He glanced at his bed. How many nights since he had slept, truly slept, more than snatching an hour or two here or there? Yes, he was used to managing quite well on little sleep. But that had been at sea, in the midst of a storm or battle. Such things he could cope with no matter his state of mental and physical fatigue.

But he had no experience being a nursemaid, especially to a mentally fragile woman.

Sunny wasn't quite well. Just the gradual lessening of her laudanum dose would have been a strain on her, but for a week now she had also been suffering female pains and that ever increasing restlessness. She had been eating little and sleeping hardly at all. And when she had slept, more than a few times she had been stirred to wakefulness by visions of terror.

In his mind, he saw her pale face and the harsh purple shadows that ringed her eyes.

She was in a weakened condition. She could catch her death in that downfall.

He slammed his glass down on the window ledge.

Devil take this nonsense!

He was not equal to this kind of challenge. He'd never felt so lost. So inadequate.

He began throwing on his clothes, covering his naked body. Damn it, he was no nursemaid. Coming here with no women to take care of and watch over this mad chit! He must have been mad himself to have allowed her to seduce him into agreeing to such a thing. He wasn't equipped to give her what she needed most.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his boots on. Well, no more madness on his part. Tomorrow he would send to Landbrae for some females to care for Catriona. Someone experienced as a nurse, as Donna Carson had first suggested. A nurse would know how handle things far better than he.

With that thought to comfort him, he collected his greatcoat and a blanket for her, then strode from the chamber.

He reached her minutes later.

She was sprawled on her hands and knees. Though the rain was letting up and becoming more of a fine mist, her waterlogged nightdress clung to every line of her broad, round arse. Her sodden hair fell over her face, obscuring it. Her hands were extended into claws, digging in the mud.

Frantically digging.

"Catriona." He placed the blanket over her.

She kept digging.

The strong smell of earth and roots and rain rose to his nostrils. Thunder sounded in the distance. Wind gusted. Lightning flashed. The easing of the rain would not last long. As the rumbling faded, his ears strained, automatically attuned to the sound of her harsh pants.

"Catriona!"

She began to dig more frantically, her hair dragging into the mud. Splattering his boots, his trousers, and her sleeves with mud.

He reached down and swept the mass of soaked hair from her face. "Catriona."

She froze, her eyes wider than any he'd ever seen.

Wild.

His heart died. Or at least it felt that way. Stone, cold and dead.

She really was mad. Without the laudanum, she was mad.

His throat went dry as dust. Dry like it had never become since he'd been first in a battle at sea.

No, he was letting his emotions run away with his better sense. He must not leap to conclusions. He knelt beside her, still holding her hair from her face. "What the devil are you doing, Catriona?"

She sat up so quickly, the blanket fell from her shoulders.

He picked it up and put it back into place.

She stared at him with that disturbing wildness in her eyes.

He suppressed a chill not caused by the cold and wet. "Catriona?"

She licked her lips. "You've come to help?"

"I've come to fetch you back indoors."

She shook her head. "No, no we must work now."

"Work?"

"Yes, we must uncover the garden. It's being choked by weeds!"

"Catriona-"

"No, no! The tender green shoots are being strangled." She pointed a shaking finger at the ground. "See, here and here!" She moved away from him.

He grasped one of her arms with one hand, and with the other kept the blanket securely over her back, partially over her drenched head.

She pulled as far away as his hold would allow and began to dig again with her free hand. "We must liberate them. They are being strangled by the weeds. They can't breathe, they can't reach the sunlight. They can't be!"

"Catriona, here, let me take you inside."

"No, they can no' be like this! The weeds are choking them! Stealing their sunlight! Just help them. Let them just be!"

"I'll call for the gardeners on the morrow. At first light."

"No, no, no." She chanted the word, digging madly with one hand, her hair and sleeve getting caked with mud.

"Catriona, now." He made his voice as stern as he could muster, not knowing any other way to break through her frenzy.

"No gardeners!"

He could hear the tears in her voice.

It softened him.

"Why no gardeners?"

"They will murder them. In trying to help, they will trod over the green shoots and murder them." She took a deep, sobbing breath then looked up at him, the mudspatter on her face broken up by tear streaks like tiny streams. "To choose between being strangled to death or being trod over, what kind of choice is that?"

