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A woman in blue materialized in the waiting room doorway and shouted, “Mr. MacLeod?”

Cam jerked to his feet—the sheriff they’d placed at the door after he’d gone into a rage when they’d taken Claire away also stood, but Cam ignored him. “Aye.”

The woman waved him toward her. “You can come in now.”

’Bout bloody time! He and Mrs. Grouse had been fretting for hours. “Is she all right?”

“The doctor will speak with you now.”

Not liking the evasive response, Cam motioned toward Mrs. Grouse. “Can she come as well?”

Claire’s intrepid tenant had skillfully lied for him, claiming Cam and Claire were betrothed and then had guided him through the maze of documents they’d asked him to sign. Now, fearing he wouldna understand all that the doctor would tell him, that he’d not ken enough to ask the right questions, he needed Mrs. Grouse at his side.

“Yes,” the nurse said, “she can come as well.”

He helped Mrs. Grouse rise—the hard chairs had done naught for her aging hips—and followed the nurse into the mysteries of Brigham Hospital’s emergency room.

The woman led them into a small, well-lit room where, to his great relief, he found Claire breathing—albeit amidst a myriad of beeping machines. After glancing at the instruments hanging from the wall and at the large needles sitting on a metal tray, he took Claire’s hand in his and brushed a lock from her pale cheek, alarmed to find that she was still unconscious.

“Ack, love, ye look terrible.”

“Mr. MacLeod, I’m Dr. Willis.” A gray-haired man in a white coat held out a hand and Cam shook it. “Your fiancée appears to have a serious case of influenza.”

Influenza. The word rang like a death knell in Cam’s head. The disease had killed Margie and many others in his clan.

“And how do ye ken this? Could it not be something else?”

“We’ve done blood work and a throat culture and won’t have the results for another day or so, but I feel fairly certain—given her symptoms—that we’re dealing with the flu.”

“So this liquid,” Cam nodded toward the water bag suspended above Claire, “will heal her?” Why else would they have it connected to her?

“No. We can’t use antibiotics. They have no effect on viruses. Viruses have to run their course and die a natural death. The fluids just hastens the process and makes her feel better.”

Anti-bite-tocks and viruses? Why in hell could this man not speak English? “But after this …” Cam waved a hand, at a loss to describe all that he was seeing, “then she’ll be well.”

“We have every reason to believe so. She’s still very dehydrated, still febrile—feverish—so we need to watch her for a few days in the hospital.”

Cam took Claire’s hand in his. “When will she wake?”

“She already has, once while we started the IV and again while we drew blood.” He examined the machines, then touched Claire’s brow. “Her room in the Progressive Care Unit should be ready shortly. The nurse will let you know when they’re ready to move her upstairs.”

The man turned to leave and Cam grabbed his arm, needing to make one more thing clear. “I’m staying with her.”

The doctor looked at Cam’s hand then into his eyes and smiled. “That’s fine. She’ll be in a private room.”

Cam let go, and the doctor left, leaving Claire, much to his consternation, to the machines and their worried selves.

“Mrs. Grouse, do ye believe him?” Claire’s lips and skin were so dry and pale, her eyes so sunken, she looked like she’d been bled thoroughly, although he could find no evidence of it.

Mrs. Grouse moved to the opposite side of the strange bed and took hold of Claire’s other hand. “Yes, I do. She’s young. It will just take a little time.”

Aye, but how much?

* * *

Never patient with incompetence at the best of times, Cam huffed watching the two wee nurses struggle to get Claire shifted from the emergency room bed to the one in the room. Annoyed they should even try, he growled, “I’ll do it.”

Looking relieved, they stepped back and Cam scooped Claire into his arms and swiveled toward the bed only to have the dark-skinned nurse say, “Whoa, not so fast. I don’t want you pulling out her Foley.”

She bent and a moment later tossed a bag with a wee bit of deep amber liquid in it onto the new bed.

Ack, more tubes. “What’s that?”

“A urine bag. We’ll take out the catheter when she’s able to get up and go to the bathroom.”

Incredulous that he’d heard correctly, Cam gently lowered Claire onto the crisp white sheets, then examined what came from under the hem of her hospital gown. “Are ye telling me that this hose is inside her, uhmm … private place, and that this dark liquid is piss?”

“That’s precisely what I’m telling you. Now, if you’ll please step out, we’ll get Miss MacGregor situated.”

Good God almighty. Imagining what the insertion must have felt like, Cam shuddered and joined Mrs. Grouse in the hall just outside the door. Pointing back into the room, he asked, “Is this right? That they should do this … this fooly to her?”

