“Goodnight, Alasdair. And thank you.”
He closed the door.
The butler had walked a dozen yards down the hall before Alasdair caught up with him.
“Excuse me,” Alasdair said. “I don’t know yer name, forgive me.”
The butler stopped and turned to him. “It is Andrews.”
“Oh, I see. Aye. A good name. Are ye a Scot?”
“My great-grandfather was, sir.”
“Well, what I was wondering is, where is my room?”
“Down this way, Doctor, in the other wing.”
Alasdair considered.
“Nae, thank ye.” He turned and started walking back. “I think I’ll sleep with my wife tonight.”
He rapped on her door.
“Come in,” he heard.
He went in and she was sitting on the edge of the bed. It looked like she might have fallen asleep sitting up and had only come back awake at his knock.
“What is it, Alasdair?” she said, her eyelids half-mast, her head nodding.
He closed the door behind him. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to sleep here tonight, Miss Lovelock. I dinnae feel comfortable leaving ye alone. In this house owned by that man.”
“You are going to sleep here?” she said, suddenly looking very wide awake.
“Dinnae be alarmed,” he said. “I will sleep on the floor or in a chair.”
“You will not.”
“Aye, I will.”
“You most certainly will not!”
A knock came and it was Lady Rebecca Dalrymple’s lady’s maid with hot water and a nightdress and a hair brush.
Alasdair excused himself and waited in the hallway, hovering until the maid left. Then he knocked and reentered. He must make himself clear that he only wished to protect her and that she was safe with him.
Arabella was standing in the middle of the room with her golden hair twisted in a large plait, in bare feet and a white nightdress that was much too big for her. Her face was flushed and shiny and he knew she had just washed it. She stamped one foot.
“You will not sleep on the floor or in a chair when there is a perfectly good bed to be had.” And she pointed at the bed. Her bed.
Oh. Oh. She did not distrust him. She had not objected to him sleeping in the room with her. She had been concerned only for his comfort.
Well, she should distrust him. In so many ways, she was still an innocent. Did she not understand men? And she was his responsibility.
“A perfectly good bed that ye should be in right now. ’Tis far too cold for ye to be out of bed in just,” he gulped here, “a nightdress.”
“Is that a doctor’s order?”
“I—pardon me?”
