by Candace Camp
What in the world did that say about her? Even worse, what did it say that she hadn’t wanted him to stop?
The truth was, her pulse was still racing, and she was suffused with heat. Her insides had melted, a low throbbing ache starting deep in her abdomen. If James had not broken it off, his delirium taking him off on another path, there was no telling what she would have done.
If she had not given up Graeme, if they had married, is that what would have passed between them—no, that was too embarrassing to even think of. She could not imagine doing such things with the man who had been her friend since they were children.
Far easier to feel this way about the man who had that wicked smile, whose silver eyes glittered in sardonic amusement at the world, who had no interest in being any better than he was. James de Vere was not a gentleman, which made her less ashamed for not acting like a lady.
Had James even known who she was when he kissed her? He had clearly been delirious; he could have been thinking about some other woman. It was a deflating thought, but it would be better if he had been unaware. It would make it easier to face him again. If, of course, he recovered.
That was what was important. James had a raging fever; he could be near death. This was no time to be sitting around pondering her feelings. She must get to work. Laura stood up, smoothing her hands down her dressing gown, and turned back to the washbasin.
James was shivering now despite the searing heat of his skin. He turned onto his side, huddling into himself, so Laura pulled the covers up and tucked them in around him. Still he shivered. She added the blanket folded at the foot of his bed. He continued to shake, his teeth chattering. She opened the chest at the foot of the bed but found no other blanket. Finally she took off her dressing gown and added that to the pile of coverings atop him.
“Cold,” he whispered. “It’s so cold.”
Not knowing what else to do, Laura slid into bed and wriggled over until she lay behind him. His body was like a furnace, and the pile of coverings added to the smothering heat. Laura snuggled up against his back, holding him close and wrapping her arms around him. Gradually his shaking stopped, and he once more fell into sleep.
It was so hot beneath the covers that it was some time before Laura realized that James’s body next to hers was no longer blazing. He had stretched out, no longer trembling. She sat up, propped on her elbow, and felt his forehead. It was clammy and much cooler to the touch.
His fever had broken.
chapter 13
James awoke and stared at the dark green tester high above his bed. He had slept—slept for more hours than he had in weeks, judging from the light coming through the cracks of his curtain. Yet he felt wrung out—weak as a kitten, drained, and thirsty.
What the devil had he done last night? It was a tangle of heat and bright piercing pain, of shivering cold, of color. Laura had been there, her blond hair tumbled down around her shoulders. He had been in a cave of ice, and she had pressed herself against him. No, that was idiotic. A cave of ice? It had been a hallucination, just as the flaming heat and the hunger that had filled him, the heavy, throbbing desire deep in his loins.
It had been one of his dreams. He had, after all, dreamed of Laura at other times these past few days. That day in the garden when she had rescued him in all his humiliating weakness and he had kissed her—he had dreamed of her that night.
He hadn’t wanted a woman in weeks. Then Laura had put her arms around him to keep him from falling, and he had kissed her to keep up the pretense of a lover’s embrace. No, that wasn’t true, not really. He had used that excuse because he wanted to taste her lips. Had wanted to for days. That night he had dreamed that he was well and strong again and they were walking. She’d held his hand and leaned against him—before she turned into a raven and flew away.
The dream was absurd, insane . . . just as it had been last night when he was holding Laura in his arms and kissing her. God, he had been kissing her as if he would consume her, her mouth so hot and wet and welcoming, her body lithe and firm beneath him, the scent of lavender in his nostrils, her hair like corn silk slipping through his fingers.
It had to be a dream. Laura would never have been rolling in this bed with him in a welter of heat and desire. But it had seemed so real, his body hard and eager, her kiss so sweet. His hand tingled with the memory of her breast in his palm. And the scent of lavender still clung to his sheets. He turned his head, breathing in the smell. She had been here.