Mrs. Grouse nodded as she yawned hugely. “Cam, it’s a Foley catheter and it’s fine. I had one when they took out my gallbladder.” She then looked at her watch. “Would you believe it’s taken them seven hours to get her up here?”

Nay. And the poor auld woman looked nearly as rough as Claire. She should make her way home now that Claire was supposedly in capable hands, but how? He wasna about to leave Claire, nor could he let Mrs. Grouse go abroad on her own. She could slip on the ice, fall prey to a street gang—

“Cameron, I hope you don’t mind but I called Victor, Claire’s designer friend, to come pick me up and take me home. I’m sorry, but I’m so tired I can barely stand.”

Ah, a problem solved. “I canna thank ye enough for coming with us. Had ye not—”

“I’m glad I could be of some help. She’s like a daughter to me.”

“I’ll not let any harm come to her.”

She patted his cheek. “I know, dear. You’re a good man.”

Kenning better, he remained silent.

The nurses came through the door, their arms loaded with damp linen. The youngest, a blonde no higher than his elbow said, “You can go in now.”

“Thank ye.”

He settled Mrs. Grouse in the bedside chair and took Claire’s hand only to find a wee red light attached to one of her fingers. Now what? From the neck of her gown sprang a new series of colorful wires connecting her to a machine similar to the one that had beeped at her side downstairs. All puzzlements with no apparent end, but all he’d soon learn.

He rubbed his thumb across her palm. Did her skin really feel a wee bit plumper or was that just wishful thinking on his part? Damn.

Someone rapped on the door frame, Cam turned—dreading whatever the nurse had coming next—and found a worried-looking man of middle years, an enormous bouquet of flowers in hand, standing in the doorway.

The man smiled as he came forward. “Cameron MacLeod, I presume. I’ve heard a lot about you from Tracy. I’m Victor Delucci, Claire’s friend.”

Shorter than Cam by a hand, lighter in weight by four stones, dark-haired and handsome, Delucci stuck out a hand and Cam clasped it, discovering the man had a good grip, but had palms as smooth as Claire’s. Obviously not a swordsman.

Delucci greeted Mrs. Grouse. “Hey, Mrs. G.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “How’s our girl doing?”

Our girl? If the man and Claire were close, why then was he meeting Victor for the first time?

Mrs. Grouse rocked to her feet. “She’s doing as well as can be expected, I think.” After relating all the doctor had said, she reached for her purse. “I’m ready to go whenever you are.”

Delucci placed the flowers on the side table, leaned over the bed rails, and to Cam’s consternation kissed Claire’s forehead. “Sweet dreams, sweetie. I’ll drop by tomorrow.”

After Mrs. Grouse did the same, they’d left, but his and Claire’s quiet was short lived. The dark-skinned nurse returned, shot something into the water bag above Claire’s head, then rapidly went through the workings of Claire’s bed, the TV, telephone, the emergency light in the garderobe, and what he should do with the items she placed on the bedside table.

By the time the woman left, Cam felt much like he did after an all-day battle. Exhausted. He pulled the chair closer to the bed and took Claire’s hand in his. “Well, lass, ’tis just ye and me against the wee viruses now.”

Aye, and he’d never felt more useless in his life, a warrior armed to the teeth without a visible foe.

He lowered the bed rail and ran a finger along her jaw. So soft. “Woman, ye have to cease frightening me so. I dinna ken how much more I can take.”

He fingered a lock of her hair, recalling the first time he’d laid eyes on her, big-eyed and teary. If he lived to be one hundred, he’d never forget how she’d bounced onto her bed and challenged him, demanded that he give her back his sword. “Ye were a sight to behold, lass, you truly were, hissing and spitting, thinking I was robbing ye blind.”

And then on a whim he’d kissed her. And she’d responded with a kiss that had haunted him until he’d done it again. And still he wanted more.

He brought her fingers to his lips. “Love, ye have to get well, do ye hear?” She simply had to. She had so much yet to accomplish. Hell, she’d yet to marry and have bairns …

Ack! Ye’re a bloody arse, MacLeod.

They’d been living under the same roof and breaking bread together for days and he still had no idea if she even wanted such for herself. He’d been so bloody focused on finding his way home, learning about this new world, that he’d never even bothered to ask how she felt about him living with her, much less asked what she might want out of life, what she dreamed of. Hell, he’d had to check her license to learn her age and date of birth for the clerk below.

Sighing, he rested his forehead on his folded arms; the realization that he’d simply taken from her day in and day out, as if it were his due, but not given back, caused a burning at the back of his throat and eyes.

But no more. Should she survive—please, God, let her—he would do his utmost to pay back her every kindness, and to that end, he’d learn all that he could about her, even if it meant dogging her every step day and night.