Kiss the Earl (15 page)

“I cannot leave her until she is well,” Patrick said, looking down at Ella. Her chest rose and fell a little more evenly, he thought. Perhaps she was resting better now. He hoped so. “But I must discover what has befallen Amelia as well. She is not at Brown Hall, and Baron Brownstone has already sent men to find me here. Can I count on you to visit George Harrods, the vicar in Cromer, tomorrow? If anyone knows Amelia's whereabouts, it will be he.”

Iain nodded. “Of course. I shall visit the vicar, and you shall play the physician for Miss Briley.” Gripping the door's handle, Iain sobered. “She is very ill, you know.”

“I know,” Patrick whispered, smoothing the hair from her forehead. “But I promised I would help her. I cannot break that vow.”

The door slowly closed behind Iain, leaving Patrick alone with Ella.

He thought he saw her eyelids flutter for a moment, but all too quickly, she was still again.

“I will help you,” he said again, running a finger along her soft cheek. “I may not have the power of magic on my side, but I do have determination. You will be better. I demand it.”

He just hoped she was listening.

Ella was floating somewhere in the dark. She blinked, but there wasn't any light anywhere that she could see. Something hurt, and it was hot, kind of like that kerosene heater in her grandmother's house, but that was years ago. Her grandmother had passed away, but that was years ago too. Her mom had cried, and Ella had worn her Darth Vader pajamas to bed that night, using the hem of the black T-shirt to dry her tears.

She wore them to a sleepover once, and a girl had sneered, said that they were “for boys.” Ella didn't care. She wore them every night until they got too small for her.

Words came from somewhere, and Ella strained to hear them.

“…how do you know the vicar is gone?”

“I spoke with the verger. He said that George Harrods left a week ago.”

“And he had no idea where the man had gone?”

Ella frowned. Who was George? Why did they care that he was gone? She hurt—oh God, her foot was on fire. She opened her mouth, wishing she could yell.

“Ella? Ella, love, can you hear me?”

She wanted to open her eyes, to see the man who was talking, but she couldn't do it. She could see his face in her mind's eye, though. He was handsomer than Henry Cavill, and he was so noble. But funny and witty, and he'd bandaged her foot. While she was on a horse named after breakfast? God, why were things so confusing?

“Try and drink some of this tea. You'll feel better.”

Warm porcelain touched her lips, and lukewarm liquid streamed into her mouth. Ugh, it tasted like muddy water. But she swallowed obediently, mostly because her mouth and throat were so dry. It was like the Sahara in there.

Was she in the hospital again? They'd said after her gallbladder surgery that she was fine; they'd just kept her for observation. She'd hurt like this then, but it had been fine.

When the cup was drained, Ella closed her mouth. She wished she could open her eyes, but they were so heavy.

“I'll track him as far as I can and send word to you.”

That voice was familiar too—a player, the kind of guy who knew his way around women and didn't mind charming the panties off them. Ella liked him, but not like Patrick.

Patrick!

She yanked her lids open, and they scraped like sandpaper. She couldn't see a thing—there was a weird, clingy film over her eyeballs. So she blinked and blinked again, until they were clear.

“Patrick?” Her voice was a croak.

A motion by the bedside table caught her attention, and she looked toward it. There he was, looking like hell warmed over. His fancy clothes were wrinkled, his hair was disheveled, and his shirt was open at the throat.

He was beautiful.

“Ella, you're awake!” He rushed to her, grabbed her hand in both of his, and brought it to his lips.

“Sort of,” she said, letting her eyelids slide closed again. When had holding them open become so hard to do? “Want to go ho-home.”

He was quiet, and she forced herself to open her eyes again. Had she dreamed him? Was he even there? But he was, the corners of his mouth drawn down in worry as he stared into her face.

“I know, and I shall help you get there. As soon as you are better, we shall find a way for you to escape my world, and you'll never have to see it again.”

“N-no,” Ella said, frustration bleeding through her. It was so hard to make words! It was almost like her mouth was filled with marbles or something. Just moving her lips took more energy than she had, but she had to try. He didn't understand.

“Hospital. Need to…go to a…hospital. Home.” Her lungs squeezed, and she coughed.

“Shhh,” he said, dropping her hand and standing. “Don't try to talk now.”

Don't go,
she wanted to scream.
Come
back! Hold my hand! Don't leave me alone!

