The Wrong Woman (17 page)

He must walk away from her, must move to where he would not harm her. The anger was too much for him. He paced the room, running his hands over and over again through his hair. Every time he looked back at her, the anger would well up again. He did not trust himself.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, the anger was gone. In its place, Miles felt only exhaustion and defeat. He picked up the cup, thankfully in one piece, still on the floor where he had thrown it, and quietly returned to her side. He poured out the last liquid in the teapot.

Miles sat again on the bed and gently slipped his arm under her neck.

“Isobel,” he leaned close to her ear and whispered her name. “Isobel, do this for me.”

Still she would not. With gentle persistence, he tried again and again until the last drop had run down her chin. Miles placed the cup back on the side table. He looked down at her, so helpless.

Miles took his sleeve and gently wiped away the drops of tea that had fallen down her chin. He closed his eyes, hoping the emotions welling up inside of him would go away.

But they didn't. Even with his eyelids closed, Miles felt hot tears begin to roll down his face.

He drew her head close to his heart and began to speak of all the things he'd kept packed away for so long.

“Isobel,” he began quietly. “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.” He had to stop speaking for a moment as emotion overcame him. “I don't know why this happened to you and not to me. It should have been me.
I
should be in my bed racked with fever and pain, not you.”

He grabbed the hand closest to him, her right hand on her uninjured arm, and brought it to his lips. He kissed the hot, dry skin over and over again. “Please. Please.” He repeated the word over and over again. He felt he could not say it enough. It became a prayer that he offered to whatever God would listen. A plea to Isobel and to God that somehow this trial be passed to him.

And as he intoned this chant and closed his eyes, Miles saw another scene, one faraway in his memory.

For long moments he could not speak. He could barely even breathe while the sobs held him. Isobel was still in his arms, a weight anchoring him to this moment. Had she not been there, he might have given himself completely to the grief.

He cried not only for Isobel. He cried for his brother Wesley. The brother whose death was also on Miles' hands.

“Wesley,” he cried aloud before descending again into sobs. All those years ago, Miles had let his beloved younger brother and best friend die a senseless death. And now history was repeating itself. Now Isobel would die because of him. The physical ache in his chest overwhelmed him.

Miles and Wesley had been inseparable. His mother had often joked that the two, born just eighteen months apart from each other, should actually have been twins. Wesley loved his older brother as much as his older brother loved him. They got into the same trouble, liked the same things, even excelled in the same subjects once it came time for school.

Wesley had always wanted to do what Miles did. The year they were separated before they were at school together had been one of the hardest in their lives.

School together had been a wonderful time. Wesley had easily joined Miles' group of friends and shown that he could be as daring as the other boys. In fact, he went farther than they did just to prove how much he belonged in the group.

The thought drew a spike through Miles' heart. Even in school he should have moderated his brother's behavior, perhaps he could have prevented the later tragedy. Perhaps it could have all been different if Miles had foreseen, had somehow predicted what would come. Wesley might still be here.

But Wesley had continued his reckless behavior to try to impress the other boys, even when they finally came up to town. Miles had been allowed to go sooner than his brother, since he was the elder. So Wesley, when Mother had finally let him come to town a year later, had declared that he had “some catching up to do” and proceeded to do it. Miles and his friends had thought it all a grand game. A few times Miles had stopped some of the more foolhardy betting. But the one time he had not been by his brother's side had been enough.

Miles would never forget it. He had been in the club – the same one, incidentally, where he had apparently won all of Thomas Davenport's inheritance from him – that evening, gambling and drinking like most of his other evenings in town. Wesley had promised to come along after he did “one little thing.” And that had been the last time he'd seen his brother alive. Miles remembered every detail of his face. The blonde hair falling rakishly over his eyes and the lopsided grin that always won him his mother's favor. It was how he would always remember his brother.

But then... oh, then. Someone had burst in, Miles could not now remember who it had been, someone had burst into the club calling loudly for him and saying there had been an accident. As they'd rushed to the site, Miles learned that Wesley had overturned his phaeton taking a corner too quickly.

