Lady Lyte's Little Secret

by Deborah Hale

  The coachman lingered a moment. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I often bring along a wee nip of spirits to keep the chill off during a long drive. If you could coax a drop or two into Mr. Greenwood, it might revive him some.”

  “A capital idea.” Felicity barely refrained from admitting that she could do with a wee nip, herself. “Send Ned with it once he’s changed clothes. Now off with you before you catch a chill.”

  “Aye, ma’am.” Mr. Hixon took the lap robe from around his shoulders and laid it over Thorn before dashing off to the carriage.

  Her servants returned so quickly they would have done credit to a pair of experienced actors changing costume between scenes. Part of Felicity’s judgment recognized and commended their haste. Yet in another way, every moment seemed to stretch and stretch, pulling her nerves taut along with them.

  Though she’d continued to stroke Thorn’s cheek and call his name, he had yet to open his eyes. Both the chill of his skin and its grayish pallor alarmed her. A memory alarmed her even more.

  Her late husband had never regained consciousness after being thrown from a horse.

  Cold, dark water had swallowed him.

  Thorn could not tell whether he was rising toward the surface or sinking forever into oblivion. He tried to rally his wits and his strength, but both had deserted him, sapped by the heavy, soul-numbing chill that threatened to suck the very life out of him.

  Perhaps he was a fool to resist it when he had nothing to resist with…except his will. Perhaps he should just surrender and be done with it.

  Then, as if from a great distance, he heard a single word whispered by a voice that made his heart beat stronger. That word, he realized, was his name.

  He could not summon an image of the whisperer, nor could he give her a name. Yet her voice dangled in the black, torpid depths that entombed him, like a fine filament of gold. He could not frame the thought properly, but he knew if he followed the slender thread, it would lead him back to himself.

  Fearful that such a gossamer strand might snap or simply disappear at his touch, he grappled onto it with all that remained of his strength.

  “Thorn. Thorn.” It vibrated like magical music on the string of an enchanted harp. “Come back, my darling. Wake up.”

  A touch!

  He had forgotten there could be any sensations but cold, heaviness and exhaustion. Now he felt pain that somehow defined the boundaries of his body. It made him want to lapse back into blessed numbness.

  But he felt something else, as well. Something that persuaded him to brave the pain when a returning glimmer of sense warned him not to. The warm, gentle caress of a woman’s hand on his face and through his hair.

  Memories flooded his mind in a shimmering cascade. Of dark silken tresses splayed over a plump white pillow and over a rounded white breast. Of soft lips and nipples like sweet, red Madeira. Of a slick, sultry chasm, that…

  What was this? His body could feel heat, as well as cold? Pleasure, as well as pain?

  He tried to move…to reach for her. Even to wrest open one eye so he could see her again. But his body refused to obey. It remained trapped in the remorseless grip of that ponderous chill from which his spirit had barely managed to break free.

  As something warm and very soft brushed down the side of his face, he caught her scent.

  “Can you hear me, Thorn?”

  This time the whisper came from so near, he wondered if it might only be a fancy within his own mind. Then he felt that touch against his face again, and he knew it could only be her lips.

  Might her kiss restore him completely to himself? Thorn wondered.

  When he’d been young enough to be cared for, rather than always taking care of others, his mother had liked to tell him whimsical stories of princesses wakened from deathlike sleep by the kiss of true love.

  “So you see, my little hawthorn blossom, love holds great power if only we have the courage to use it.”

  He hadn’t thought of those old stories in years. Nor of his mother in such an intimate way, lest it stir other memories that would riddle his heart with the kind of pain that now throbbed through his broken body.

  Suddenly Thorn could picture his mother’s face more clearly than he’d been able to in years—a good deal like his sister’s, but without the faint shadow of sorrow Rosemary had worn until so recently. There had been a little of Ivy’s looks in that beloved face, as well. All of the charm without the often maddening caprice.

  Had there been something of himself there, as well? Thorn hoped so. Just as he hoped he’d cultivated whatever special qualities he’d inherited from his mother.

