Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 01] (21 page)

"Send for Dr. Hastings!" she cried as she lifted his head and put the glass of laudanum-laced water to his parched lips. He managed to swallow some of the liquid. After a few minutes it seemed to ease some of the discomfort and he became quieter. Jane took the opportunity to change the bandage, noting with alarm that the edges of the wound looked even more red and inflamed.

The shirt he was wearing was soaked with sweat so she stripped it off. As she unfolded a fresh one she couldn't help but be aware of his broad, muscular chest, the chiseled contour of his stomach and the intriguing curls of dark hair, both across his breast and at his narrow hips, where they disappeared into the top of his breeches.

She had never seen a man so undressed before. There was a stirring deep inside at his rampant masculinity. Her hand lingered on his chest, brushing lightly over his undamaged ribs to the hollow of his stomach where it rested just for a moment. She found herself wondering what it would have been like if she had accepted his
carte blanche
. She could have been lying in these very sheets with his arms around her, his lean, hard body pressed tight to hers.

A part of her longed to experience the strength of his arms and the fire of his kisses. She thought back to his kiss. Yes, she wanted more. A deep sigh escaped her lips. But she wanted more than just his passion. She wanted his love.

Saybrook began talking in his sleep, mostly unintelligible mutterings but occasionally a discernable word.

"No!" A gasp. "You mustn't!"

Jane touched his cheek. "It's alright, sir," she whispered.

"Father!" he groaned. "No!" He began tossing so violently that she could hardly hold his shoulders down. "No! No!" Then quite softly, "Jane."

"I'm here, sir. I won't leave you."

The tension seemed to drain from his body and he fell into a fitful sleep.

Dr. Hastings finally arrived. After a quick examination, he rose, shaking his head slightly. "It is as I feared. The fever has taken hold and we can only hope that his constitution proves strong enough to weather it." He looked at the frightened faces of Jane and Mrs. Fairchild as he reached into his bag and took out a bottle of medicine. "You must try to get him to swallow a dose of this every two hours. It is of utmost importance. Now shall I send a woman from the village?"

Jane shook her head doggedly.

The doctor regarded the dark circles under her eyes, then the determined thrust of her jaw. "Very well, then. I shall call again in the morning."

* * *

Jane sat upright in the chair, rubbing the sleep—what little there had been—from her eyes. The fever had been going on for over two days. At times it raged, forcing her to call for assistance in holding the writhing marquess to his bed. Then there were periods when it seemed to slacken, allowing him some fitful rest. She had managed to get the medicine down him, but she was beginning to doubt its efficacy. With each visit, the doctor merely pursed his lips and muttered that they must wait, that the climax would come soon when the fever either broke or...

Jane splashed some water on her drawn face. She was tired of waiting. She felt so helpless watching him suffer so. Perhaps Dr. Hastings wasn't as skilled as they thought. Perhaps they should send to London for a specialist? A quick glance towards the bed showed that Saybrook's face was more pallid than ever, and he seemed smaller, as if his ravaged body were wasting away in front of her. At least, for the moment, he was resting quietly.

"Miss Jane!" Mary hurried into the room. "It's Master Peter! He's opened his eyes. And he spoke! He asked for you."

Jane rushed to the boy's chamber.

"Miss Jane, I'm thirsty." He tried to throw his arms around her neck. "Oh! And my arm hurts!"

"Yes, I know, love," she soothed, as she settled the broken limb. "You've been a very brave boy but now you must keep still so your arm can mend." She motioned for Mary to pour a glass of water, then added three drops of laudanum as Dr. Hastings had advised. "Now drink this and you'll feel better."

Peter took a sip and made a face. "It tastes awful. I don't want it."

"Your uncle has to drink it too, and he doesn't complain." Jane decided a half lie wouldn't hurt.

The boy looked at the glass for a moment, then swallowed the rest without further complaint. "Uncle Edward was coming to get me, wasn't he? I don't remember anything more. What happened after that?"

