by Nicole Byrd
“That doesn’t mean that I am ready to tell it to you,” Marcus noted. “Go read a good book; improve your mind. Your university stint did little for you. All I recall you doing is looking up all the willing barmaids in every inn near the university, before they finally tossed you out.”
Carter made a rude noise with his tongue, but Marcus ignored him and headed up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.
When he reached the landing, he turned toward his own bedroom. He opened the door to the bedchamber gently and went in as quietly as he could, in case she was asleep. There were candles lit around the bed, but Lauryn lay back against the feather pillows, an open book abandoned on her chest, which rose and fell with her slow breaths. Her eyelids were closed, and her breathing even.
Her color was still a bit pallid, and the veins in her temples seemed to stand out against the paleness of her skin. She looked so vulnerable that he felt his heart contract.
The opium she had accidentally ingested must still be affecting her. Perhaps he should have called a physician; however, he had a poor opinion of most doctors. He didn’t trust them; mainly, they simply wanted to spill your blood, and as with his own father, were apt to bleed you until you died. Either illness would kill you, or the physicians would.
He pulled up a chair and sat down beside her, doing his best not to wake her. Probably rest, sleep, quiet to allow the body to heal itself was the best remedy, he told himself, trying to believe it. She was young and strong, nothing like his father in his last illness.
Still, there were at least two reasons it cut him to the bone to see her like this. First, it was his fault—he should not have allowed her to come this close to danger. He should not have taken her into the warehouse; he should have been more aware that the cargo could have held hidden perils. What had he been thinking, or worse, not thinking?
Most overwhelming of all, he could not even consider being without her…
How he had come to this point—gradually, quickly, in days or hours or minutes—he was not quite sure. Only that, from the moment she had walked into his study with her fantastical, sweet, and totally selfless proposition, it had seemed destined that he would end up here—looking down upon her face on the pillow with an overwhelming need to protect her, to possess her, to cherish her, and to know that she would stay with him for the rest of his natural life.
But as always, a question echoed in the back of his mind: Could he depend on her to stay? He had no clue if she really cared for him, beyond the bounds of their fragile and highly mutable agreement, an agreement fast running out of time. Oh, she seemed to enjoy making love, responded joyously to his touch, gave back freely and with selfless and generous abandon. But did she love him? Could she stand to be with him for years, for decades, God willing they should have so long?
He didn’t know, and he didn’t know how to be sure.
He didn’t know how to trust people anymore, and he sure as hell didn’t trust Fate, that capricious and inconstant jokester.
Oh, dear God, Marcus thought, feeling a trickle of sweat run down his brow, even though the room was somewhat cool as the fire died down on the hearth. He needed her, with every inch of his body and soul, with every breath he took. He was a miserable wretch, he had no pride, no conscience, maybe he would simply throw himself on her mercy…
No, he could not; she would despise him. He could not keep her tied to him out of pity; what kind of man would he be to try to bind her to him in that way?
He wiped his forehead and paced up and down before the hearth before turning back to sit down once more by the bed. Get a grip on yourself, man, he told himself fiercely. You will have to wait and see. Either she cares for you or she doesn’t. The fact that his stomach twisted just at the thought that she might not, that she might turn away, might leave…
He would have to wait and see.
If she left, he thought he might die….
No, you will go about your life, he told himself through gritted teeth. You will be—outwardly, at least—just as you were before. And perhaps no one may guess that you will be merely the hollow husk of a man.
But at least for now she was still here. His gaze glided over her form on the bed, and he reached to pull the blanket up to cover her more fully, careful again not to wake her.
She sighed, and the book slipped down. He took it and closed it and put it on the table beside the bed, then sat back to feast his eyes on her, to imprint her sweetness on the back on his eyelids while he could.
He would cherish every moment they were together, just in case there were a finite number ahead.
A slight sound alerted him, and he lifted his head. For a moment he wondered if he had imagined it, then he heard it again, a faint knock at the door.
What the hell?
He stood. Taking long strides, he reached the door and opened it quickly, not wanting to risk Lauryn being disturbed.
Wearing a lace-trimmed peignoir, her hair in artful disarray about her face, the contessa stood with her hand raised to tap on the door again.
“Is something wrong?” Marcus asked.
“Non, mon ami,” she said, her voice soft. “I came seulement to inquire about Mrs. Smith.”
Knowing the lady too well to take anything she said at face value, he studied her for a moment before replying slowly, “I think she will be all right, but she is still not very well.”
“Ah, quelle pitie,” she said, shaking her head and looking past him at the still form on the bed. “I vill zit with her for a time if you desire to zeep, cheri.”
She sounded quite sincere, and he felt ashamed of himself for an instant that he had doubted her motives. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“Are you?” Raising her brows in a gesture he remembered well, she met his gaze with a searching one of her one. “Is there anything I can do for you, cheri?” She let the pause go on just an instant too long, and added, even more softly, “For old time’s zake?”
Her eyes were knowing, and her lips gave a small half smile. He could not be angry at her; she was who she was, with rather, um, continental values, but apart from that, not at all a bad person, capable of real kindnesses and generosity. She was a practiced lover, with a well-shaped body, which, although he had not seen it in some time, was doubtless still appealing.
