None of this made sense, and frankly, she didn’t care. Thiswas probably her last dream before dying, so why not entertain the idea? “Iwould like to live.”
“Fair enough,” he said. Cool liquid then poured down herthroat. There had been water near? She hadn’t known. Then something chalkycaked at the back of her tongue. Some sort of medicine? She tried to spit itout, and he gently placed his hand over her mouth.
“Swallow the dampening pills. You’re not strong enough foranything else.”
She obeyed because there was no choice, and this wasn’thappening anyway.
Sleep welcomed her with heated arms.
* * * *
One month after escaping death, Ivy fluttered around theopulent sitting room of a brick manor near the center of Belfast. It wasfancier than she could’ve ever imagined, and it was difficult to believe shewas still alive. There was nothing to do and nothing to clean. Her strength hadreturned, her rash had disappeared, and she had plenty of sustenance—unlikemany of the people in Ireland.
She wore an elegant gown, soft slippers, and silkundergarments, the likes of which she’d only seen once in a store window.Matching green ribbons tied back her mass of thick hair. While she was cleanand pampered, she was rapidly becoming bored.
A knock sounded at her door, and she steeled herself to beexamined by her personal nurse again. The woman was brisk but efficient, andshe lacked any of the answers Ivy so badly needed. “Enter,” she said warily,sitting gracefully on a lovely pink chair.
The door opened, and a man stood there.
Her breath quickened, and she sat straighter, making sureher luxurious skirts were splayed out properly.
He walked inside the room, so tall she had to crane her neckto watch him. His eyes were a piercing blue, his hair raven-black, and hischest broad enough for him to be a bricklayer. There was something familiarabout him, but she couldn’t place him.
“How are you feeling?” He shut the door behind himself as ifhe had every right to do so.
She swallowed and tried to speak, but no sound emerged.
This was improper. But his voice... He was from her dream,right before she died.
He stepped closer and then sat in the other chair, his bodytoo big for the carved furniture. Yet his bulk came from muscle rather thanfat, much like the wild stallions she’d once seen. “Ivy?”
“You know my name,” she whispered.
“Yes.” One of his dark eyebrows rose. “What do youremember?” His voice was a low timbre that had the oddest effect on her skin.Goose bumps rose along her arms and over her neck.
She tried to think back. “I was dying, and you were there.”At his encouraging nod, she slowly relaxed. “My father was there, and...” Shecouldn’t say the rest. Had her father given her to this stranger? If so, howhad he saved her? Many people had succumbed to the fever, and none of them hadhealed like this—in less than a month. “Who are you?”
He stood and stalked gracefully to a bar area by the door,pouring himself a glass of whisky from a heavy decanter. “Would you like one?”
Ladies didn’t drink, at least according to her father. “No,thank you.”
He returned to his seat, swirling the dark liquid in the glass.That impossibly blue gaze wandered over her face. “You’re quite pretty when notcovered with typhus.”
How inappropriate for him to remark on her countenance.Unless they were betrothed. Even so, the statement showed a lack of manners. Sowhy had her heart warmed and her body heated? Perhaps she was still ill. Shehad so many questions, but she’d learned young to bite her tongue and wait foranswers. This man was probably much like her father, and his size alone madehim a threat. So, she just watched him—and waited.
He took a generous drink of the alcohol. “My name is AthanMaxwell.”
His surname was Scottish, but she’d never heard the nameAthan before. This was all too befuddling, but she couldn’t ask about theirstatus. “My father has not been to visit me.”
“No,” Athan said. “I told him he wasn’t to see you againunless you decided otherwise.”
Nobody issued orders to her father. “Why?” She held herbreath.
“He gave you to me whether he had a right to do so or not.”
Oh. “You must have paid him a tidy sum.” She had noillusions about her father’s need for her servitude to him and the farm. Yetthe potato crop had failed, and the world was starving and ill.
“I did,” Athan agreed, his gaze not leaving her. It wasrelentless.