  A great wave of weariness washed over him. It promised an escape from all his hurts, if only he would trim his sail and let it carry him away.

  Again his mother’s voice came to him with heartbreaking clarity. “I have to go away, my dearest boy.”

  He’d known she didn’t mean to the seaside at Bournemouth or to take the waters at Bath, neither of which had ever effected more than a temporary improvement in her delicate health. He hadn’t wanted her to speak of going away. He’d wanted to keep pretending she would soon be well again, though he could scarcely recall a time when she had not been ill.

  “I feel so much easier in my mind knowing you’ll watch over your sisters for me. The baby, especially. It won’t be easy for her, poor wee thing.”

  He’d been strongly tempted to refuse. Perhaps, if he declined responsibility for Rosemary and Ivy, his mother would not be able to leave. At the very least, she might fight harder to remain with them.

  He’d wanted to ask why she was placing the burden of his sisters’ future on his young shoulders, rather than those of his father. Even though he’d known the reason as well as she did.

  But he’d been a dutiful boy, so he had not refused. Nor had he questioned. He hadn’t given in to tears, either, though he’d sensed they might ease the tight ball of fear and grief that had lodged deep in his belly.

  Since that day he’d done everything in his power to rear his sisters into the kind of young women who would have made their mother proud. And to see them happy. When Rosemary had finally wed his old friend, Merritt Temple, Thorn had felt half the weight of that pressing responsibility lifted from his shoulders.

  If he failed to rescue Ivy from her romantic folly, his sacrifices would all be for naught.

  So he fought on when he would much rather have surrendered in the hope of mercy, clinging to the tattered remnants of consciousness with dogged persistence that was a useful virtue…if not a glamorous one.

  The next voice Thorn heard belonged to a man—some administrator of torture, evidently.

  “Nothing broken, so far as I can tell,” the tormentor said in a jocular tone as he poked and prodded in a determined effort to break something. “He’s not much bruised, either, thanks to the cold water.”

  “Sod off!” A harsh dry croak erupted from Thorn’s throat as he flinched away from the prodding fingers.

  At least his body was obeying him again. Would his eyes open if he willed them hard enough?

  They did!

  Expecting to see a stretch of Gloucestershire riverbank or perhaps the inside of Lady Lyte’s carriage, Thorn started at the sight of a candlelit bedchamber. Was he truly conscious now, or still conjuring vivid fancies like the voice and face of his long-dead mother?

  Heedless of Thorn’s ungentlemanly language, the owner of the voice chuckled and took another poke at a very sensitive spot on Thorn’s ribs. “Yes. I thought that might bring him ’round.”

  “Keep that bloody finger off me!” Thorn cuffed it away and tried to make his eyes focus on the speaker. “Unless you want me to remove it from your hand.”

  “His wits seem to be intact,” the voice chirped.

  Thorn’s eyes decided to cooperate fully. At least he thought they did. The man he saw standing beside his bed, a stout little fellow with a hook nose and an old-fashioned periwig, looked less like a real person than
like some figment of an overstimulated imagination.

  The man thrust his hand toward Thorn’s face. “How many fingers do you see?”

  “Three.” Resisting the urge to bite them, Thorn contented himself with a verbal snap instead. “Now will you please let me alone?”

  “My examination is almost complete, sir, if you’ll indulge me a few moments more.”

  “Make it quick,” Thorn growled. “Anything that ails me won’t be improved by your prodding. If you want to make yourself useful, fetch me a drink. I’m parched.”

  Which was strange, he realized, since the last thing he remembered with any clarity was pitching off his horse into the river.

  “A drink?” The man considered Thorn’s request. He half-turned to someone behind him and nodded. “I don’t think it’ll do him any harm. His vital organs don’t appear to have suffered any damage.”

  “That’s a mercy.” Felicity peeped around the man to cast Thorn a reassuring smile quite at odds with the faint creases of worry etched around her eyes. “What sort of drink do you recommend, doctor? Fortified wine?”

