The hours passed. Félicité closed her eyes and dozed, only to wake once, twice, three times. The fourth time that she was jerked into awareness, she heard the crowing of a cock. Before the sound had died away, there came the tramping of the dawn patrol passing, the squad of stiff Spanish marionettes whose duty it was to keep the town quiet.
They did their job well. So still was the fading night when they had gone by that Félicité could hear the thudding of her own heartbeat. There also came from the room across the salle the creak of the bed ropes and the rustle of the cornshuck mattress as Morgan flounced and turned. Was he in pain? Had his fever worsened?
It made no difference to her, of course, except she could not bear to think of a human being in need. Moreover, her father’s case would not be helped if the Spanish mercenary was allowed to die in the Lafargue house.
Pepe was nearby, sleeping in the room that had been her father’s study. Surely he would awake and see to his colonel? It was his duty, after all, one he seemed to enjoy. How could he sleep through such a racket of shifting bedclothes and wincing sighs? Still, some men were heavy sleepers, especially when they were tired, as the manservant had every right to be.
For long moments, Félicité could hear nothing. Had Morgan stopped breathing, or had he merely fallen into the quiet and even respiration of sleep? The last was much more likely. There was also the possibility that Ashanti’s warm poultice had done its work, that his fever had broken. That was not a comfortable phase of any illness, but Morgan should be able to see to some things for himself, to throw off his cover or reach a carafe of water. The man was not helpless. At least he had not been the last time she had seen him.
With her lips pressed in a stiff line, Félicité slid from the bed and padded to the armoire to take out her dressing saque. She swung it around her, pushing her arms into the sleeves with impatience. She would just go to the door, she told herself as she drew her long braid out, letting it dangle over her shoulder; there could be no harm in that.
Félicité’s window and the balcony doors leading from the salle had, despite the heat, been closed against the miasmas of the night. The shutters of Morgan’s chamber stood ajar, however, as did the door. A pale light seeped into the room, outlining his long length in the bed. The sheet made a diagonal line across the flatness of his abdomen, leaving his upper torso bare. His right arm was stretched out stiff and straight, but his left was flung above his head. The bandaging that covered the top part of his chest on the right side was an indistinct contrast to his skin in the dimness. She could not tell if it was overtight with swelling from where she stood, but she did not think so. Seconds ticked by. He did not move. Apparently he was asleep, though he might also be unconscious. The baire had been let down from its ceiling hook and pulled about the bed, but he must have pushed it open on one side, perhaps for air from the window on the left. It was a wonder he had not been devoured by mosquitoes.
On tiptoe, Félicité crept toward the bed, holding her breath against the squeak of an uneven board or the scrape of an unwary step that might betray her. Her gaze fastened on his face. She thought he did not seem as flushed as before. In repose, he was, in a bold way, attractive. His forehead was broad and the bones of his face strong and well defined. The shape of his nose and the chiseled outline of his lips were classical, as was the jutting firmness of his chin. Some women might be taken in by such a face, but not she. From the first she had seen his arrogance, his overbearing certainty of right.
He had tucked the edge of the mosquito baire beneath his pillow to keep it back. In this as in all else, he had to make things difficult. Félicité hesitated, of half a mind to leave him to be bitten as he deserved. Then, with a sigh of exasperation, she reached toward the edge of the baire.
With the swiftness of a cat, the man on the bed pounced, catching her wrist. A long arm coiled around her waist, and she was jerked forward and dragged up on the bed. She gave a gasping cry as she fell on her shoulder, a cry that was cut off as Morgan pushed her to her back, reaching across her thighs to pull her feet onto the bed also.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, though the words lacked the fierceness she had intended.
“Putting you in my bed, since you object to letting me share yours.”
“I thought you were sick!” She tried to raise herself, but was prevented by the tightness of his hold.
“I think I must be,” he answered, the hand of his good left arm moving upward to clasp her waist once more, “though the poison in my blood has nothing to do with the cut of a sword, and much with the one who stitched it.”
“I did nothing! You watched me ply the needle yourself!” she protested.
“I watched you, yes, and with as much pleasure as pain, but the damage was done before then, long before.” He lowered his mouth to hers then, tasting, exploring, forcing her lips to part as he probed deeper. His fingers spread, he slid his hand upward, pushing aside the edges of her dressing saque, cupping the firm mound of her breast.
His touch was searing, even through the soft linen of her nightrail. His fever might have abated, but it had not left him entirely. Félicité put her free hand on his shoulder, pushing at him as she moved her head a fraction. Against his mouth she said, “You will hurt yourself.”
His grip tightened. “Not if you don’t fight me. Nor, in that case, will I hurt you.”
What choice did she have? From this situation of her own making there could be no rescue, no succor. By slow degrees, she allowed her resistance to ebb, steeling herself to accept whatever came.
