Amanda Scott (46 page)

“Go, Maggie,” Rothwell said, his voice weak but nonetheless commanding. “James will look after me.” There was sweat pouring down his face, but she waited to see no more, hurrying in search of the landlord and Chelton and, she hoped, something to do to keep her mind occupied so that it would not dwell upon what James was doing and whether or not he would succeed.

In the bustle that ensued below stairs, she soon saw that she would be more hindrance than help. Not wanting to stay in the coffee room alone, she spent the next two hours in James’s bedchamber. Maria had come upstairs with Chelton, offering to do what she could to help, but James had sent her away again, and Maggie did not want her.

Maggie could not sleep, however, and by turns paced the floor or stood staring blankly into the fireplace, wondering what Rothwell could have eaten that the rest of them had not, or what it was in Scottish food that so violently disagreed with his constitution. He was certainly not a man who was inclined to be sickly, and it seemed most peculiar to her that he should react so violently to any ailment. Could someone be trying to poison him? But who? It had to be someone who gained access to him only outside Glen Drumin, for he had never been sick there, and they had encountered no interested strangers on the road.

James came to her at last, and he was smiling. “He’ll do now,” he said. “I did have to resort to the rhubarb, so he’s exhausted, but he’ll sleep now, for he is much better.”

“What caused this illness?” she demanded. “Surely, it is not just our food here in Scotland that makes him sick, for all he says one frequently encounters bad food when traveling.”

James grimaced. “I don’t know. Some people have odd reactions to certain foods, but they usually know what makes them ill, and they know long before they reach adulthood. We’ve been served things here in Scotland that we don’t eat at home, but Ned always seemed to have a stomach of iron before now. The symptoms are odd, too. At first, he was just queasy after he ate. The next time he was sleepy. This time, he was lethargic at first, then nauseated, and then he had that awful, sharp pain.”

“Could …” She swallowed. “Could it be poison?”

He grimaced. “Don’t think I did not think of that, but if you are thinking I might have—”

“No, no,” she protested. When she saw he was not convinced, she said bluntly, “If you wanted him dead, James, you would have just let him die. You would not have saved him.”

“Well, that leaves the Cheltons,” he said, “which is absurd, since they could have murdered him any time these past twenty years, had they wished to do so. And if it is poison of some sort—or Scottish food, for that matter—why was he never ill at Glen Drumin? He wasn’t, you know, not once.”

“I know.” She thought for a moment, then said, “Could it be that this illness strikes him only when he is particularly tired? We’re all much more so than usual tonight.”

James shrugged. “I suppose that is possible. It’s also possible that Ned is right and he simply ate some bad food the rest of us avoided. Heaven knows I was so tired I don’t recall what I ate, let alone whether we all ate the same things.”

“I don’t recall either,” Maggie admitted.

“Well, whatever the cause, we must hope it does not happen again,” he said. “I’ve used my supply of ipecac, and the rhubarb and several other remedies as well. What I didn’t use in the glen, I finished tonight, and at this time of the year I shan’t find much of anything growing naturally. I didn’t even have a composer to give him after his trial tonight and had to make do with mine host’s chamomile, though I added a generous dose of your papa’s excellent whisky. I’ll get more supplies when I see Brockelby, of course, but if anything else should happen to Ned, I’ll be hard-pressed to do more than give him whisky next time.”

She smiled wanly. “Papa would insist the whisky’s enough to cure anything that ails him. May I go to him now?”

“Aye, but don’t expect him to talk much. He was already asleep when I left. I sent Chelton on to bed before that and sat with him until I was certain he would really rest.”

She thanked him and went quickly to see for herself. The fire had been built up and someone had boiled herbs in a pot over the fire, for the room was redolent with their fragrance. She realized that it had been done to cover more unpleasant odors, and was grateful to James for his thoughtfulness. Rothwell lay sleeping, his breathing normal now and deep, his expression one of peacefulness. Smoothing his hair back from his forehead, noting that his brow was cool, she stood watching him for a time, conscious of a sense of gratitude that went far beyond thought of herbs or of James’s consideration or even his skill. All desire to return to the glen was gone. Whatever lay ahead, she would face it, certain that Rothwell would do what he could to protect her, and realizing now that, had she run away, not only might he have succumbed to the mysterious illness but she would have been leaving him to face his stepmother’s acid tongue alone.

