Megan Frampton (8 page)

She missed his touch.

He shrugged, still not looking at her. “We go to Scotland. We forget this. It won’t happen again.” He sounded again like the bored aristocrat who’d decided they would get married without even consulting her.

“Fine,” she said, giving her gown one last pat. “And if you’ll excuse me, I am going downstairs to see what is happening with our supper.”

Almost before she stopped speaking, he leapt up from the chair and grabbed her arm. His hands were shaking again. “Not without me,” he said in a strained voice. Mary started to glare at him, but then noticed that he was clutching his stomach, and his skin looked ashen.

“You are
ill
,” she said. “You are going back to bed. Alone.” She lifted his arm and twisted it gently, spinning him around so that he was facing the bed.

“Go,” she added, giving him a small shove in the back.

He stumbled to the bed and flopped down on it. As he rolled onto his back, he began to cough; not a polite clearing of the throat, but a deep, heaving cough. It lasted at least a minute, and Mary saw his stomach muscles clench from the strain.

“Are you all right?” she asked, kneeling down on the floor next to him. His eyes were glazed and unseeing, sweat pouring off his body onto the coverlet. How could he be ravishing her one minute, then so ill the next? He seemed to go into a spasm, and his
stomach convulsed as more dry, laborious coughs took over his body.

“Just … a minute,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. She put her hand on his forehead. It was burning. She’d never encountered such a rapid onset of illness.

Perhaps it was something exclusive to Quality, she thought to herself.

“I’ll get a wet cloth,” she said, beginning to rise.

“No,” he said. “Just … touch me. Like you were.” He stretched his hands out to her and entwined his fingers in her skirts.

It was scarily easy to shake his hands off. Not so easy to deny that she wanted to touch him. She turned and walked to the washstand in the corner of the room. “You have to eat.” She yanked a not-so-clean towel off it and looked helplessly around for water. That landlord needed to return quickly. “If you have a fever, you will be too weak if you don’t eat something.”

“Stop being a damn schoolteacher for once and come here.” While he had likely intended to sound authoritative, his voice sounded pleading instead. It made her turn around faster than an order would have.

She sat back down on the bed and lifted her hand to his forehead, smoothing the thick, black strands away from the damp skin. As she stroked his skin, the lines of anguish cleared from his face and his eyes closed.

After a few moments, he gave a sigh of relief and his eyes opened wide, seeming to finally take her in. “Thank you.”

Mary kept stroking his forehead, smoothing the hair back against his head. He rolled his head around and she saw his jaw clench. Then the stomach convulsions started again, and he twisted and cried out.

She shifted away to give him room, but he shook his head. “No. Please. Don’t stop,” he said in a pleading tone.

She touched him again, drawing her hand down his cheek. She curled her hand into a loose fist and grazed her knuckles across his cheek, his stubble rough against her skin. He turned his face into her hand like a kitten yearning for her touch, his lips warm against her palm.

She trailed her fingers down the side of his face, onto his neck, feeling his pulse beating rapidly against her hand. “Shh,” she whispered nonsensically; he wasn’t
speaking, but she felt the need to soothe him nonetheless.

His skin was hot, sticky with sweat, and a few drops of perspiration dotted his chest.

For a moment, Mary thought about bending her head down to lick it off his skin. She could almost taste the saltiness of him, his musky essence swirling around her nose.

He was ill. Ill, and she wanted nothing more than to reach down and lick him. What had happened to her?

Just a few days ago, she’d been a vicar’s spinster daughter, teaching school and doing good works. She’d never thought about anything in the least bit salacious, not even when Mr. Hardesty, her father’s assistant, had admired her apple cobbler with enough enthusiasm as to make his point perfectly clear.

It must be the events of the last two days. Why should she be denied pleasure or gratification?

In essence, she was a good, modest person. But a person who relished life, and wanted to be happy.
This
made her happy, and she didn’t see the point of denying herself any longer.

And she wanted this, wanted it with a desperate urge she’d never felt before.

