The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (13 page)

“I wasn’t disgusted.”

Alex snorted, a sound that was loud and quite odd in the small room. Douglas laughed.

“I had planned to wear Tom’s shirt until it rotted off me, if necessary.”

“I trust such a sacrifice won’t be necessary.”

“I hope so as well.” She nodded as she looked about the small room. It was cleaner than her bedchamber had been at Claybourn Hall, its furnishings sparse but well made and well tended. The cover on the bed was soft and pale blue and beautifully knitted.

She unfastened the belt at her waist, then began unrolling the homespun trousers. There were at least eight rolls, and despite everything, she was giggling by the time she was ready to pull them down. She realized then what she had done and where she was, and froze. “Tom is very tall but so skinny that they nearly fit me everywhere else.” She looked over at Douglas as she spoke. He had pulled the shirt over his head. His hands were on the waist buttons of the trousers. He looked at her when he heard the small gasp. He looked annoyed.

“For heaven’s sake,” he said, and pinched out the single candle. “I have no intention of shocking you the way you shocked me. Do women believe that men can’t be embarrassed when they play the seductress? No matter, I don’t want an answer from you. Unlike you, all my stripping will be done in the dark. Don’t squawk.”

When they were both lying on their backs, not two inches separating them, Alexandra said, “Tom didn’t seem at all surprised to see us.”

“Tom comes from a long line of phlegmatic O’Malleys. He’s a good man, though I don’t like taking his bed. He’s as tall as I am and the damned bed is too short. I shall have to see about a new one for him. It’s the least I can do.”

Douglas moved, cursed when his elbow bumped her head. “Damnation, woman, your hair is still wet. Do you want to die of a damned chill? Spread it on the pillow to dry.” He kept muttering about thoughtless, stupid women under his breath as Alex made a halo of her hair.

“You needn’t use your foul language with me.”

“Come, lie down and I’ll spread the hair away from your head. You haven’t done it right.”

She could feel his warm breath on her cheek, his long fingers stroking through her hair, pulling out the wet ripples as he fanned it out. “There,” he said, sounding bored. “Go to sleep now. I’m tired. You’ve quite exhausted me with your recklessness.”

What to do, Alex asked herself again and again, indeed, the question plagued her until she fell asleep beside her husband in the gamekeeper’s bed.

Douglas awoke feeling very hot and very aroused. His member was hard, uncomfortably so, and for an instant, he was disoriented. Never had he felt such intense desire, a desire so urgent, a desire that was pushing him, prodding at him, making him forget who he was, where he was. He realized that Alexandra’s cheek was pressed against his bare shoulder, her bare right leg was resting on his bare belly. The linen shirt she wore was up around her waist and he felt every exquisite female inch of her. He wanted to touch her breasts, to feel their texture, their softness. He saw her standing there beside his chair, naked, her arms at her sides, her hands fisted for she was set on her course, and he, well, he had humiliated her thoroughly.

It hadn’t been well done of him. But what was he to have done? To have taken what she offered would have admitted that he’d given in and accepted her,
that she’d won, that her damned father had won, and all because she’d stripped down to her lovely white skin and let him look at her? She’d offered herself to him. He cursed now but it didn’t help. His sex hurt, actually hurt with want. Well, why not? She was very nearly naked now, pressed up against him. Why shouldn’t he feel lust? He was a normal man, wasn’t he? He gave it up. None of it seemed to matter now. It was dark, they were alone, the rain was lashing heavily against the single windowpane and thudding loudly upon the roof. Everything that was real, everything that was solid, everything that mattered, everything that shrieked for decisions and consequences, was blessedly far away. It could all be ignored for a good long while.

He turned slightly toward her and his hand caressed her breast. She moaned. The low soft sound froze him, then made his heart pound frantically. He wanted to come inside her right this instant. Damn her, he hurt. He cursed again even as his hand cupped her, but only for a moment. He quickly unlaced the front of her shirt. He pulled it off her, shoving the shirt to her waist. Why didn’t she wake up? He could barely see her, but he knew her breasts were magnificent. He wanted to touch her now, kiss her now, taste her. He didn’t think, didn’t consider a single consequence of his actions, merely lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth. She tasted hot, so incredibly hot, and so sweet he couldn’t bear it. He was in a sorry state, and he knew it.