He tried to think back. It was so hard to remember things, his scattered thoughts made even worse by the lancing pain. He remembered sitting out on the terrace with Dem, as he always did, waiting for the others to retire so no one would witness his feeble climb up the stairs. It had been very warm, and he had felt a little dizzy again. And on the stairs—yes, on the landing he had gone weak in the knees, and his vision turned black. For a heart-pounding eternity of seconds, he had been certain he was blind.
That was when Laura had come running up the stairs—rescuing him again, of course. What was the matter with her, anyway? She didn’t even like him. Yet there she was, wanting to help him. God knows, he was always tempted to take it. To give in.
Last night he had. He had leaned on her and let her put him to bed like a child. She had given him something foul to drink—that was just like her, too. Then, of course, she had plagued him with her questions. He had been so hot. So tired. The next thing he knew, she was sitting on his bed, her hands cool and caressing on his chest, and he had been aflame for her, aching and eager. He remembered guiding her hand lower as he reached up to pull her down to him.
James closed his eyes. If he had even the slightest bit of energy, he would be hard all over again, remembering it. It had to be real. It couldn’t be something he imagined. But Laura wouldn’t have kissed him, wouldn’t have let him caress her.
Not willingly.
He remembered taking her arm and moving her hand down; he had clamped his hand behind her neck and pulled her down. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted it at all. Because he could remember, too, that she left him and he had reached out, trying to pull her back, only she was out of his reach. Then he was running after her, and she was fleeing from him. Had he hurt her? Had he tried? He had been so desperate, so yearning, he would have believed himself capable of almost anything.
The icy dread in him now was enough to make him push up and out of bed. He swayed when he stood up, but he wrapped a hand around the bedpost and managed to stay upright. He looked around. There was a bag on the chair. Yes, that had been what she had carried in here, and there, beside his washbowl, were two damp rags, hanging to dry. He picked up one and brought it to his face. It smelled of lavender.
A knock sounded on his door, and he turned so quickly he overbalanced and again had to grab the bedpost to keep from toppling over. The door opened a crack, a woman’s soft voice, saying, “James.”
“Laura!” The word came out in a croak, and he took a step forward, afraid to let go of the post. He looked like a fool, he knew, standing there shirt hanging open and feet bare, clinging to the bedpost and clutching the washcloth in his hand like a spinster about to have a fit of the vapors. But then, he so often looked like a fool these days, he supposed it scarcely mattered.
The door swung wider, and Laura came into the room. She was smiling in that way of hers, calm and serene, but with a glimmer in her eyes that spoke of a readiness to laugh. He had always thought her beautiful in the way a perfect piece of art was, but now he could see how much more intriguing she was than perfection. He wished . . . well, no use wishing anything.
The important thing was she wasn’t angry or disgusted or fearful, all the emotions he had feared he might see in her face. The knot in his chest eased. It had been a dream.
He took a step toward her and crumpled to the ground.
The dog reached James first, prodding him with his nose and licking his cheek. Laura knelt beside him, pushing Dem aside.
“James?” She laid her
hand on his forehead. He wasn’t hot again. She shook his shoulder. “James, get up. I need you to get into bed. Please, I can’t lift you.”
Laura ran to the bell pull and yanked it several times. There was a noise behind her, and the mastiff growled deep in his throat. Laura swung around. Walter stood in the door, staring at James. “Good God. James.”
“Don’t stand there,” Laura snapped. “Come here and help me.”
Her orders broke the young man from his paralysis and he hurried to her side. Together they tugged and pulled, but could manage to do no more than get James into a sitting position. Laura cradled him against her breast, holding his head to keep it from lolling back. She stroked her hand across his forehead.
James opened his eyes and blinked owlishly at her. “Laura. Beg pardon.”
Laura was perilously close to hysterical tears. What was she to do? A fever she could battle, but she felt lost now. Nodding toward the bell pull, she told Walter, “Go ring again.”
