When We Touch (19 page)

“Now, Maggie, come to me . . . walk . . . walk, and do what I tell you as you walk. . . .”

In two seconds, she would scream and say no, and he could divorce her, annul the marriage—shoot her!—for all she cared. She couldn't bear this. If only . . . if only he had allowed her to douse the lights, crawled in beside her . . .

God, dear God! She was suddenly desperate to . . . just die! Sink into the floor. Whatever she had done, surely she hadn't deserved this. God, sweet Jesu, sweet Mary! She prayed for deliverance, for salvation, to drop into a dead faint, and never awaken.

“Maggie!”

She reached the bed.

He reached up for her.

Then . . .

She heard a choking sound. And he was frozen there, an arm reaching out to her, his eyes bugging in his head.

“Charles!” she gasped.

The choking continued. But he didn't move. His one hand remained outstretched. His face was growing. . . mottled.

“Charles!” she cried.

He fell back.

“Charles?”

His eyes were closed. He was still. Completely still.

Dead still.

“Charles?”

She touched his face, his throat, and began seeking a pulse. There was none.

Her heart thundered. Naked, pale, ashen, withered . . . he lay on the bed. Dead still.

Dead?

No, he couldn't be!

Hysteria bubbled within her.

Maggie began to scream.

She had prayed for deliverance, salvation.

And in the most ironic way, it seemed that God had answered her prayers.

Chapter 9

Jamie would not have been at his great uncle's house at all, if it hadn't been for Arianna.

He'd been stunned to find his young cousin returning discreetly to the house from some sojourn, exiting a cab at the end of the long drive rather than allowing it to come all way to the house.

And the young lady, usually attired in a most attractive and fashionable manner, was decked out in the very simple manner of a serving maid or common lass, a plain gray bonnet covering her rich dark hair, a drab, matching shawl her only protection from the cold.

He'd been on his way out when he'd seen the cab stop, and naturally, had discreetly asked his coachman to stop so that he could watch his young cousin.

Telling Randolph to let him out and settle in for the time being, Jamie left the coach, and waited, his presence hidden by the thick cluster of trees and bushes that lined the drive. When Arianna walked past him, he stepped out to confront her.

She let out a bloodcurdling scream, her hand flying to her throat.

“It's me, Jamie,” he told her quickly.

“Jamie! You very nearly gave me heart failure!” she told him.

“As well you might have deserved,” Jamie said sternly. “You disappointed your father deeply by not attending the wedding. And now I find you . . . God alone knows what I've found you doing.”

“Nothing!” she protested.

“Ah, yes, this would be your usual attire.”

She flushed. “I did nothing. Except set out to explore a bit of London. I've been away a long time, you know.”

“Not so long that you're not aware that the streets can be dangerous.”

She waved a hand in the air. “Don't be ridiculous. I didn't go anywhere I shouldn't have been. I took in some air. I wandered a few shops. Many are open quite late, you know.”

“Your father would be furious.”

“If he knew,” she said sharply, staring at him. “Jamie! There are so many people out and about, I was in no danger. I wandered the streets around Covent Gardens, and that is all. I stopped by a silversmith's, a bakery . . . I sat and had tea. And that is all. Oh, come, Jamie, many young women of great respectability shop alone!”

“Not at night.”

“I had a right to be out, and that's that. I don't care what you want to say to me, what my father did was disgusting.”

“I'm not going to discuss that with you right now. Go on in, before he discovers that you're still out somewhere.”

“Jamie—”

“We'll talk tomorrow.”

And so, Arianna had gone in, and though Moorhaven had been the last place on earth he'd wanted to be at that time, he'd followed her slowly back. Randolph had been with Darby in the kitchen, playing gin, the last of the reception debris had been cleared away, and the house was very quiet.

He'd decided to have a last brandy and cigar in the now empty grand salon. Staring into the low burning embers, he'd let his mind wander to his uncle's master room atop the stairs, and despite himself, there had been tremendous bitterness in his heart. He was worried about Arianna, and equally anxious that he get away—really away—himself. But how to do so when the girl was in such a rebellious mood she might well do some serious harm to herself?

That was when he heard the scream.

First, he thought that it was Arianna again, startled by a servant, perhaps—or just determined on causing mischief. But still, he moved to the stairs, and when the sound came again, he sped up to the landing and realized that the sound was coming from his uncle's chambers.

He burst into the room.

It was Maggie doing the screaming, and she seemed to be in shock. Naked, hair a sea of gold around her face and shoulders, she stood, just feet from the bed, staring at it, screaming.