He turned her to him, sweeping the dressing saque aside, pressing her against the long length of his body until her breasts were flattened against his chest and the nightrail that separated them seemed on fire with the heat of their bodies. He found the thick braid of her hair and loosened the plaiting, working the strands free so that it spread in a waving cloak around her. The better to veil her in its shimmering length, he stripped the nightrail over her head and drew the tresses forward to cover her. With burning lips he kissed her eyelids then, scorching the curve of her cheek and the hollow of her throat, scalding the trembling peak of her breast through the fragrant, iridescent cascade of her hair. He spanned her waist with his hand, smoothing downward over her stomach that was taut with apprehension, sliding with gentle insistence between her thighs.
Félicité felt a quickening inside her, a rising warmth that she sought to deny in her, unwillingness to respond to the man beside her. It was impossible. She could not evade his touch, his presence, his sure caresses that refused to recognize her defenses. They captured her senses, turning them against her. She was suffused with glowing heat that ran along her veins with the flicker of flame, flushing her skin, though she was beyond embarrassment. She brought her hand up, spreading the fingers over the muscles of his shoulder, aware of a need to be held closer. There was an aching emptiness deep inside her, allied to a distress-tinged darkness in her mind. Her chest felt tight, and her breath came in uneven gasps. She turned her head from side to side, caught in a pervading despair. It seemed to communicate itself to Morgan, for he went still. Then with abrupt decision, he eased over her open thighs and pressed into her.
A small cry escaped Félicité at that smooth, sliding entry. As his movements increased, she knew a dissolving sensation. It spread through her like the bursting of a levee. Her pent breath left her. Her hands fell away, the fingers uncurling, and she felt the hot trace of tears gliding from the corners of her eyes.
He gathered her closer. Covering her lips with his, he plundered their sweetness. As hesitantly she touched his tongue with her own, his grasp grew more fierce. Held fast, she plunged with him into the cauterizing fire of unhallowed desire. With her eyes tightly closed, she felt the singe of its passing, and, watching its dying flare against the darkness of her eyelids, was forced to wonder if she would have to bear the scars.
Félicité was scarcely conscious when she heard the opening of a door and the scuffle of
footsteps. Morgan, still lying over her, reached to snatch at the sheet, covering them both.
“For-forgive me, my colonel, I thought I heard a call.”
“Get out,” the man beside Félicité growled, “and stay out.”
The footsteps retreated in haste. Morgan slipped from her, drawing her against him in the circle of his arm. An instant later, Félicité slept.
The sun was high, striking its rays of molten gold into the room, when Félicité opened her eyes again. The heat was a living, smothering thing. She could feel the slow trickle of perspiration along her hairline, sense its dampness under her cheek, while along one side of her body it seemed as though she were being burned by living coals. She brought up a hand to push at the sheet that covered her.
Abruptly Morgan stiffened, as though her movement, slight though it was, had brought him awake. Her rigid muscles protesting, Félicité turned to stare at him. There was wariness and a shadow of what might have been apprehension in her brown eyes. He returned her gaze a long moment before he relaxed, one corner of his mouth tugging in a smile.
“I thought last night,” he said softly, “that I must be delirious. It seems I wasn’t.”
Her mouth tightened. “I’m not so certain about that. Besides, it wasn’t last night but daybreak this morning.”
“It seems longer than that,” he murmured, allowing his green glance to wander over the pink-and-cream hills of her breasts, uncovered as she sought coolness.
His eyes were clear, his skin tone normal, but his hair was wet and his body gleamed with perspiration. Both the sheet on which he lay and that which covered him were drenched. It was this, more than the warmth of the morning, that had caused her own discomfort.
In sudden discovery she said, “You — your fever has broken.”
“And why not, considering the excellent care I have had — and the potent medicine.”
“You mean—” she began, then stopped, lifting her chin as the gleam in his eyes told all too plainly to what he alluded. “That was certainly not my intention!”
“No? Then why did you come? Just what were you doing in my room?”
“I wasn’t planning to murder you in your bed, if that’s what you think. In fact, it crossed my mind the questions from Spanish officialdom would be exceedingly tedious if you should die!”
“I see,” he said, grimness moving over his face. “I think I can safely promise to save you from such ennui.”
She sent him a suspicious glance as she shifted away from him, pushing herself up in the bed. “Thank you. It would be a pity if I could no longer be dependent upon you!”
“Wouldn’t it,” he agreed with a lifted brow. Noticing her attempt to avoid touching him, he looked down at himself. “Good God, I’m sweating like a horse. Where in the devil is Pepe? Any other time he would have been in and out a dozen times.”
“To the best of my recollection, you ordered him to stay out,” she informed him.
“So I did, but it isn’t like him to take me quite so literally.”
“No doubt he was shocked out of his wits.”
“That seems unlikely,” he returned, his tone dry.
“Oh?” Did he mean that his servant was not easily shocked, or that it was not too uncommon for him to find his colonel in bed with a female? The thought was somehow disconcerting.
Morgan ignored the opening. “What of that girl of yours? How does it happen that she hasn’t deluged us with chocolate yet?”
“Perhaps she thinks that a man as sick as you were supposed to be needs his rest.”
“I have always been swift to recover,” murmured, his tone apologetic, though amusement danced in his eyes.
“Or perhaps,” Félicité persevered, “Ashanti was afraid she would get her head bitten off.”
“That’s probably it,” he said, deliberately misunderstanding. “There can’t be many women as ill-tempered as you are proving to be in the morning.”