That was how Miles had found him. On the ground with his neck broken. The doctor who eventually looked at his brother had assured Miles that it had been a quick death. But that provided little consolation. Miles had not been there to stop him and Wesley had died. He would forever blame himself. If only he had been there… for Wesley and now for Isobel.

Miles' sobs had slowed. He took big breaths, gulping in air. Isobel was still cradled in his arms, her right hand still held to his lips. Miles leaned down to her and kissed her forehead. He kept his lips close to her as he spoke.

“Oh, Isobel. Please... please don't die.” He looked down into her unseeing face. “Please live. I could not bear it if you died. It should be me on this bed, not you. Please live... for me. And for your sister and your aunt. We all need you here with us. I can't have your death and my brother's death on my conscience, too.”

Miles was growing calmer. The emotions that had been building all evening were finally out. Now he felt tired. He must rest for awhile. And he should let Isobel rest, too. How long had he been holding her in his arms on the bed?

Miles lowered her gently to the pillow. He sat again in the chair, but moved it closer to her so that he could hold her hand in his. He needed to stay connected to her somehow. As if he could send his life into her just by holding her hand. As if he could anchor her to this world, could hold her here by sheer force of his own will.

His tears dried as he sat there and held her hand gently in his.

“Isobel,” he spoke in a normal voice. “Please stay... there is something important I need to tell you when you wake up...”

Behind him the door opened and Cat entered carrying a new pot of tea.

“Miles?”

Miles quickly drew his hand out of Isobel's and stood to help her.

“Has she taken anything to drink?”

Miles looked downcast. “Not much. I tried with everything I had to get her to drink.”

Cat nodded. “I know you did. Now Miles, please go home and get some sleep.”

He shook his head and looked at Izzy. “I cannot leave her while the fever still rages. I would never forgive myself...”

“Then let me have a maid show you to a room. You can rest there.”

Cat ushered him to the door and called for someone to show Miles to a room. He took one last look at his beloved and allowed himself to be ushered toward a bed and a few moments of rest.

Chapter 22

For so long Isobel had struggled to get out of the dark room with the pulsing heat. And she was so tired. So tired of fighting.

At times during the long struggle, Isobel had felt some small relief. Something gentle, soft, and cool on her skin. Small moments when the heat had subsided and the pulsing had slowed to a tolerable pace.

And the words. She could not now remember any of them, but she had heard different voices saying words that somehow calmed her fear. There were people somewhere out there and they were calling to her.

But she was so tired.

She could not fight anymore. She must give up trying to find a way out. There was no way.

It was time to let go.

* * * * *

“Sir?”

Some voice was calling to Miles, but he was too tired to open his eyes and respond.

“Sir?” It came again. More insistent.

Miles grunted in response. Just one more minute to sleep.

“Sir, Mr. Jack Shepherd has arrived. He awaits you in the front parlor.”

Jack! Miles, still fully clothed, rose from the comfortable bed. In his concern for Isobel, Miles had almost forgotten about his brother. What had Jack been doing for these past hours? Miles was a few steps toward the front stairs before he remembered the butler. He turned back hastily.

“You will tell Miss Catherine and Miss Masters?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you.” Miles threw the thanks over his shoulder as he rushed downstairs.

Jack was moving restlessly around the parlor. As they had on Jack's arrival in London just weeks ago, the brothers looked at each other for a moment with wary eyes. Miles could feel the emotions threatening him again. How glad he was that his brother was safe. He moved quickly to embrace him.

“Jack!” It came out as a strangled cry.

“Miles, thank God.” Jack pulled back to look at him. Concern crossed his face. “A terrible night?”

“Like a nightmare,” Miles stated.

Cat entered the room at that moment.

“Miss Catherine!” Jack exclaimed and moved toward her. “How is Isobel?”

“Izzy is still in the middle of a bad fever, I am sorry to say. Aunt Hetty is with her now.” There was hardly any emotion in her voice. She had spent all of it already and looked exhausted from the effort.

