so she’d opted to wear the long, black raincoat Brontë had herself worn into the past over black pants, boots and a jumper. Despite her friend’s lecture and subsequent nagging, she wasn’t able to commit to returning to Finn.Yet.
Or more accurately, she hadn’t been able to overcome her fears regarding whether Finn truly wanted her. There was no other aspect in which she wouldn’t trust him. Her life, security, he had her complete faith.
The problem wasn’t with him. It was her.
After much reflection, thinking about the men she’d frightened away in one meeting and her sporadic relationships ending with Kyle, she’d come to the rather chilling realization that no man,not oneof them, had ever truly fancied the whole of her. As she was, flaws and all. No alterations, substitutions or returns.
How it would hurt…nay, howcrushingit would be to have Finn come to the same conclusion.
“I came to bring ye back yer necklace.”Just in case.Aila dug into her purse to retrieve it and held it out to him.
His fingers covered hers, closing them again. “Keep it, lass. I’m no’ long for this world anyway.”
“Wheesht. Dinnae talk like that.” She reached into her purse again to retrieve the pill case she’d refilled then decided against it. An aspirin wasn’t going to solve this problem. He needed a professional. “Can ye walk, sir?”
“What?”