"Yes, he was. He saved you from the bull, but not before it knocked you down."

"Did the bull knock Uncle Edward down too?"

"Yes."

"Did it break his arm?"

"No, but its horn wounded him in the side."

The boy's lower lip trembled. "Will he be alright?"

Jane forced a smile. "Yes, I'm sure he will."

Peter hung his head. "Are you very angry with me?" he asked in a tremulous voice. "I know what I did was wrong."

Jane pulled him close. "Little lambkin, I'm not angry—I'm very happy that you are alright."

He snuggled closer to her. For a few moments she sat silent, stroking his hair. Then she sent Mary to the kitchen for a bowl of porridge. Peter managed to eat half of it before his eyes began to droop—the laudanum was taking effect. Jane tucked the covers around him, took the candle from the night table and motioned the maid to follow her into the hall.

"I don't think it's necessary to sit up with him anymore," she told the tired girl." I shall check on him throughout the night—it is night, isn't it?"

"It's past ten in the evening, But Miss, surely you should be getting some sleep, too. We're all afraid you are wearing yourself to the bone. You've not had a proper rest in ages."

"Yes, I will, thank you." She cut off the girl's protests. "You may bring some breakfast for Peter in the morning and perhaps then I will lie down for a bit."

"Well, if you're sure..."

"Good night, Mary."

Jane returned to Saybrook's room. His condition had not changed. His breathing was harsh and ragged. When she felt his forehead, it was still hot, but it did seem that the fever had abated slightly. She hoped it wasn't just her imagination.

She placed the candle down and picked up the book she had reading at odd moments throughout the past few days. How she would manage to keep her eyes open was beyond her, but she must. She opened the slim volume to where her marker lay. It was one of her favorite works, Byron's
The Corsair
. Saybrook had teased her about her liking for Lord Byron, she remembered with a tiny smile. She shot a glance at his chiseled features and watched how the candlelight flickered off the high cheekbones, straight nose and sensuous lips. She forced her eyes back to the page and let the romantic poetry overwhelm her thoughts.

It was well past midnight when she put the slim leather-bound book aside and rose stiffly from the chair. Every bone ached with weariness and she looked at the large shadowed bed with longing. Rubbing at her temples, it took her a few moments to realize that something seemed different. Saybrook's sleep suddenly sounded more restful, his breathing more normal. A touch to his brow confirmed that the fever had indeed gone.

"Thank God," she whispered to herself as her eyes brimmed with tears of gratitude. Her hand slipped down to his and squeezed it gently. It was more than a few minutes before she could bring herself to move from his side. Soon she would not be needed in the sickroom. Then what? It did not bear thinking about in her tired state. Taking up her candle, she went to look in on Peter.

The boy was sleeping peacefully, helped, no doubt, by the influence of the laudanum, There was little for her to do, but she was loath to return to Saybrook's room just yet. A small pile of freshly laundered shirts lay on the mahogany dresser in the far corner of the room. Mary must have forgotten them, so Jane moved to put them away in one of the drawers.

The flicker of another candle caught her eye. She turned, expecting Mrs. Fairchild but instead, the figure of the marquess appeared in the doorway. He looked every bit as piratical as the hero in the epic poem she had been reading. His long hair was tangled, a dark stubble covered his chin and his linen shirt hung half-open, revealing his bare chest. The fever had left hollows under his cheeks and though his eyes appeared sunken, they were as green as ever. He seemed unaware of her presence. With slow, shuffling steps he moved towards Peter.

Jane almost spoke out, but something held her back. She watched as Saybrook slowly sat on the edge of the bed. His hand ran lightly over Peter's cheek, then he gathered the boy in his arms, taking great care not to jostle the splint, and hugged him tight to his chest. He remained holding the boy in an embrace for some time. Then, brushing a kiss to the boy's forehead, he lay Peter back down and made to rise.