Slipping out of her clothes, she crawled into bed beside him clad only in her chemise, snuggling close and relaxing, asleep almost before her head touched the pillow. When she awoke the next morning her head was not on the pillow at all but rested in the hollow of Rothwell’s shoulder, one ear and cheek against his chest, where she could hear the deep, steady beat of his heart. A comfortingly muscular arm embraced her, and beneath the covering, a large hand rested lightly on her naked hip.

He said, “Good morning, sweetheart.” The hand moved, stroking her hip. “Where is your nightshift?”

“I slept in my chemise,” she said. “It is rucked up around my waist. Are you completely well again, Edward?”

“I am hungry. That must be a good sign.” He stirred, coming up onto his elbow, turning her slightly so that she lay on her back, looking up into his face. He looked his usual self, and his eyes gleamed with purpose. His free hand moved to the ribbon tie nestled in the lace trimming of her chemise, and a moment later her breasts were bared to his touch.

She sighed with pleasure when he caressed her, smiling up at him. “Are you sure you are not too weak for this? After all you endured, I’d think you would want your breakfast first.”

“I long only for the taste of you, my sweet.” He kissed her nipples and his hand crept lower, urging the twisted folds of her chemise out of his way.

A sharp rap on the bedchamber door startled them both, and Rothwell whipped the coverlet swiftly back over her. “Who knocks?” he demanded. “Go away.”

The door opened without further ceremony, and James, with laughter in his voice, said without looking in, “I hope you are both presentable, for I have ordered breakfast to be served to you here in less than a quarter of an hour. May I enter?”

“Yes, damn you,” Rothwell said, his tone nearly a snarl. “You take a deal of initiative upon yourself, my lad.”

Peeking around the door, James chuckled and said, “Consider it my medical opinion that you ought to eat before … before we depart, and it is your own fault beyond that for ordering me to make sure our departure was not delayed beyond eight o’clock.”

Maggie, clutching the quilt to her breasts, leaned up on an elbow and said anxiously, “Should he eat anything else here?”

“Never fear,” James said, still smiling. “I have ordered boiled eggs served in their unbroken shells, toast, and coffee, and Maria has promised to make the coffee and toast with her own capable hands. Chelton clearly thought that was going a bit far, but she stood up to him for once, and when she insisted, he was compelled to agree that so long as the pair of them watch every move that is made, nothing that Ned is not accustomed to eat will be served to him. Indeed, Maria seems determined to keep him safe all by herself if necessary, for she has announced that she will keep a sharp eye on his food preparation until we reach London. So I think we can all rest a bit easier, don’t you?” He grinned again. “Now, shall I tell them you prefer to wait a minute or two for your breakfast, or may they bring it up now?”

“You win,” Rothwell said with a grimace. “Tell them to bring it.” He looked ruefully at Maggie when the door had shut and murmured, “We’d best make ourselves presentable to eat, I suppose, sweetheart, but I think I’ll plead exhaustion at four o’clock today. It will be nearly dark by then in any event, and I’ve a desire to spend some uninterrupted time with my wife.”

“Have you, sir?”

“I have. I am very glad you did not leave last night.” The look in his eyes was warm, and for a moment she fancied it was true love she saw; but he had no more cause to love her now than he’d had the day of their odd marriage, and he certainly had not loved her then. That her feelings had altered considerably in the meantime was a fact of which she was well aware, but she knew that females set more store by notions of love than men did, so that was no reason to think his had changed as well.

They traveled swiftly, and although they encountered occasional flurries of light snow, the weather continued to hold, and aside from a single repair to a wheel on the second coach, they suffered no particular delays. Maria kept her word about inspecting anything that was cooked for the earl, and they arrived in London at last, on Martinmas Day, without his having suffered any recurrence of his odd and unfortunate malady.