“Ill-tempered? I?”
He only sent her a bland smile, sitting up as he gave a shout. “Pepe! Damn you, Pepe, come here!”
That sent her diving under the sheet as the connecting door between Morgan’s bedchamber and the next room swung open.
“Yes, my colonel?”
“Where have you been? And where is mademoiselle’s chocolate?”
“I was waiting for you to awake and call,” the manservant said with an injured air. “I also told Ashanti it would be best if she did the same.”
“Well, we are awake now,” Morgan pointed out. “Bring the chocolate, and I want a bath.”
“A bath! But, my colonel, so much immersion in water will make you as weak as a newborn.”
“I’m that already,” Morgan said, and overrode Félicité’s unladylike snort of disbelief with ease. “I am also hungry, so I suggest you rattle your bones, Pepe, and find something substantial to break our fast.”
Pepe coughed. “There is a matter of funds — for the market?”
“You know where they are kept. Take what you need!”
When Pepe had bowed himself out, Morgan flung back the sheet, fanning it to give Félicité air. She snatched at an edge to pull it over the lower part of her body. She was fast becoming used to having him see her from the waist up, however, and some concession had to be made to the heat. In any case, she was able to conceal herself most effectively, as she sat up again, by drawing a pair of honey-colored tresses forward over her shoulders.
He slanted a jaundiced look fit the silken screen of her hair, then glanced at the shutter standing open at the window. He nodded in that direction. “It would be cooler in here if that were closed.”
“Yes, undoubtedly.” Félicité gave the opening no more than a fleeting inspection.
Tilting his head, he went on, “I would shut it, but I am not feeling quite up to the exertion.”
He wanted her to step naked out of bed so he could have the pleasure of watching her. She had no intention of obliging him. “No, you mustn’t waste your strength. Ashanti can attend to it when she brings the chocolate.”
“But in the meantime, we expire.”
She scanned his face. He certainly seemed to be overheated. She glanced around her, spying her nightrail where it was rolled, half hidden in a fold in the bedclothes. “Very well, I’ll do it.”
Following her glance, he leaned to snap up the nightrail just before she reached it. He wadded it in his left hand, and she lunged for it, only to find herself lying across his chest. Recoiling in haste, she scrambled away from him, sliding out of bed on the other side as he heaved himself after her. Her foot touched soft material. Even as a grin of triumph began to curve his lips, she bent to scoop up her discarded saque, whirling it around her. Backing to the window, she slammed the shutter and pushed the wooden bolt into place. That done, she stood irresolute in the sudden dimness, glancing from the man in the bed to the door that led into the salle.
Morgan levered himself back into a sitting position. “Thank you. You may come back to bed now.”
“I think not,” she said, flinging her hair back.
“Why? What else is there for you to do?”
“There is the marketing, the housekeeping, my — my father’s meals and clean clothing—”
“All things Pepe and Ashanti can take care of between them without your help. I thought you had decided it would be to your advantage to see to my continued good health.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you!”
“Oh, but there is. I think, in fact, that I am deathly ill, so ill I am going to have to send a message to the governor-general saying I am not able to leave my bed today.”
“What?”
“Or, possibly, tomorrow. Only think how pleased O’Reilly will be when you restore his second-in-command to him, fully recovered.”
“It will be no doing of mine!”
“Not so. You are without doubt strong enough medicine to put any man on his feet, though I am not certain that, like the elixir of the
Turkish poppy seed, you may not be addictive.”
She cast him a doubtful look. “But we cannot stay in bed all day today.”
“Can we not? If that is what I want?” The faint smile with which he regarded her remained the same, but there was an implacable note in his voice.
If it had been a question of wills, she might have withstood him, but it was more than that, much more. Weighting the scale of Morgan’s desire for her company was the fate of her father. The design and fabric of her future, and her own freedom to weave it as she pleased, had become nebulous, something to be set aside indefinitely.
“You — take an unfair advantage,” she said through stiff lips.
“That may be. But if I am to have you, what other choice is there?” He held out his hand. Moving with slow reluctance, Félicité went toward him and allowed her fingers to be caught in his warm grasp.
Morgan’s threat to remain with her was not idle. Immediately after breakfast he sent Pepe with a message to O’Reilly’s headquarters. The governor-general would not be surprised to receive it, he said; he had suggested several times the day before that his second officer would be better off for a few days of recuperation in bed. Until now, Morgan had not appreciated how well O’Reilly understood these matters!
In the dimness of the shuttered room they napped through the morning, rousing to wakefulness from time to time before drowsing again. They partook of a light luncheon while sitting propped up by pillows, then settled again to pass the torpid, overheated hours of the afternoon. Morgan was demanding, and yet his need of repose was real. While he lay relaxed in slumber, Félicité was able to collect her thoughts, to sort through her emotions. That she could feel anything approaching passion in his arms was debasing. She knew that this assault upon her senses need not necessarily have anything to do with love; still, she would have preferred to remain unmoved. She could not. And yet, insofar as she could prevent it, she would not let Morgan see how he affected her. His hold upon her was strong enough; there was no need to add to it.
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