But at that moment, Simpson came in, followed by one of the footmen. Between the men, they managed to lift James and put him in the bed. Simpson shoved the pitcher at the footman and told him to fetch more water, and Laura turned to her father’s bag.
With shaking fingers, she poured willow bark tincture into a glass, then patted James on the cheek. “James, wake up. Look at me. James.” Her voice grew sharper, and her hand against his cheek was a little stinging.
James muttered a curse and opened his eyes. They were clearer now, at least. She managed to get some of the liquid down him, though he gave her a baleful glare. She cupped her hand against his cheek, running her thumb along his cheekbone.
“Stay awake now. Will you?”
He nodded and ran his tongue over his lip. “Thirsty.”
The footman brought the pitcher of water, and she gave James a sip. He looked slightly better, though his face was bloodless. The footman retreated to the foot of the bed, but Walter remained on the other side, staring down at his brother. He looked, she thought, quite lost.
“James . . .” he said vaguely, then, gazing up at her, “He can’t—he’ll be all right, won’t he?”
Behind her, more practically, Simpson said, “I’ll send for the doctor, ma’am.”
“No.” James spoke up, though his voice was so lacking in power it scarcely sounded like him. “No doctor.” He looked at Laura. “Keep them away from me.”
“Yes, of course, if you don’t wish him here,” she said mildly, taking his hand.
“I wish him to the devil. I wish everyone to the devil.” His hand tightened on hers. “Not you.”
She glanced at him, surprised, and once again felt tears burning at the backs of her eyes. “My. High praise, indeed.”
Demosthenes padded over and reared up, planting his paws on the bed, and stretched his head toward James. James patted him. “It’s all right, Dem.” To Laura he said, “Get Owen to take him out; he’s the only one not scared of him.”
“Yes, sir.” The footman came around the bed. “That’s me, ma’am. I’ll take him.”
It took some persuasion from Owen, but finally the big dog followed him from the room. Laura turned to the butler. “Sir James had a high fever last night. I think perhaps he simply fainted because he’s weak from that. Why don’t you bring him a cup of broth or maybe oatmeal? Something strengthening.”
“I don’t want it,” James said behind her.
“Of course not, but I think you should have a little anyway.”
“Then doubtless I will.” He pushed himself up to a sitting position. “I must use the breathing treatment.”
“I can help.” Unexpectedly Walter spoke up. “I know where the tonic is. I picked it up at the apothecary.”
“Why don’t you rest for a bit first?” Laura suggested. “Have some of the broth.”
James shook his head. “I’ll wait on the treatment. But I must clean up and dress. Mother will be here soon.”
“He’s right,” Walter agreed, turning and rummaging through the dresser. “Word will be all around the servants’ hall. If Simpson doesn’t tell her, her maid certainly will. Here’s a fresh shirt.”
“But she won’t care that you’re rumpled, surely,” Laura protested.
Walter snorted. “James? Rumpled? She’ll be certain he’s at de—” He stopped abruptly, turning brick red.
“Death’s door,” James finished for him.
“I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean—of course you aren’t . . .”
“Stop yammering, Walter, and give me the blasted shirt.” James began working on his buttons.
“Yes, of course.”
Laura watched the two men in amazement as Walter helped James replace his shirt. There was the sound of agitated voices, then a rush of footsteps in the hallway. James let out a curse and stood up just as Tessa flew into the room.
“James!” She stopped in the doorway, her eyes huge in her face, her hands clutched to her heart.
“Mother.” James gave her the ghost of a smile.
“Darling! The maid said—oh, God! It’s true!” Tears welled in her eyes and she wailed, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Tessa started forward in a rush, arms extended, as if to throw herself against James, but Laura, with visions of Tessa knocking him over, nimbly stepped in front of the other woman and took her arm, pulling her to a halt. She leaned in, saying in a low voice, “Don’t. He’ll fall. He hasn’t the strength.”