Despite the wicked pace, Maggie enjoyed their journey much more than she had the previous one. Not only did she enjoy being looked after and treated everywhere they stayed as befitted the Countess of Rothwell, but the men sat in the coach with her most of the way, and while James read or sat contemplating his own thoughts, she discovered that she liked her husband very much. A restful but also an amusing companion, he was as willing to describe for her amusement the great houses they passed, and their owners, as he was to take a hand of cards or just to talk. The days passed swiftly, and despite her weariness, she found that she was sorry when the journey was done.

It was nearly ten o’clock when at last the carriages rattled into the courtyard at Rothwell London House, but there were still lights at most ground-floor and first-floor windows, and the front door opened at once, spilling light onto the pavement.

“Mama and Lydia are certainly in residence already,” James said. “The place would not look nearly so lively if they were not. Here, Frederick,” he called out the coach window to the footman looking out to see who had arrived, “have some of the lads collect our portmanteaux and look after these coaches.”

“Mr. James, is that you?”

“Aye, and his lordship,” James replied, opening the door and jumping out. Putting down the step for the others, he added, “Make haste, her ladyship is well nigh fainting from fatigue.”

“Her ladyship? But, Mr. James, their ladyships have both gone to Lady Ordham’s Martinmas ball and did not anticipate returning before midnight. Has one of them fallen ill, sir?”

For a moment, James looked bewildered, and before he had regained his senses, Rothwell, descending from the coach in his wake, said matter-of-factly, “Mr. James speaks of your new mistress, Frederick. Come, sweetheart.”

Taking the hand he held out to her, Maggie stepped down from the coach, feeling suddenly shy and wondering how his servants would respond to her new estate. She was grateful to know Lady Rothwell was not at home, if only for a short time longer.

Frederick was staring at her. “Miss MacDrumin!”

James chuckled, as Rothwell drew her closer and said, “You may felicitate me, Frederick. She is no longer Miss MacDrumin but my own countess.”

The word passed swiftly, and it seemed to Maggie that in the next few minutes every member of the household was determined to catch a glimpse of her. To her relief, every one, of them seemed sincerely delighted by the news.

When she came to a standstill in the middle of the hall, looking around in something of an exhausted daze, Rothwell smiled at her and said, “Thinking of changing things already, my sweet?”

Starting a little, she stared at him. “Why would I be thinking any such thing, sir?”

“It is no more than your right. Most wives change things.”

She grimaced. “I daresay Lady Rothwell will have something to say about that.”

“Not much, I should think.” He turned to the footman and said in his languid way, “Ah, Frederick, do not say anything to their ladyships about my new countess. I want to break my delightful surprise to them myself.”

“Yes, my lord, to be sure. And which bedchamber shall we prepare for the new Lady Rothwell, if you please, sir?”

“My own mother’s room,” Rothwell said softly. Looking at Maggie, he explained, “My stepmother preferred another chamber, and I think it is time my mother’s room was occupied again.”

Maggie felt a surge of relief, for in the moment between the footman’s asking the question and Rothwell’s answering it, she had feared he would say she must take the dowager’s chamber, and she was as certain as she could be that she would not have had sufficient nerve to do so. His solution was much better.

“Are you hungry, sweetheart?” Rothwell asked. “Shall I tell them to bring food to the library for us?”

“Presently, perhaps, but I think I will change my gown before I eat,” she said. “I do not want to meet your mama and Lydia whilst I am still so travel stained.”

“They are not likely to return before midnight,” he said. “Surely you would prefer to go to bed before then.”

“No,” she said more sharply than she intended. When he frowned, she added hastily, “I would not sleep, sir, for imagining things.” She could say no more with the servants so near at hand, but he understood her, for he nodded.

“I’ll take you upstairs myself,” he said. “Frederick, order a bath for her ladyship. Do you want Maria, sweetheart?”

“No, thank you, sir. She is no doubt as tired as I am and will be wanting her bed. Any maidservant will suffice.”

He gave the necessary orders and Maggie soon found herself alone with him in a very pretty bedchamber.

“This room adjoins mine through that door there,” he said, smiling at her. “My stepmother’s chamber adjoins my dressing room, but that need not concern you, for the door between has long since been blocked by a chest. Do you like this room?”