But he found he had no inclination to bring his knowledge up-to-date. Only one woman moved him now. Tonight or anytime, he was not in the mood to pursue amorous sports with anyone else. Lauryn lay ill, and he wanted to lie beside her and cherish her, hold her next to him until she was well again, and that was all he had on his mind. He could find no other desire inside him.
Not that he intended to explain all of this to the contessa. But, glancing from the sleeping form on the bed back to the woman standing next to him, he saw from the slight change in her expression that he had no need to.
“Ah, you are truly in love, then,” she said, shaking her head just a little. “I thought it might be zo, mon ami.”
“Yes,” he said simply.
She patted his arm, as if he were suffering from an incurable malady. “You vill either be tres happy or terribly distraught. I vill hope for the first for you, Marcus. She is a remarkable female, I think, and she ’as ’eart. I like her. Does she share your zentiments?”
“I don’t know!” he confessed. “I don’t know how to know. And I fear what I will learn. If she does not love me, I will be much more than distraught. I will be devastated. If she does, well, people I love tend to leave, whether from their own volition or when they are snatched away.”
He hadn’t meant to say that, but here in the shadowy dimness, with only a couple of candles burning, and the dancing lights of the fire to light the room, talking to someone with whom he had once been friends, if not ever in love, the words tumbled out without his meaning them to.
She nodded slowly. “Your father’s death when you vere only a lad vas hard on you, and ’e vas the only parent you had left. I remember you tel
ling the story of it, Marcuz. But you must trust in zomeone.”
“It becomes harder and harder,” he said, running his hands through his hair and turning once more to look at Lauryn, as if she might have changed, grown more ill if he took his gaze away for too long.
“You need zomeone to teach you…And I vas never able to do it, although I tried.” She shrugged again, looking resigned, then gave him a sudden smile. “Perhaps she vill be the one. For your zake, cheri, I ’ope zo. I vill still be ’appy to zit with ’er—you must not exhaust yourself. If you need me, call me.”
“Thank you,” he murmured.
She pulled the door closed after her, and he felt relieved to see her go. He returned to the bed and lay down beside Lauryn, curling up beside her, putting one arm lightly about her shoulders, wanting to protect her from the whole world, if only he could.
They lay that way for some time, and he dozed a little. When Lauryn moved, he woke at once. He looked down at her and saw that her clear green eyes were open, and he could see the firelight glinting off them.
“How do you feel?” he asked her, his voice quiet.
“My throat is dry,” she told him, her voice raspy.
He sat up and poured wine from the carafe on the table. She sipped it cautiously.
“Would you like a cup of tea? Or some broth?” he asked. “If so, I will go down to the kitchen and see to it for you.” He felt fairly sure he could manage to brew a cup of tea. The broth was a bit more problematic, but he would go out to the servant’s cottages and wake the housekeeper if he had to.
She smiled at him. “This is fine.”
He pushed a strand of hair back from her face. Her skin was cool—the air was cooling as the fire died down, but at least she had no fever. She still seemed pale, but not as wan as she had been, and a little of his fear for her eased.
“Was someone here?” she asked him.
“The contessa came and offered to sit with you if I wanted to rest,” he told her. “Did she disturb you? We tried to talk softly.”
Lauryn shook her head just slightly. “No, it wasn’t that. I can smell her perfume in the air. Was that all she offered to do?” Her tone was wry.
He grinned. “She has no other services that I am interested in. And as you see, I preferred to stay with you myself.”
She lay her head against his arm, and he bent to kiss her gently on her forehead.
She grimaced. “I’m afraid I am not living up to my contract. You must be feeling cheated. I’m sorry I am not up to performing the usual—”
“Do not be sorry for anything,” he told her firmly. “I will be the judge of what is expected. And I wish you to rest and feel better.”
She sighed. “I admit, I feel as limp as an unstarched cravat.”
“Just get well,” he repeated. “I have not a thing to complain about.”
“I don’t see why not,” she muttered, but she lay against the curve of his arm, and he held her carefully, as he would something very precious. He watched her close her eyes again and drift into sleep.
The rest of the night was uneventful. Marcus rose early and went downstairs to breakfast, but he returned soon to see how Lauryn was.
He was pleased to see that she was able to consume a little dry toast, though she still felt weak and nauseated.
“It will take some time to get over,” he told her. “I’ve known sailors with these habits, and they cannot be cured quickly, even though you had a small and accidental dose.”
“But how long do you mean by ‘some time’?” Lauryn asked, looking alarmed.
“Give it another day or two or maybe three at least,” he told her, trying to sound soothing.
“This is dreadful stuff, opium,” she grumbled. “I’m already tired of being in bed. At least”—she eyed the maid who had come to take away her breakfast tray—“tired of being in bed…alone,” she finished when the servant had left the room.
Marcus came closer and kissed her hand. “My dear, I do sympathize.”
“But you do not intend to do anything to relieve my tedium?” she suggested.