He raised his head a moment, and again she moaned and then moaned again, her head falling to the side. He kissed her throat, as his fingers caressed her breast. He wanted her mouth. He
wanted her to groan into his mouth, to fill him with the passion he was rousing in her. When his mouth closed over hers, he was aware again of the immense heat of her. So very hot she was, hot with passion, hot for him. Again she moaned.

He was nearly frantic now, his body surging, his sex swelled against her thigh. Why the hell didn’t she wake up? “Let me get this ridiculous shirt off you.” She moaned again and he paused, frowning down at her. Surely she should only moan if what he was doing to her made her feel passion.

“Alexandra,” he said softly, and lightly tapped his palm against her cheek. Heat.

For a moment he simply didn’t want to believe it. She moaned again, twisting away from him. Dear God, she wasn’t moaning because she wanted him; she wasn’t moaning to seduce him; she was moaning because she was burning with fever.

He felt like an animal; he felt guilty as hell, then he wanted to laugh at himself for his conceit. He shook his head, the seriousness of it washing over him. She was ill. She was very ill. He got hold of himself. His lust died a quick death. He saw then the many men bathed in fevers after battles. So many had died. Too many. But at least he knew what to do. It was still raining hard. There was no way to fetch a doctor. It was up to him. Douglas quickly rose and went into the front room.

“Tom,” he said quietly.

“Milord, there be a problem?”

“Aye, Her Ladyship is ill. I need you to make her some herbal tea and I’ll bathe her with cold water to bring down the fever. Have you any special potions that would help her?”

Tom had no potions, but he had his dear mother’s excellent herbal tea.

When Douglas returned to Alexandra, a lighted candle in his hand, he realized he hadn’t even noticed that during his conversation with Tom he’d been quite naked. He shook his head at himself, set the candle down on the small table next to the bed, and quickly pulled on Tom’s pants. He touched his palms to her cheeks, then to her shoulders. She was soaked with sweat. He pulled the damp linen shirt off her. Within moments Tom brought a bowl of cold water and a soft cloth.

Douglas straightened her arms and legs. He began methodically to wipe her down, long steady strokes from her face to her toes. When the cold wet cloth returned to her face, she tried to twist away, but he held her, saying quietly, “No, Alexandra. Hold still. You’re the one who is now ill. Hold still.”

She couldn’t understand him, he knew. He wiped her face, holding the cold cloth still for several moments. She turned her face against his palm, trying to burrow into the cloth.

“Yes, you’re hot, aren’t you? No, I won’t stop doing this, I promise. I know it must feel good. I know you’re burning up. Trust me in this, at least.” The cloth went down her throat to her shoulders. He lifted the cloth then and realized it was hot. The fever was heavy upon her.

He eased her onto her stomach. Again and again he stroked the cloth over her. He tried not to look at her, tried not to assess how he felt as he looked at her, tried not to acknowledge that his sex was swelled even though she was ill and not ready for him, that she probably wouldn’t want him even if she wasn’t ill.

“Alexandra,” he said. “Listen to me now. You’re ill but I fully intend that you get well and very quickly. Do you hear me? Stop this foolishness now. Open your eyes and look at me. Damn you, open your eyes!”

She did. She gazed up at him, her eyes clear. “Hello,” she said. “Does your head pain you, Douglas?”

“Who gives a damn about my head? How do you feel?”

“I hurt.”

“I know you do. Does this feel good?” He wiped the cloth over her breasts and down her belly.

“Oh yes,” she said, and closed her eyes.

Douglas continued until Tom knocked on the door with his mother’s special tea.

Douglas covered her and propped her up on the pillows. He sat beside her and held her up against his arm. “Wake up again, Alexandra. I want you to drink this tea. It’s important that you drink liquids or you’ll dry up and blow away. Come now, open your mouth.”