  The physician gave a dismissive gesture. “No intoxicants when the patient has so recently regained consciousness. Coffee might revive him further.”

  “I’ll call for some.” Felicity moved out of Thorn’s line of vision, which was much obscured by the thick posts and heavy curtains of the bed on which he lay.

  When the doctor reached toward him again, Thorn recoiled. But this time the man only clutched Thorn’s wrist…which pained him less than most other parts of his body.

  “Lie still, now, whilst I test your pulse.” With his other hand the doctor consulted a watch suspended on a chain that spanned his broad middle.

  After a few moments, he released Thorn’s arm again. “As I suspected. Much stronger now.”

  Felicity returned to her place beside the doctor. “That is good news.”

  The doctor nodded. “He has a strong constitution in his favor. I expect he’ll make a rapid recovery. Tell me, Mr. Greenwood, what’s the last thing you remember before you woke to find yourself here?”

  Thorn opened his mouth to reply, then hesitated.

  He’d known a fellow once who’d lost consciousness for a time after a blow on the head. When he’d wakened, the man had no recollection of events for several days before his accident.

  Doctors had warned the man’s friends and family not to speak of that time or attempt to prompt his memory.

  Thorn could not help wondering what might happen if he professed not to recall the past several days. Felicity looked quite anxious about him. Perhaps she would be willing to pretend she had not ended their affair, for a while at least.

  But that would also mean feigning no memory of Ivy’s elopement, giving her and young Armitage ample time to reach Gretna and come back again.

  Besides, Thorn could not bring himself to deceive Felicity.

  “I remember getting pitched into the water,” he admitted. “After that, everything’s a right muddle until I woke up just now.”

  Felicity pushed the doctor aside. Perching on the edge of the bed, she took Thorn’s hand. “The other coach you were chasing, did you get a look at who was inside? Was it Ivy and Oliver?”

  Though he hated to disappoint her, Thorn shook his head. “Some elderly woman. I hope I didn’t give her too great a fright, tearing after her carriage like that.”

  Felicity pulled a wry face. “Oh dear.”

  The implication of what he’d just said might have knocked Thorn flat, if he hadn’t been, already. He had a vague conviction, more nebulous than a memory, yet also more urgent, that he must find and rescue his sister from…herself. To fail would betray the trust his dying mother had placed in him.

  “Ivy!” He forced himself up to a sitting position, though every muscle in his body screamed in protest. “Are we in Gloucester? I must go look for her!”

  His bed spun and tilted in one direction while the room beyond whirled and pitched the opposite way.

  “Hush now, hush!” Felicity pushed him back onto his pillow.

  To Thorn’s impotent frustration, he was unable to mount more than a token resistance.

  “Since you ask, we’re just on the outskirts of Gloucester.” Felicity spoke in a soft, soothing voice as she brushed a lock of hair back from his brow. “I ordered Mr. Hixon to put in at the first inn we came to. This place wasn’t far off. Fortunately, it turned out to be a well-run establishment.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Thorn planted his hands wide to steady himself for his next attempt to sit up. “But I can’t stay to enjoy its amenities while my sister may be within reach.”

  Felicity shot him a look that warned the less said about Ivy and Oliver in front of others, the better.

  “What do you propose to do? If you haven’t got sufficient balance to sit up in bed, there isn’t much likelihood of your sitting a horse, is there?”

  Though Thorn tried to concentrate on his original chain of thoughts, ideas seemed to flutter about his skull and fly out of his mouth of their own accord. “St. Just’s horse—what happened to it?”

  His question appeared to puzzle Felicity as much as it unsettled him. “It got…wet. The wretched beast is in much better shape than you are presently, I can assure you.”

  “I might be in worse shape, if that ‘wretched beast’ hadn’t turned aside from the bridge in time.”

  Before Felicity could reply, a knock sounded on the door. She jumped most readily from her roost on the bed to answer it, as if she might be glad of a distraction.

  Thorn cast a wary glance at the physician. If the prodding started again, he might have to throttle the little fellow.