“I doubt that you are really up to any vigorous amusements.”
Lauryn seemed to consider, then sighed and shook her head. “Since I feel half the time as if I’m about to lose my few bites of breakfast, no, I suspect I’d better not try. That would tend to destroy the mood,” she suggested.
He laughed. If she could joke, then surely she was starting to recover. He kissed both her hands this time. “I’m going to make a quick trip to London, my darling Lauryn. I wish you to stay in bed and allow your body to heal. Carter will be here to keep you secure and look after you, as well as the contessa and the servants, of course.”
“Of course,” she said politely, adding with a touch of anxiety she could not completely hide, “will you be back soon?”
“Tomorrow or at least the day after, if there are no problems. I have a couple of business errands I need to do, and then I will return as speedily as possible,” he told her, knowing he was being vague but choosing not to go into too much detail just as yet. “The weather looks to be fair, and I hope to make good time.”
He squeezed her hands, leaned over to kiss her quickly on the lips, then, afraid to stay and be tempted any further, strode away.
By hard riding and changing horses when necessary, he made it to London before nightfall and had the felicity of sleeping in his own bed. The next morning, he took care of his primary business first, then hailed a hackney, not easy as many other Londoners also sought cabs. The wind was freshening and the once blue sky had been replaced by a layer of thick clouds. He hoped he had not been mistaken in the weather, Marcus thought, frowning as he was driven to Viscount Tweed’s impressive new London home.
To his annoyance, the footman clad in highly trimmed purple livery who answered the door announced that his master was at his club and he “couldn’t say” when he would return. He seemed about to shut the door in Marcus’s face.
Annoyed—he could remember when Tweed had lived in rooms above a second-rate tavern—Marcus put up one hand to stop him. “You may tell him that the Earl of Sutton called,” he said distinctly. “I need to talk to him, and he will wish to see me.”
The footman had the grace to look abashed. “Oh, beg pardon, your lordship. I will tell him that you called. Do you wish to leave a card?” He stepped back to obtain a silver tray to hold out to receive the card that Marcus gave him, as he should have done in the first place.
Tweed needed to see to better training for his servants, not just fancy liveries, Marcus thought as he turned on his heel. He glanced up at the near obscured sun and shook his head. This was a waste of time. He knew Tweed’s clubs; he could go by White’s and see if he could catch him there.
But when he walked into the men’s club and sent a servant there to see if the viscount was in attendance, he sat down long enough to accept a glass of wine and to remember that he himself had sponsored the man. He’d been a likeable if somewhat rough about the edges youth, and Marcus had tried to help him along. Tweed had been ecstatic to be voted a member.
He’d come a long way from the young man who’d started out with risky shares in a trading ship or two, scrabbling hard to make his fortune. When he’d inherited the title unexpectedly from an uncle, when two cousins as well as their father had died during an influenza epidemic on the Border, his life had changed a great deal. Now here he was wooing a young lady just out, and he seemed to be on the verge of a comfortable and settled existence.
The footman interrupted this reverie to report that the viscount had just departed.
“Dammit,” Marcus muttered. He seemed to be one step behind Tweed everywhere in London. He sent the footman to hail yet another cab, and when eventually one was obtained, put down his glass and set out once more.
It was back to the viscount’s house, hoping that this was where he had returned. This time Marcus greeted the same footman, who at least was more courteous, but again, the n
ews was not good.
“I’m sorry, your lordship. He has departed the city.”
“What?” Marcus stared at the man in disbelief. “Did you give him my card?”
“Yes, my lord. I did.”
“Didn’t you tell him I was here, in London, and I wanted to see him?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Why didn’t he wait?”
“I do not know, my lord. He said he must go at once.”
Marcus almost demanded to be allowed inside to inspect the house himself. He could hardly believe that Tweed had packed and departed in such a short time, and why, for the love of all that was holy?
How had he not understood that Marcus was here, now?
And then, to top everything, the heavens opened, and rain fell in heavy sheets—well, he hoped that Tweed had a sodden and miserable ride, Marcus thought, still angry.
He turned and stepped back into his hackney and directed it to his own address, where he dashed inside. As much as he wanted to set out himself, it would be utter folly. The rain fell so heavily that it was hard to see. Thunder rumbled outside, and thick gray clouds obscured the sun. The roads would be thick with mud by nightfall.
He gritted his teeth. Lauryn was there, and he wished to see her with his own eyes, be sure that she was continuing to mend. He wanted to hold her, feel her warmth and her sweetness. But as dearly as he wanted to depart, he would have to wait.
If he were a superstitious man, Marcus would have said that someone had set a gypsy’s curse against him, as one of his old nannies had used to fear. It rained heavily for the next three days. By the time the rain let up, his self-control was showing signs of serious strain.
Even then, he debated over whether to take one of his carriages—he might need it if the rains returned. On the other hand, a horse might get through muddy roads where a carriage’s wheels would be mired. He decided to take the horse, even if he could face the danger of being drenched to the skin if the rain deepened again.
So, with only a change of clothes and a few necessities in the bags behind his saddle, Marcus set out again to ride north.