Charles was flat out, looking pale and pathetic, nude, wrinkled, and flaccid.

Jamie heard footsteps coming along the hall as others of the household hurried to find the source of the chilling alarm. He quickly caught up his uncle's smoking jacket, slipping it around Maggie's shoulders, and drew the sheets over his uncle's prone body.

Maggie was still screaming. He slapped her. Wide-eyed, she stared at him with no recognition, her hand slowly moving to her cheek. She nearly lost the smoking jacket.

“Maggie!” He caught her shoulders, shaking her.

“Get your arms into that!” he commanded her, but it didn't seem she was capable of moving. “Maggie!”

At last, and by rote, she began to slip into the garment. He hurried to the bed, checking for a pulse at Charles's throat.

Faint . . . but there.

Darby, Randolph behind him, came flying into the room. “What happened, sir?” Darby cried in distress.

“Maggie?” Jamie said, looking at her. She was shaking so violently now that it was amazing she was still standing.

She shook her head. Giant tears welled in her eyes. “He . . . he . . . he just . . . he just . . . one minute . . . then the next . . .”

“His heart,” Randolph suggested sharply.

Mrs. Whitley, in a robe, her gray hair hanging down her back in a long braid, made the next appearance, just as Jamie was saying, “Randolph, ride for his doctor, quickly, please.”

“Sir William Gull! The Queen's own physician will see him,” Mrs. Whitley said.

“Randolph, go for Dr. Mayer,” Jamie said.

“The Queen's physician will see him! Sir William Gull saved the life of the Prince once; he is excellent—”

“He is seventy and has had a stroke himself!” Jamie said irritably, then swore and added, “Randolph, go for Dr. Mayer. Darby, ride for Sir William Gull.”

The two coachmen left. Mrs. Whitley quickly came to Charles's bedside, straightening the sheets, checking for a pulse, as well. From the corner of her eyes, she covertly stared at her employer's new lady bride. There was venom in that look.

“We'll see that you're tended, dear Lord Charles!” Mrs. Whitley said. “Protected, aye, we'll see to it!” she murmured.

That, apparently, sank through to Maggie's mind. And it was as if a sudden fury awakened her, as if something actually snapped in her mind. She strode to the bed. “Mrs. Whitley, just exactly what are you insinuating?”

“Nothing, madam, nothing,” Mrs. Whitley said, her eyes falling. “I'll get his daughter, Sir James.”

“No,” Jamie said. “Let the doctors come. There is no reason to disturb Arianna right now. Perhaps you could get some cool cloths, and we'll soothe his forehead. And Mrs. Whitley, a brandy, please.”

“Do you think he can drink a brandy?” Mrs. Whitley asked skeptically.

“The brandy is for Lady Langdon,” he said.

Mrs. Whitley stiffened and pursed her lips, and appeared loathe to leave the room.

“Mrs. Whitley, if you will?” Jamie persisted.

The woman left the room. Maggie didn't look at Jamie, but lowered herself to the bed by Charles. “He was fine,” she whispered. “More than fine,” and that sounded a little bitter. “Frisky, one might say. And then . . .”

“I believe it's his heart,” Jamie said.

“Can't you do anything?” she whispered.

“I'm not a physician. I can tie a tourniquet, remove a bullet, and manage a few stitches on a battlefield, but as to matters such as this . . .”

“What can we do?”

“Wait.”

She swallowed hard. He had never seen her in such a state of agitation and distress, so . . . lost.

But then again, he'd never seen her in a circumstance such as this. And still, she was customarily such a determined young woman, composed—hardened by the world, somewhat, one might have said.

Tonight . . . she looked young. Young and lost and . . . frightened. The smoking jacket left a deep V upon the ivory expanse of her flesh, nestling deeply between her breasts. The red-gold mass of her hair, streaming down her back in a wild cascade, was all too familiar. So were those eyes, cobalt blue and wide as they met his.

He wanted so badly to hate her. His beloved kinsman was at death's door. And it was quite possible that she had, inadvertently, brought this about. Charles might well be lost to them. And yet . . .
if so, it had been Charles's hunger that had brought him to this state.

That thought was disloyal.

Yet true.

And try as he might, no matter what emotion brewed in his heart regarding Charles, he knew that she had done nothing to purposely bring this on.

She started to tremble again. “She thinks . . . Mrs. Whitley . . . thinks that I did something to him!” She was both outraged, and like a child, scared.