  Perhaps his intention broadcast itself on his face, for the doctor edged farther away from the bed and made a show of packing his satchel.

  Thorn closed his eyes and willed his addled wits not to go astray. He had something important to think about, if he could only remember it and pursue it in spite of distractions.

  Ivy! That was who he must concentrate upon.

  Surely she and Armitage must be spending the night in Gloucester. Likely at that inn the keeper of The King’s Arms had recommended. Thorn must go collect her straightaway.

  Again he planted his hands on the bed at a good wide angle to steady himself. Then he pulled himself up by slow degrees, the better to keep dizziness at bay…even though the muscles of his abdomen protested painfully. This time he managed to raise his head without sending everything into a violent whirl.

  After a moment of hushed talk, the door closed and Felicity appeared in Thorn’s line of sight again, bearing a tray loaded with a small mound of sandwiches and a pair of faintly steaming mugs. The rich, faintly bitter aroma of coffee pervaded the room.

  A passing glance at the bed made Felicity start and nearly drop the tray. “For pity’s sake, lie down, Thorn! You need time to rest and heal.”

  “I’ll have plenty of time to rest once I have my sister back,” Thorn muttered through clenched teeth as he prepared to swing his legs over the side of the bed. “I’m certain she must be passing the night somewhere in Gloucester. The sooner I find her, the better…for everyone.”

  Felicity set the tray of coffee and sandwiches down on a small table beside the bed with barely restrained force.

  She glared at Thorn. “We can discuss this further once you’ve taken a little nourishment. If Ivy is in Gloucester, she’ll be staying put until morning.”

  He could not properly explain his renewed compulsion to find his sister, not even to himself. How could he hope to make Felicity understand? Thorn set his mouth in a grim line and prepared to twitch back the coverlet, when it suddenly dawned on him that he was naked.

  The realization almost knocked him back onto his pillows.

  Meanwhile, Felicity had opened her reticule and taken out some money to pay the physician. It must have been a generous fee, for the little man thanked her heartily.

  “I can see myself out, ma
’am, while you attend to Mr. Greenwood. Don’t hesitate to send for me in the night if his condition worsens.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Felicity picked up one coffee cup from the tray and carried it over to the bed. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  Thorn managed to keep his contrary opinion to himself.

  He took a sip from the cup Felicity held to his lips, hoping it would revive his strength and marshal his skittish wits into better order.

  The physician gathered up his hat and satchel, then headed for the door. Perhaps because the lady had paid him such a handsome fee, he must have felt he owed her some parting advice to the patient.

  “You’ll recover all the sooner if you don’t overtax your strength for the next day or two, Mr. Greenwood.” He moved out of Thorn’s sight. The door creaked open. “I suggest you rest and let your charming wife take care of you.”

  Wife!

  The coffee in Thorn’s mouth spewed out in a fine shower all over the bedclothes.

  Chapter Nine

  “Wife?” Thorn sputtered as soon as the doctor had closed the door. “What else took place while I was unconscious that you haven’t told me about?”

  Oh dear! A ripple of laughter burst out of Felicity. The buoyant relief of having Thorn awake, speaking and moving after what she’d feared had made her giddy. She’d struggled to maintain a sober appearance while the doctor was in the room. Now, Thorn’s ridiculous assumption pushed her over the edge. She set his coffee cup back down on the tray, before she spilled it all over the floor.

  In spite of the laughter that shook her until tears sprang to her eyes, it rankled that he would suspect her of such a thing. Not to mention showing such excessive dismay at the false prospect of having her as his wife.

  “I’ll remind you…” She gasped for breath, struggling to rein in her runaway levity. “…we are still hundreds of miles from Gretna Green…”

  Really, it was too absurd! “…where I might haul you, unconscious, in front of a blacksmith and have Mr. Hixon jerk your head back and forth to signify consent.”

  The words rolled out of her very fast, borne on a fresh tide of laughter. She couldn’t help herself. The whole scene unfolded in her imagination in such droll, vivid detail.