Her lids fell closed, and hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She hadn't realized exactly how alone she'd felt. Back home, she buried herself in make-believe, drawing fantastic worlds and imagining magical things, but none of it was real. Her parents loved her, but they'd never been close, and she lived two states away from them now. Ella had friends, but they had their own lives. She'd been lonely for a long time, but she didn't want to be. Not anymore.

“Please,” she whispered, finding the strength to fuel the words somewhere deep inside. “Patrick…”

“I am here. Have some more tea.”

The cup was at her lips again, and she'd never been gladder to drink mud in her life. Not because it felt good, but because he was there giving it to her.

She drank it all and sighed. It was too hard to open her eyes again. She'd sleep, and Patrick would be there with her.

His large hand lay across her forehead, then slipped down to cup her cheek. The corner of her mouth lifted, and she gave in to oblivion for a while.

* * *

But when she woke, she was on fire. Sweat beaded her lip, and she thrashed against the pain. It was burning her alive; she was melting like a crayon in an oven. Something had to give or she'd just burn up…

A cool, wet cloth ran its way across her chest, and she moaned in sheer pleasure.

“Easy, angel,” he said, moving the cloth upward to her neck. “Does that not feel nice?”

The cloth disappeared, and she almost cried, but then it came back, cooler than before. It wiped the sweat from her face, leaving a damp trail across her shoulders, down her belly, across her breasts.

Several long minutes later, after the cloth had been dipped for the fourth time, she opened her eyes.

“Patrick, I don't want to die.”

He stopped, the cloth on her chest, and looked her straight in the eye. “You will not.”

“I might,” she said as he resumed bathing her with the wet cloth. “You know I might.”

“I will not let you.” His words were lined with desperation and determination in equal parts. “I will not let you die, Ella.”

She looked at him, and for the first time, she really, truly saw the man inside. He hadn't left her. She'd been a crazy inconvenience to him, somebody he didn't know at all, but he'd saved her, time and time again. And here he was, trying like hell to keep her fever down, and she knew, right then, what she wanted.

“Kiss me, Patrick.”

“What?”

The desperate plea came natural as breathing. “Kiss me. If I'm going to die, I want to do it with your kiss on my lips.”

“You are not going to die,” he whispered, but he leaned close to her mouth anyway.

“Then kiss me to help me live,” she whispered back, and with a low groan of defeat, he closed the rest of the distance between them.

Even though fever still ravaged her body, his lips were warm, strong as they moved gently over hers. His hands cupped her cheeks, and she wished she could wrap her arms around his back and hold him close, but she was too weak.

Her skin tingled as his hands ran down to her shoulders, scooping beneath her to lift her up to his kiss. He tasted so good, like strength and peace and direction—things she hadn't ever had before she met him.

When he lay her back down on the pillows, his eyes glittering down at her in the candlelight, she knew that if she died right that moment, she'd be happy.

For once.

* * *

He did not know what madness possessed him, but he did know that he did not want to be loosed from its grip.

She'd been so ill for the last days, he'd thought she would surely dry out and float away, like a dead leaf. He'd only managed to get small sips of tea and broth down her throat, but now, with her looking up at him, her lips swollen and eyes bright, he dared to believe what he told her.

“You are better than you were, and you will continue to improve every day. I swear it to you.” He rested his forehead against hers, relief sapping the strength from his limbs. “You will be home before you know it.”

“Kiss me again,” she whispered, and he complied. Gently, but the passion was still there. He could not deny his body's reaction to her. She was soft, willing, beautiful, and kind. He wanted her, but he tried to keep that from her with his soft kiss.

After all, she was going home. And that was something he must give her. He'd promised. So this kiss would have to last forever, for there would be no others.

Her mouth opened beneath his, and he groaned softly as her tongue ran across his lower lip. He tasted her, and she him, a sweet giving and taking that was not nearly enough to suit him.

Though it pained him, he raised his head.

“You must rest, Ella.”

She gave a halfhearted nod, her eyes already drifting closed. He felt her forehead, relieved beyond measure to note how much cooler her skin felt than before.

“Sleep now,” he said. “I shall be here when you wake.”

He stood as her breathing evened, looking down on her for several moments. It was late, the sun having long since disappeared beyond the horizon, but he'd not left her side. And nor would he, not until she was stronger. As soon as he could manage it, Ella would return to her own life. He must remember that and act accordingly. She was his patient, nothing more.