“It's his heart, Maggie. The doctors will tell them that.”

She buried her face in her hands. “Maybe I did do this . . . but . . . but . . . he . . . oh, God! I might have done it, but he . . . oh, God!”

Jamie loved Charles. He had done so all his life, and with all of his being. But he understood exactly what had happened.

Charles had gotten what he wanted. And it had been too much.

Mrs. Whitley returned with two snifters of brandy. She was too good a housekeeper to blatantly state her disapproval of the new Lady Langdon, but it was evident. Jamie ignored her, steered Maggie to a wing-backed chair by the hearth, and forced a snifter into her hands. “Drink it.”

Mrs. Whitley was back at the bedside. A tremendous sob shook her frame.

“Mrs. Whitley, the doctors are coming. Cold cloths might well soothe his forehead.”

“Aye, yes, yes, yes!”

And she was gone again, returning shortly. Maggie looked like a statue, a wax figurine, holding the snifter in her hands, staring at Charles, not moving. Mrs. Whitley returned with the cold cloths. He began to administer them to his uncle's forehead.

At last, Randolph returned with Dr. Mayer. Approximately thirty-five, Mayer had studied at the best schools in London, and in the United States. He was not the Queen's Royal Physician; he was far superior, Jamie thought.

Mayer entered the room with his black bag in hand, gazing at Maggie in the chair, and surely, despite himself and his total professionalism, pausing for a moment. Jamie was up, walking across the room to greet him quickly.

“Can you tell me the circumstances, please?” Mayer asked, striding to the bedside, searching out a pulse, then opening his patient's closed lids to study the eyes beneath.

“He was married today,” Jamie said.

“Yes, of course . . . I've heard,” Mayer murmured, then glanced at Jamie. “Sorry . . . there has been talk around the city.”

Jamie gazed at Maggie again. “Forgive my manners. Dr. Mayer, the new Lady Langdon.”

“Lady Langdon,” Mayer said politely. He sighed, looking from his patient to Jamie, and then Maggie. “I don't mean to be indelicate here, but . . .”

Maggie swallowed hard, closing her eyes for a moment, then looking at Mayer. “We had retired for the evening. He was fine, talking . . .” Her cheeks colored a bloodred shade of crimson. “Preparing for . . . bed. And then . . . he just . . . went out.”

Mayer nodded, and turned back to his patient, administering all that he could. He produced a syringe of something, and gave Charles a shot, then waited.

A moment later, another man entered the room.

Sir William Gull.

He was adored by the Queen because, once, years before, in 1871, he was credited with saving the Prince of Wales when he was stricken with typhoid fever. But many years had passed since then. Gull was old. And he was slow on the one side, and a certain contortion now marred his features. He, like Maggie, lived in London's very exclusive Mayfair section, and it was reported that he was worth a small fortune through his association with the Queen. To his credit, he was loyal to Victoria to a fault, and surely, would have died on her behalf, if ever so required.

Right now, he appeared totally indignant that another physician was already in the room.

“What is happening here?” he demanded, and sounded entirely autocratic.

“Heart attack, I'm afraid,” Dr. Mayer said.

Gull glared at the man, who stepped back as he came forward. Mayer informed Gull of his findings, of his treatment.

Gull listened, irritated, the one side of his face seeming to take on a sinister sneer.

“You could not await my arrival?” Gull said to Jamie.

“My uncle's condition seems dire, sir. I sent both men out for the sake of expediency.”

Now Gull turned and glared at Maggie. “Precisely what was happening when this occurred?”

She glared back at Gull. Jamie was pleased to see the temper and spirit that seemed to see her through most events leap to the fore. “We were just married this afternoon, Sir William.”

“You are saying that . . . ?”

“Good God!” Jamie found himself exploding. “Yes, he was in a state of sexual excitement!”

Once again, Maggie reddened. She didn't dispute his words, nor did she elaborate on them.

“All of you, out!” Sir William said. “I will now see to the patient alone!”

Jamie was not about to be pushed about by the man. He approached Dr. Mayer, though. “Perhaps you could see to Lady Langdon. I believe she might require a sedative. I intend to stay with my uncle.”

Sir William glared at him.

“Are you suggesting, sir, that I need assistance?” Gull was outraged.

“Never, Sir William,” Jamie assured him. “It's just that this man is very near to being a father to me, and I would not leave him now.”

“I'm . . . I'm his wife,” Maggie said, her voice one of quiet steel.