Read Online The Groom Says Yes by Cathy Maxwell - Free Book Online

over to the bed and set it on the nightstand before leaving to collect clean cloths from the linen press in the hall.
    Sabrina began to do what she could to cool him down. She pressed compresses to his forehead and his chest beneath his shirt. She had a good supply of herbs and ointments in her mother’s medicinal chest. She prepared an herbal poultice that contained eucalyptus leaves to clear the lungs and bound it to his chest.
    She removed his boots. They were not difficult to pull off. Mr. Enright had obviously lost weight during his illness or perhaps before. This alarmed her more than anything, that and the pasty color of his skin. He might not have the resources to see him through his fever.
    She turned to rush downstairs for the broth she’d left cooling in the kitchen and was surprised to see Rolf standing in the bedroom doorway. The back door must still be open. The dog watched with an anxious eye.
    “He is not well, is he?” she said.
    Rolfe did not wag his tail.
    When she went downstairs for the broth, Rolf walked into her bedroom and sat beside the bed. He had been there many times before. When he was a small pup, she’d let him sleep with her. She was not happy with her father’s dictate that the dog stay outside, and she certainly was not going to order Rolf out now.
    A few minutes later, she returned with a tray holding a large bowl of good broth and a spoon.
    Sabrina had ladled food into many a patient, starting with her mother. The doctor from Pitlochry had claimed her mother would have died much earlier in her life if not for Sabrina’s care.
    She now followed her usual procedure. She sat on the bed, picking up Mr. Enright’s huge head and resting it in her lap. “Eat,” she encouraged him. “Come along now, swallow.”
    Of course, he did not obey, and she feared he was already too close to death to be saved.
    M ac didn’t know where he was.
    He had been traveling, no, floating actually, through cavernlike halls with arched white doors lining the walls. The halls were connected with stone steps, two steps here, four there, and the path, the only direction he could go, seemed to lead deeper and deeper into a place he did not understand.
    The sound of rushing water roared in his ears. A part of him thought if he could find a river or stream, then perhaps he could escape the darkness.
    The darkness.
    Oh, yes, it was dark, but the doors were a brilliant white. They didn’t just stand out in the shadows of this place, they glowed.
    He moved past them, unable or unwilling to touch them. They had no handles, and they reminded him of the priests’ cubbies he’d once seen in an ancient monastery. Cells they were . . . and then he was in a cell.
    The Old Tolbooth . . . and outside, beyond the building’s ancient walls, came calls for his execution. Disembodied voices shouted for his head on a pike. They were witnesses to his death, and he realized he was ready to give them what they wanted. He was tired. Done. Spent. Life had become a sorry burden, and for the first time in all his struggles, Mac was bloody exhausted from trying to hang on.
    He was once again on the wrong side—always on the wrong side. Then again, he was Irish, it was his nature to rebel . . . but not any longer. He wanted peace—
    “More. You must drink more .”
    The command was clear, the woman’s voice distinct.
    He looked around the cell. She was not there. He was still alone, and yet, he heard her again.
    “Another bit ,” she ordered. “ A bit more. Please, do you understand me? You are making me angry, sir. If you don’t eat, you’ll die. Now, please, try.”
    She was a bossy bit.
    And yet, her voice was melodic and warm and concerned. Anxious even. He saw himself open his mouth, wanting, yearning for the tenderness that only a woman could offer.
    Did they know how strong they were? How they could make a difference in the way a man saw the world?
    Mac had a fondness for women, all of them—young, old, feisty, and