“Is there anything we can do?” Jack asked eagerly.

Cat shook her head. “Nothing, unfortunately. I wish there were. It would make life easier right now. But the doctor says we must only watch and wait. It's all up to Izzy. We must pray that she does not let go.”

Miles spoke. “We have been taking turns tending to Isobel all day.” Miles finally thought to look at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was half past eight in the evening. It had not even been a full day since Isobel had been taken. This time last night Miles had been preparing for the ball that would change his life.

Jack looked startled at Miles' comment. “We?”

“Yes, 'we',” responded Miles, a touch defensive.

Jack looked at his brother with a little smile on his face. Miles was about to ask him what he meant by it when a cry rang out through the house.

“Cat! Cat! Come quickly!”

“That's Aunt Hetty,” Cat said breathlessly. She was already running toward the door.

Miles and Jack followed her closely. Aunt Hetty was in Isobel's room. Could she be... No. She must not be. Miles' heart pounded as they took the stairs quickly. The group burst into Isobel's room.

Miles stopped.

The sight there did not encourage him.

Aunt Hetty was sitting on the bed, sobbing loudly as she held Isobel in her arms. Aunt Hetty stroked her forehead with a wet cloth. Surely she couldn't be... No. No. His mind refused it even while his heart stopped in his chest. It seemed to know that she was gone. He wanted to rush to Isobel and shake her until she woke up, until she came back to him. But he couldn't. Not in front of everyone. His heart was breaking again and he could do nothing about it.

“Aunt?” Cat gasped. She had frozen in place, too.

“The fever,” Aunt Hetty sobbed. She looked up at them, her face red with the effort of crying. “I think the fever has broken.”

Miles went weak with relief. He needed to sit down. It was all too much. He had prepared for the worst, prepared for Isobel to leave him. But she was not gone yet. His heart pumped again. Isobel was still alive. She would live. She would come back to him.

Cat was now kneeling by the bedside clutching her sister's hand. Miles could not hear what she was saying over the rush of blood thrumming through his body.
Alive. Alive.
Isobel would live.

Chapter 23

Miles slept well into the morning of the next day before waking quite naturally to the light spilling in from the window.

For a moment, he forgot where he was and why he felt such peace.

Then he remembered and he sprung out of bed, calling loudly for his valet. The man came running.

“Is my brother awake?”

“Yes, sir. He is taking his meal.”

“Good. I will dress and join him.”

The brothers enjoyed a breakfast hurried only by Miles' impatience to return to Isobel's side.

“I want to see how she is doing,” Miles declared.

Jack nodded his head, a smile on his lips.

* * * * *

But for the next two days Isobel remained insensible. She barely swallowed the broth that she needed to live. Each day Miles would visit, only to be repelled by Cat. There was nothing for him to do. But the wait was killing him.

Each day when he left the house, dismissed again by news that Isobel still lay asleep and unchanged, Miles felt restless and unsettled. That first afternoon he had tried going to the club, but he had departed almost as soon as he arrived. The place was too noisy, too filled with people. And they all seemed to be looking at him.

Of course, he thought, they must all know what has happened. A gentlewoman shot and a gentleman arrested for it. That kind of news could hardly have stayed secret for long. It was just as he suspected his fellows had finally plucked up the courage to ask him about it that Miles hurried away. And so for two days he had roamed restlessly through all of London's parks. He had walked nearly every street in his neighborhood.

And still he could not stop thinking of Isobel. A hundred times he had caught himself staring unseeing at whatever was in front of him, his mind a few miles away in that bedroom where she lay.

In all the ways he could, Miles examined his thoughts and feelings. He found guilt. And he found regret. And he found that he cared for Isobel very strongly. He cared, he told himself, because he was responsible for all of it. Isobel had been kidnapped because of him. She now lay insensible for God knew how long because of him. She might never use her arm again because of him. And, what was the worst part of it all, he could not assuage his conscience even by doing anything helpful for Isobel or the family.