A timid knock at the door came then, and he turned.

“Enter.”

Mrs. Templeton appeared, a soft smile on her face.

“Your lordship, I brought you a supper tray, since you did not come down.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Templeton,” Patrick said as the housekeeper set the covered tray down on the table by the fire.

“How is the young miss?” Mrs. Templeton nodded toward the bed.

“Improving, thank the good Lord.” Patrick raked a hand through his hair. “I was beginning to doubt my own judgment in not allowing that disgrace of a doctor to touch her, but it seems that for now, she is fighting the sickness and winning.”

His housekeeper smiled, her lined face wrinkling further with the expression. “That is wonderful news, my lord. Now you must eat and keep your own strength up, the better to care for her.”

A wry half grin escaped Patrick and he followed Mrs. Templeton's directions, seating himself at the table. “Thank you. Please tell Cook that this meal looks wonderful. I am sorry that I did not partake of it at table.”

“Do not worry yourself, my lord. Sir Iain took it upon himself to eat more than his fair share to soothe Cook's feelings.”

Her words jerked Patrick's gaze from the food in front of him. “Iain has returned?”

“Oh yes, my lord. He arrived almost three hours ago.”

Patrick dropped the linen napkin atop the table as he pushed his chair back. “I must speak with him. There is something I need him to do.”

“Please, sit and eat, my lord. I shall ask him to come up, if you wish.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Templeton.” Patrick sat back down. “I would appreciate if he would attend me directly.”

The housekeeper nodded, bobbed a curtsy, and disappeared out the door.

Keeping an eye on Ella the whole time, Patrick made short work of the roasted beef and ragout of vegetables. He was just finishing the sweet pudding when Iain, hair blacker than sin and grin twice as devilish, appeared.

“So, you think to enjoy my table without even paying your respects to the host?”

Iain didn't blink an eye at Patrick's jibe. He sauntered into the room and sank into the overstuffed armchair by the fire.

“Since I have been bent upon your errands for the better part of a week now, I thought a meal or two was my due.” He leaned over and stuck his finger into Patrick's custard, narrowly avoiding being jabbed by a fork. “Besides, you were otherwise occupied, or I should have dined with you.” Iain nodded toward the bed. “Mrs. Templeton says she is improving?”

Patrick nodded, shoving the remains of his now-defiled pudding to the middle of the table. “She is very weak, but she spoke with me tonight. Which is part of the reason I needed to speak to you.”

Iain crooked a brow at Patrick, who had turned his chair and was staring very intently at his cousin.

“She wants to return home, and I am bound to assist her.”

“And Amelia?”

Patrick frowned, the reminder of his other troubles rather unwelcome at this particular juncture. “Have you any news of her or the vicar's whereabouts?”

“I returned to Town, as you asked, and there I spoke with several members of society. No one has heard where she has gone, but the rumor mill is already abuzz. Since you disappeared at the same time, the betting books at White's have gone mad with wagers that the two of you are wed, or about to be.”

It was no more than Patrick had expected, but the confirmation was not exactly welcome.

“Did you speak with the Brownstone staff?”

Iain shook his head. “I tried, but you know the servant class. As soon as they got wind that I was not one of their own, they clammed up tight. Not a word would they speak.”

“Damn.” Patrick looked at Ella, who'd shifted a bit in her sleep. Finally, that little furrow in her brow had eased. She was improving, but not fast enough to suit him. Perhaps he would ask Cook to make her a thicker soup for tomorrow. If she could remain awake long enough, surely her body needed nourishment to—

“Patrick, I asked you what you would like me to do.”

Patrick jumped, startled, and turned back to his cousin. Iain had the grace to try to hide his amusement, at least, but the corners of his mouth still turned up in mirth.

“I take it back. You are not somber and maudlin anymore.”

“Am I not?” Patrick crooked a brow at his cousin. “That was always what you claimed.”

“Now you are a love-struck fool. The difference is appreciable, although I do not know if the outcome will be any less boring.”

Patrick shook his head vehemently. “You are wrong; I am not in love.”

“Are you not?” Iain held up a hand when Patrick started to make a fist. “No, no, do not plant me a facer. I do not deserve it, especially since I am willing to go to whatever corner of the globe you wish to send me to.”