Her sad, pleading gaze struck him right in the center of his chest.

He pushed her muddy hair from her face and then he took several deep, calming breaths.

"What kind of choice is that?" Her voice broke on the last word.

He pulled her to him and held her wet form to his body. "Shh." Her hair was stiff and sticky under his hand. He hadn't thought to stop for his gloves on the way out of the house. Herbal scents filled the air, rosemary and mint and others, he didn't know what. The scent of mud further permeated his senses. Underneath the blanket he found and stroked her arm. Her bare flesh was clammy and cold. Nubby with gooseflesh.

Lightning illuminated the horizon.

"We must get you inside," he said.

"It will be too late."

"Shh, tomorrow will be soon enough."

"No gardeners. They would be too rough."

He waited whilst the boom of thunder sounded then rumbled through the earth beneath them. Her eyes shone with an almost frantic glint, watching him avidly.

"No, gardeners," he said. "I shall come here with you at first light, as soon as the storm ends."

"Will you?"

Her voice sounded small, girlish. Hopeful, painfully hopeful.

Tightness seized his chest.

Oh Christ.

He wasn't equal to this!

She needed a type of care now that he just didn't know how to provide.

Yet, he was the only one who could provide it.

"Do you promise?" her voice was soft, girlish, yet underneath he sensed a palpable tension, making him aware of how close to the surface the wildness still churned within her.

Catriona. His poor, lost Catriona.

Again, he stroked her arm. "Of course I will-but only if you promise to come with me now, back to the house."

She went limp. He felt the warmth of her breath release against his neck at his open collar. "All right, I'll go."

In the kitchen, whilst James built up the fire, Catriona stood over the huge oak worktable, peering into a highly polished silver tray while tracing the mud tracks on her face. The wind howled and rain pelted hard on the windows; they had reached the shelter of the house just in time.

He came to her and put his hands under her hair and lifted the matted, sticky mass. Her beautiful hair, caked with mud. How would he possibly get it clean again? What he did know of women and their toilet? He dropped his hands and let the weight of her hair drop.

"Turn." The sharpness of his tone echoed and he winched.

She didn't so much as flinch.

He put his hands on her shoulders. She offered no resistance as he turned her to face him. She focused her gaze at the center of his chest.

She touched his open shirt. "I have muddied you."

The too-girlish lilt in her voice sent a chill over him.

She put her forehead to where his open shirt gaped at his neck. "I have sullied you."

Her voice sounded so small, so lost. It twisted something inside him. Maybe she was hopelessly mad. He didn't care. He would be here for her. He lowered his head and rested his chin on the top of her head whilst putting his arms around her. A thousand foolish, rash promises rushed to the fore of his mouth, he was just opening his mouth- "Oh, Freddy."

She had spoken so softly, he'd barely heard her.

But he had heard her. He went to stone.

Firmly, he placed his hands on her shoulders and gave her a gentle push away.

She grasped the edges of his open collar and clung to them. "Freddy, please."

Glassy eyes met his.

"Forgive me." Her words resonated with such pain, such regret.

That twisting inside him began again. More faintly, but there nonetheless.

Determined to remain in control this time, he took her hands and pried them off his collar. "We must get you cleaned up."

Once again, he cursed the lack of servants. He must fetch and heat enough water to wash her encrusted hair and then do it all over again so that he might bathe her. At the same time, he'd have to ensure she wouldn't run away.

"Catriona," he said firmly.

She stared at him, still glassy-eyed.

"Listen to me carefully," he said, holding her hands.

She gripped him so hard her nails bit into his skin.

He glanced down and saw broken nails with dirt embedded beneath. Open gashes, bleeding- Tightness spread from his chest, up into his throat. A choked gasp echoed in his ears, one that he barely recognized as his own.

"Your hands." He heard the accusation in his voice. "Your beautiful hands!"

She gasped.

He closed his fists around her hands and gave them a none-too-gentle shake. "What have you done to your beautiful hands? Your hair?"

God, if he had walked by a chamber and heard any other man speaking those words to a woman, in such an accusatory yet sorrowful tone, he would have said that man had gone insane.

But he couldn't stop himself. "What were you thinking? Don't you know that every part of you belongs to me now?"

Her mouth dropped open.