She did. She choked on the tea and he slowed it to a trickle. He was patient. She drank the entire cup. Then she moaned again. He laid her back down and began again to stroke the cloth over her body.

At the end of an hour, the fever was down. She soon began to tremble and shudder with cold.

Douglas didn’t hesitate. He crawled into bed with her and drew her against him. She sought him out then, trying to burrow inside him, her legs pushing against his, her face under his right arm. He smiled even as he tried to straighten her body. He was soon sweating but he didn’t pull away from her; he pulled her closer, trying to cover every inch of her. Odd that she was so hot yet felt so very cold inside.
This is very strange, Douglas thought as he leaned his cheek against the top of her head. Her hair, at least, was now dry. He was fully aware that she was his responsibility, fully aware that his hands were stroking up and down her back.

Damnation.

She moaned softly, her nose pressing against his rib, very close to his heart. He felt something altogether strange and unwelcome as her warm breath feathered against his skin.

He came awake when it was dawn, a gray dull dawn with the rain still pounding down, lessening but a little bit. He wouldn’t be able to take her back to the hall. A carriage couldn’t drive up to Tom’s front door and he couldn’t risk carrying her back to the road. She was too ill.

He forced more tea down her, cajoling her, threatening her, until the cup was empty. Tom left for the hall to get medicine from Mrs. Peacham and clothing for them both.

Douglas continued to hold her and wipe her with the wet cloth. Her fever rose and fell in cycles, endless cycles that scared him to death.

He was so scared he was praying.

He’d rather expected Mrs. Peacham to return with Tom, for she’d nursed all the Sherbrookes during his lifetime, but she didn’t. Only Finkle, his one-time batman and valet, came back with Tom. Finkle, fit and strong, just turned forty, and nearly as short as Alexandra, said without preamble, “The idiot doctor is in bed with a broken leg. I will assist you, my lord. I’ve brought all sorts of medicines. Her Ladyship will be well in a trice.”

Douglas tended her, alternately bullying her into drinking tea or eating Tom’s thick gruel, and
bathing her. Toward the end of one of the longest days of Douglas’s life, he knew she was going to live. He’d forgotten his own headache and was surprised to feel the lump over his left ear where he’d struck the rock when he’d fallen.

He stood over the bed, staring down at her, knowing that the fever had broken, knowing that if only she would try, she would get well.

“Don’t you dare give up now,” he told her. “I’ll thrash you but good if you dare to give up.”

She moaned softly and tried to turn on her side. He helped her, then nestled the blankets snugly against her.

“She’ll do,” Finkle said matter-of-factly from the doorway. “She’s got guts worthy of a Sherbrooke.”

Douglas walked to the door and quietly closed it after him. He turned to his valet. “Don’t give me any of your damned impertinence. She’s only a temporary Sherbrooke, only a Sherbrooke through guile and betrayal, and just because she’s ill, it doesn’t make her my wife by default.”

Finkle, in His Lordship’s service for eleven years, said, “You aren’t thinking clearly, my lord. She will live, thank the good beneficent being who dwells above us, and it is you who have saved her. Once you save a person’s life, you cannot discard the saved person like an old boot.”

“I can do whatever I wish to the damned deceitful chit. Do you so quickly forget what she and her father and my dear cousin Tony did?”

“Her sister, Lady Melissande, said her ladyship, the temporary one who lies here, was never ill. She said it was most likely a ruse to gain your sympathy, but that she said it was her duty to come and see for herself.”

“Oh God,” said Douglas, whipping around toward the door, as if expecting Melissande to appear at any instant.

“She’s not here, my lord.”

“How did you stop her?”

“I told her if Her Ladyship wasn’t pretending illness, it was very possible that she could catch the fever herself and that a fever immediately ruined a lady’s looks for the rest of her life. I told her a fever always left spots on a lady’s face.”

Douglas could only stare at his valet. “My God, that was well done of you.”