Tessa rolled her eyes toward Laura. “No . . .” It was more a moan than a word. She looked over at her son. “James, no . . .”
“I’m sorry,” James said inadequately, and sat down on the bed.
Tessa burst into sobs and threw her arms around Laura. Laura had no doubt that Tessa’s distress was real; she saw the stark terror in the woman’s eyes. But she could understand why James found Tessa’s emotions exhausting. He shoved one hand back through his hair, looking helpless, his face bleak.
“I can’t. I can’t.” Tessa pulled back, her gaze pleading. “He must get well. I can’t bear to lose another son.” She turned to James, but apparently saw no help there, for she swiveled back to Laura. “What’s wrong with him? I thought . . . people get better from consumption.”
Laura linked her arm through Tessa’s, steering her toward the door. She cast a speaking look at James’s brother. “Walter . . .”
“What? Oh! Oh, yes.” He came up on the other side of Tessa. “Don’t cry, Mama.”
Tessa patted him on the arm, giving him a tearful smile. “Why didn’t he tell me? I’m his mother.”
“I’m sure he didn’t want to alarm you,” Laura told her as she led her into the corridor. “I know it’s hard, but you must be strong. For James. He hates to see you cry.”
“Yes, of course. For James. He tries to be so hard, you know, but he cares. He really does.” She turned toward her other son. “Doesn’t he, Walter?”
“Um . . . yes, yes, of course.”
“His father was the same. Poor Laurence. Vincent. And now James . . . oh, I cannot bear it. My sons!” She burst into sobs and threw herself against Walter’s chest.
Walter patted his mother’s back, and Laura abandoned him to the task, returning to the bedroom. James still sat on the edge of his bed. He offered a wry smile.
“I should have known you would handle Mother.” As she drew near, he reached out and wrapped his hand around her wrist. “Promise me you’ll keep the rest of them at bay.”
“Your family? James, they’ll want to see you.”
“To bid a fond farewell?”
“Well, yes. Don’t you . . . wouldn’t you like to see them?”
“Graeme, maybe. If you won’t let him get maudlin.”
She smiled faintly. “I’ll give him instructions.”
“If the others have to see me . . .” He shrugged a shoulder. “I suppose you must let them in for a bit. But I don’t want them hanging about watching me die, like I’m a performing monkey.”
“I
won’t let them do that. I promise you.”
He nodded and turned to lie down. He closed his eyes, and after a moment he said, “Thank you.”
And that, almost more than anything, made her want to cry.
chapter 14
Walter returned with Demosthenes, and after the dog checked on James in his bed, he lay down across the door in his usual position. Laura suspected that the mastiff would be the most effective deterrent to anyone visiting James.
Laura got most of a cup of broth down James, and it seemed to give him some strength. James wanted to do his cough treatment on his own, but after a brief verbal tussle with Laura, he agreed to allow Walter or Owen to help him.
Realizing that behind his stubbornness lay embarrassment, Laura left the rooms during his treatment and went out to the gardens. She needed a few minutes to herself. It was frightening how quickly James had gotten worse. He had been pushing himself too hard, and the high fever last night had drained him of his remaining strength.
Were fevers common with tumors in the brain? It seemed odd. Laura wished she knew more about it. She felt helpless to deal with James’s illness. How could she sit there idly and watch him die? She thought of her father’s medical books. James had said he would send for the rest of her things. Given his usual orderly competence, those boxes from her house should be here by now.
Laura got up and hurried back to the house, reinvigorated by the prospect of doing something constructive. It took only a few minutes with the ever-efficient Simpson to learn that her trunks and crates had indeed arrived and were stored in the cellar. It would be, the butler assured her, no trouble to have the trunks carried to her bedroom.
James’s eyes were closed when Laura looked in on him, and she hesitated for a moment, not wanting to wake him. His eyes opened. “Laura. Come in.” He shoved himself to a sitting position. “I need to show you my will.”
“The will? No, James, that’s not important now.”