The effort caused his lips to compress with pain. His hand gripped one of the bedposts as he stood unsteadily on his feet.

"Miss Langley," he whispered hoarsely, not turning to look at her. "I regret that I must ask what is no doubt an odious task of you—but without your assistance I fear I shall not be able to return to my chamber."

Jane wiped away the tears the poignant scene had brought to her eyes and moved quietly to his side. "Steady, sir. If you just put your arm around my shoulder...." She in turn slipped hers around his waist. "Now, rest some of your weight on me."

In that manner they were able to slowly cross the hall. With a repressed groan, Saybrook sank onto his bed. His shirt was damp from the effort.

"Please, sir, you must not try to walk yet or you'll bring back the fever," she said as she helped lift his legs onto the bed and pulled the coverlet over them. "You have been very ill."

"Peter—how is Peter?"

"He is going to fine."

Saybrook let out his breath. "And how long have I been unconscious?"

"Over three days."

"Three days," he muttered. "I...." He turned his head and, for the first time, took in her rumpled clothes and drawn face. "Surely Hastings could have hired a nurse," he exclaimed. "It is not right that you have been forced..." He let out an involuntary gasp as Jane felt at his wound.

"The dressing must be changed, sir. If you will just lie still."

Saybrook fell silent. By the clenching of his jaw, Jane could see he was in terrible pain. Hurriedly she cut away the linen bandage and applied the salve as gently as she could. Even so, she could hear a sharp intake of breath.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

To rewrap the bandage she had to reach around his back, bringing her own body so close to his that she could feel its heat, feel his breath on her cheek. It was all she could do to keep from imitating his own gesture towards Peter.

A small groan escaped his lips.

"Are you in terrible pain, my lord?" She reached for the glass on the night table. "You must try to drink some of this."

His eyes had been closed. At her words they opened slowly and Jane saw they were a bit glazed. He gave a short, bitter laugh. She feared he was slipping back into delirium.

"In pain, my dear Miss Langley? Shall I tell you what pain is?"

She pressed the glass to his lips and was relieved to see he took a few swallows before continuing.

"My mother died when I was fourteen. She had encouraged my interests in the piano and drawing against my father's grumbling that it wasn't manly. After she was gone, he became determined to change me—perhaps in looking back now, I see it was because I reminded him too much of her, for indeed he did at least love her. She was a remarkable lady. Beautiful, witty, intelligent and strong enough to moderate my father's rash temper. On her death, he became... angry. With the world, with me."

Saybrook stopped to take a few breaths. He seemed to have forgotten Jane's presence. His eyes had closed again, and it was as if he were speaking to himself as he continued on in barely a whisper.

"My sister was a number of years older than I and had already married and moved to Yorkshire, so I was the only one at home. I begged him to send me away to school, but he refused, saying he would make a man of me before he allowed me to disgrace the family name."

"I learned to ride and hunt and manage the estate well, but I also learned to hate my father. He had become a hard, unforgiving man. If he caught me playing the piano, or with a sketchpad or a book he would beat me."

"Naturally I took to avoiding his presence. I found solace elsewhere." Saybrook's lips compressed. There was such a long silence that Jane feared he had dropped into unconsciousness. But after a heavy sigh, he went on. "There was a tenant family whose daughter had been allowed to get some schooling in the village. We were of the same age, and during my rides around the estate we chanced to talk a few times. I discovered that she loved books, too, and hungered to learn more. I took to lending her some. Then we began to meet—to read, to talk. Her name was Elizabeth. We became... friends."

"When my father finally realized he could not beat me into submission, he relented and allowed me to go up to Oxford. It was like a whole new world had opened up for me. I reviled in the studying and had no interest in going with my peers to London to cut a swath in Society. I fear I was rather serious—and rather naive."

"I spent my free time back here, to be Elizabeth. I was so young in many ways—she was the only person who seemed to understand me. We believed we were in love. I wanted to marry her."