She shook her head at herself, but continued to slide her fingers down his skin, trying to bring some peace to his body through her hands. He was arching his back off the bed now, his hair damp with sweat. There was a line of sweat at the waistband of his breeches, and Mary wondered if she should try to get them off him so he would be more comfortable. But his comfort would be directly proportional to her discomfort, so she just pulled the linens up over his body instead.

“Please,” he begged. His eyes had the same haunted look they’d had that morning, when he’d woken from his nightmare.

“What do you want, Alasdair?” She spoke in a whisper.

“I want you,” he replied, his eyes shuttering closed.

She was opening her mouth to reply—not that she knew what she’d say—when the door flew open with a crash.

Bang!

Mary twisted to look at the door as two men burst into the room.

“What can I—?” Mary rose to her feet, frantically straightening her gown to cover herself.

The first man barely glanced at her, thank goodness, focusing all of his attention on the marquess. He had the same haughty air as Alasdair, but didn’t wear the authority nearly as well. He had dark-brown hair, carefully arranged, and was wearing what even Mary could tell was fashionable clothing. He was of medium height and carried a gold-tipped cane.

What was most arresting about him, however, was the intense look of hatred on his face as he stared at the man on the bed. Mary flinched as she met his eyes, and instinctively moved so that she was shielding the marquess with her body.

“Ah, dear cousin,” the man drawled. “How fortuitous to find you here.”

“Hugh. The pleasure is mine,” Alasdair said. “I assume you’ve been having me followed?” Even though his voice was weak, Mary could hear the unconscious arrogance that was threaded through it.

She marveled to think that even horizontal, sweating, half-naked, and in pain, he could still be so much in command.

Alasdair’s cousin moved closer to the bed, a smirk of satisfaction on his well-bred face. The second man, clutching a large, black leather bag, also advanced farther into the room. He gazed around the shabby room with a moue of distaste on his face.

“It appears you are in even more need of my assistance than I thought, Datchworth,” Hugh said. His eyes flicked up and down Mary’s body, and even though everything about him was faultlessly tidy, she felt as if he had put an unclean hand on her. He gestured to the other man. “Dr. Grimes is here to assist you.”

Alasdair struggled up to a seated position, leaning his head against the wall. He had a wild, feverish look in his eyes, which wasn’t surprising, given that the rivulets of
sweat dripping down his chest had now soaked through the top part of his breeches.

He lifted his chin in a disdainful gesture. “And your doctor here thinks he can help me?”

Perhaps there really
was
an illness exclusive to the Quality.

The marquess reached out and grabbed Mary’s hand, squeezing it in a grip so hard she felt the blood drain from her fingers. “Help me with what? Separating me from my money? How long have you been trying the same game, cousin? It hasn’t worked yet, has it?”

Hugh raised an eyebrow—
must be a family trait
, Mary thought—and spoke in a voice as cold as a winter wind. “I don’t think you need help with that, Alasdair. How can you accuse me of such a thing?”

Alasdair closed his eyes. “And you’re here for my own good.” He had a sarcastic, worn-out tone to his voice.

Hugh spread his hands in a casual gesture. “There has been talk. I am here to protect you.”

Alasdair shook his head as if to clear it, then rubbed his hands over his face. “There’s always talk. Spread by you, of course,” he said in a tired voice. “Give us a minute,” he said, indicating Mary. “And then I’ll go with you.”

Hugh’s lips tightened into a thin line, and he glared at Mary, then nodded. “We’ll be just outside,” he said. It sounded like a threat.

The two men left, and Mary heard the low murmur of their voices just outside the door.

He was just going to go with them? When it was clear they meant to do him harm? What in God’s name was happening?

“You won’t sue me for breach of promise, will you, love?” Alasdair said, a wry smile on his lips.

He was going with them.
What was really wrong with him?

“You were right after all. It wouldn’t have worked. You’ve got your long, lovely life ahead of you, whereas I—” He clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. “Never mind.”

He raised his right hand, looking like he might collapse from the effort, and
pointed toward where he had dropped his jacket. “There are a few pound notes inside my pocket. I was saving them to buy you a bride gift, but you can have them now.” He began to cough, a dreadful, deep hack that seemed to resonate throughout his body. “You should leave. I wouldn’t want my cousin to get any clever ideas.”

