to leave her until the birth was done and over. That left taking the Maclean to him, but the state he was in, Fearghas wasn’t likely to survive the journey.
Conran frowned over the predicament and then uttered a soft but fervent curse. He’d have to do what he could for the Maclean himself, and try to get his fever down. If they managed that, they might be able to transport him to Buchanan for Rory to tend him. Fortunately for them, after helping Rory out so many times, he did know how to bring down a fever. He promptly began to tear away the furs on the bed and toss them to the floor.
“What are ye doing?” Evina asked with alarm, trying to stop him.
“He has a fever,” Conran pointed out, ignoring her attempts and continuing to remove the furs. Dear God, where the hell had they got all of them?
“Yes, but he was complaining that he was cold,” she protested, grabbing up the furs he’d just removed.
“Because he has a fever,” he muttered. But when she started to return the furs even as he removed them, Conran paused and straightened to glare at her, his mouth opening and then closing again as he really looked at her. The woman was pale as death, with great smudges under her eyes that could only be exhaustion. She needed sleep and wasn’t likely to seek it until she was sure her father was all right . . . unless she was made to.
“Do ye want me help or no’?” he said finally.
Her eyes widened incredulously. “Aye, o’ course, but—”
“Then get out,” Conran interrupted grimly.
“What?” she gasped with amazement.
“I want that damned fire put out, the window shutters opened, a cold bath brought up and ye gone,” he added firmly before continuing. “And do no’ return. If ye do, I will leave.”
“But . . .” The lost look on her face as she peered down at her father was almost his undoing and Conran nearly rescinded the words, but then he noted the way her hands were trembling, and he held firm. The lass was beyond exhausted. She’d probably been doing without sleep to tend her father before riding out for Buchanan, but he was quite sure she hadn’t slept at all over the last two or three days as she’d traveled to fetch him back. If the woman didn’t soon rest, she’d collapse and fall ill herself.
“Yer filthy, ye reek and ye’re swaying on yer feet,” Conran snapped harshly, suspecting gentle wouldn’t work with this woman. “Ye’re no’ fit to be in a sickroom. Take yerself out o’ it, find a bath and then yer bed, and do no’ return until I say so.”
“You—I—” she stammered, shock and anger coloring her cheeks, and Conran began to suspect he may have overdone it a bit.
Mouth tightening, he used the only weapon he had—her concern for her father. Lifting his chin, he growled, “Well? Are ye leaving, or am I?”
“Evina,” the older woman said gently, touching her arm.
Mouth tightening bitterly, Lady Evina gave a stiff nod and turned to stride from the room, slamming the door behind her.
“See that she has something to eat and then sleeps,” Conran ordered the old woman. “And tell her I’ll leave if she does no’ do both. I’ve no desire to be tending her as well as her father.”
Nodding, the maid rushed to the door to chase after her lady.
“And do no’ forget to order a cold bath fer yer laird,” Conran barked as the old woman slid into the hall.
The moment the door closed behind her, he turned to the two soldiers still in the room and repeated, “Open the window shutters and put out that damned fire. We have to get him cooled down or his brains will boil.”
The two men moved at once to obey, and Conran went back to removing the furs, his mind already on what he’d seen Rory do when he had a patient with a fever that he needed to bring down.
“The arrogant ass,” Evina growled, stomping down the stairs, aware that Tildy was on her heels. She’d glanced over her shoulder when she’d heard the bedroom door open and close behind her and had spotted the woman rushing after her. “Ordering me from the room. He is me father. I should be there.”
“Aye, lass, but mayhap this is for the best,” Tildy said a touch breathlessly as she followed her down to the busy great hall.