“But … but what about you?” Mary asked. “What will you do?”

He shrugged. “Keep on as I have. Do keep in touch, won’t you?” His lips twisted in a sardonic smirk, and Mary could almost physically feel how he was pushing her away. And, even though she’d wanted nothing more than for him to do just that a mere twenty-four hours ago, it hurt now.

His eyes were clouded with pain. “Go on, take the money before Hugh barges back in here again.” His voice was rough, and she wondered what his noble gesture was costing him. How long he’d been resisting whatever it was his cousin was trying to do.

She rose and quickly found the money, sliding the few notes into her Donne book before her heart made her ask questions he wouldn’t answer. She slipped the volume into her bag, and turned to face him. “Well. Goodbye then, and thank you.” It felt like an oddly formal statement, given what had passed between them.

He nodded his head in acknowledgement, and made a casual gesture toward the door. “Be off, Miss Smith, and be grateful we weren’t married. I’d be a devil of a husband.” He bared his teeth in a rakish smile that looked forced.

Mary’s jaw clenched, and she grabbed the cloak he’d bought for her, slinging it around her shoulders as she reached for the door. Just before she opened it, however, she turned to look back at him.

His eyes had closed again, and his expression was bone-weary. Mary fought the urge to return to him, to comfort him.

She didn’t think she could make it right, not for him.

She walked out into the hallway, her eyesight momentarily gone as her eyes adjusted to the dimness.

Now she was back to where she started: alone, nearly penniless, and untouched.

Her future seemed as bleak as that of the man she was leaving behind her.

“Ah, Alasdair’s mystery lady.” Alasdair’s cousin stepped out of the darkness and stood so close she could smell his elegant odor of smoke, expensive alcohol, and fine cotton. “Done so soon?”

He chuckled, then reached into his pocket pulled a few bills out, which he pressed into her unresisting hand. “For your trouble. Run along now, and don’t speak of this. Not that anyone would believe you.”

It was clear from his dismissive tone that he thought Mary was just a lightskirt, a woman to be bought and paid for. And he wasn’t wrong, was he?

Much as she would have loved to throw the bills back in his face, Mary pocketed the money and walked to the stairs. She couldn’t survive on her pride. She heard the door open, and then the sound of Alasdair’s cousin’s obnoxious tone again.

She wished Alasdair were feeling well enough to pop his cousin in the nose.

Although maybe Alasdair had done something terrible to disgrace the family, and his cousin had needed to hunt him down and return him. Maybe
that
explained his haste to go to Scotland.

As she reached the last step, the doctor who’d accompanied Alasdair’s cousin trotted up the stairs, shoving her aside with one of his large, fleshy hands. He glared at her as he hustled up to the second floor.

Mary didn’t trust him or Alasdair’s cousin. Not that she trusted Alasdair, either.

Except he hadn’t hurt her. He’d promised not to hurt her, and he hadn’t.

She felt a lump swell in her throat, and drew her cloak tighter around herself. She entered the common area of the inn, and walked up to the innkeeper.

The man’s eyes widened when he saw her, then narrowed as he took in her disheveled appearance. “Look ’ere, you, I dinna care ’oo your lord be. I don’t care for that kind of thing in my establishment.”

Mary snorted and leaned her elbow on the bar. “You did not seem to mind before my lord’s cousin arrived.”

The innkeeper nodded his head in self-righteous indignation. “That’s cuz of how I dinna know your lord was mad.” He cast his eyes down her form, and Mary bristled.

“He is not mad,” she said, and she meant it. He was all sorts of things, many of them nearly as bad, but he was not
mad
.

And that she knew he was not mad made her itch to discover just what it was about him that was wrong—because
something
was horribly wrong, whether in his mind or in his body.

But he’d told her to leave. She could head off to London with a clear conscience. Couldn’t she?

She really was proving to be a good vicar’s daughter, wasn’t she?

She sighed at what she was about to do. But she could not live with herself if she didn’t.

“Where is the necessary?” she asked the innkeeper in an abrupt, commanding tone. He jerked his thumb toward the back and walked to the other end of the bar, obviously no longer considering her a worthwhile customer.