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She twisted her wrist out of his grip. "For starters, you need to begin to take care of yourself. You're perfectly capable of doing so." She turned her back on him and moved to the dresser to retrieve the lotion she used when she massaged his legs. She took her time, not wanting to turn around when he was naked, and not knowing if he would even change.

"You can turn around, Miss Eastman. I am clothed enough not to offend your delicate sensibilities." The sneer continued and she sadly shook her head. This would no doubt be a lot harder than she anticipated.

He had the clean shirt on. "I'm glad you decided to cooperate." She moved to the side of the bed, poured some lotion on her hands, and began to massage his calves.

This had been a ritual since the accident. Dr. Stillwell didn't understand why Nicholas couldn't use his legs, since they had returned to normal for all outward appearances. Jaci knew muscles would atrophy from lack of use and she suggested physical therapy until he walked again. Both she and the doctor agreed on this, even over Nicholas's shouting that he wouldn't lie around while she or anyone else touched him.

He had laid there, though, for there was no way to get away from her. Hostile and silent, she felt the heat of his glare on her back as she massaged his legs. Some days, the physical contact was more than she could bear, for regardless of his present condition, his closeness still caused an emotional upheaval in her. She had fallen in love with him, and the fact that he couldn't presently walk made no difference; she still loved him.

She continued his therapy, hoping one of these days he would fight back, pushing his foot against her palm, jerking his leg away from her touch. But he did not.

When she reached across him to work on the other leg, she heard his sharp intake of breath. At least he was feeling something, she thought, but didn't dare sneak a peek at him, until she heard the clink of glass.

She paused in her ministrations and turned to find him staring at her breasts, a drink in his hand. In one gulp, he downed the glass of whiskey and reached to pour another.

"You don't need that," she stated calmly.

"You don't know
what
I need, Miss Eastman," he returned, bringing the glass to his lips, his gaze searing her from hip to shoulder. "And if you did, would you give it to me? Would you crawl into bed with a cripple?"

Jaci gasped at the harsh words cutting into her like a knife. She began to wonder if she were strong enough to deal with this situation after all. Yet, when she looked beyond the cynicism, was there anything more vulnerable than a man whose very essence of living had been stripped from him?

"I would come to bed with
you,
Nicholas, because of the man I grew to…care about," she spoke gently, her gaze caressing his face, looking for some sign of softening.

There was none. He simply poured himself another drink and slowly drank it, his gaze steady on her face as though challenging her.

She had learned the hard way to survive, and she now had a strength of purpose which did not waver. She walked up to the head of the bed and took the drink glass from his hand. "How can I make you understand?" she began quietly. "It's all right to depend on someone else. As far as the other is concerned, it can take more than an accident to keep you from being a man."

"Well, aren't you the eternal optimist. Does it not occur to you that I will never walk again?" He shouted at her, though she stood only a foot from him.

"I've learned over the years that some things can't be changed, and you have to learn to live with them."

"Aha."

"However," she stressed the word, "in other cases, you must make the most of your opportunities, and answer the challenges set before you." She thought back to her parents' deaths, when she felt the world had collapsed beneath her. She had pulled through, however, and she knew in her heart that Nicholas could, too, if only he would help himself.

She glanced around the chamber, where the drapes had been pulled shut constantly unless she was here, and where the smell of whiskey overwhelmed her. It appeared at the moment that Nicholas did not want to adjust, nor did he want to face the world he had known. She would have to think of a plan to capture his attention and make him stop feeling sorry for himself.

Gentleness hadn't worked; pleading hadn't caused him to relent. She pursed her lips and settled her hands on her hips as she surveyed the bedroom. Her eyes lit on what she needed, and she marched over to the corner, snagging the handle of a basket that sat near the desk. Turning it upside-down, she emptied the magazines onto the desk.

"What are you doing?" She thought she detected a hint of anxiety in his voice.

Good.

She marched over to the mantel and began depositing into the basket the bottles of liquor which Selkirk had brought up.

"Leave those be."

She ignored his demand. "You're going to be a lonely old man unless you quit drinking and talk to someone. Unless you admit you need help, more than your legs will shrivel up and die." They were the hardest words she had ever spoken, and it took determination not to choke on the anguish she felt building inside. But someone had to make him see reason, and so far, no one had.

She snagged the last bottle off his bedside table before he realized her intent, but she didn't move fast enough to keep him from grabbing her wrist.

"Give it back."

"No." She would not relent; she wouldn't.

"Please?"

She looked him straight in the eyes and held her ground. "My father drank himself into an early grave and took my mother with him. I'm not about to let you do the same."

He released her arm and flopped back onto the pillows. "Look at me. What difference does it make?" Despair edged his words, and Jaci fought against it for him, since he wouldn't fight his own battles.

"What difference? Look at Amanda. What will become of her?"

"I can't help her now: not like I am." He turned his head to the wall, breaking eye contact.

Her anger flared. "You idiot. You've got to talk to her."

He wouldn't answer.

"You can't ignore the problem. You may not want to deal with it, but you can't run away."

"Bad choice of words," he fired back at her.

"You know what I mean. Talk to her. Tell her it's not her you're mad at. It's not her fault."

His head snapped up, eyes wide. "What are you talking about?"

"Amanda blames herself for your condition. If you would quit wallowing in self pity and think about her--"

"She'd be better off without an uncle who can't walk."

"Is that what you think?" she practically screeched. "She doesn't love you because you have all your legs and arms and fingers and toes. She loves you because you love her."

"What do you want from me?" he screamed and she swore she saw tears in his eyes before he again averted his gaze.

"I want you to try. Living's a hell of a lot harder than dying." She touched his shoulder, and though he didn't jerk away, she felt a tremor run through him. I love you, Nicholas, she thought, but knew better than to say the words out loud, for he would accuse her of pity.

She blindly made her way to the door, trying one last time to make him understand. "What happened to those words you shouted at me Christmas Eve? Where's the man who yelled, 'I won't give up.'"

"Go away." His words were full of pain and desperation and Jaci's heart broke.

Chapter Thirteen

Nicholas swore as Jaci ran from the room, slamming the door behind her. She apparently refused to see him for what he had become--a useless cripple. Everything he was, the very essence of his being, revolved around his ability to stand tall and to speak with business associates eye to eye. He couldn't train his horses and make deals while flat on his back or from a cripple's chair. And he
couldn't
love her.

He watched dust motes dance along the sunlight that streamed in past the open curtains. Damn her! She took his drink, which was the one thing that transported him into a world without heartache, and left him bathed in sunshine. He longed to remain in that dark void where sunlight and happiness didn't pierce, for surely that's what had happened to his soul.

How could he explain how he felt, when he didn't understand himself? Never in his life had he been this useless. He turned his head away from the light. He wouldn't cry--tears were for women and children. God knows Jaci, Amanda and the rest of the female household had shed enough for him over the past weeks. And little good it had done. Didn't they think he would walk if he were able?

His eyes burned, and he squeezed them shut, refusing to let the tears fall. Grown men didn't weep. God, how he longed to belong to that world again.

Only Selkirk knew of the intense, secret struggles he fought. Time after time, he demanded his legs move him out of bed and to the chamber pot. By Nicholas's command, Selkirk would stand stoically by, even as he cursed him and the world. At the very last second, when he either accepted the butler's help or embarrassed himself on the bed linens, Selkirk would silently assist him.

Now he feigned sleep when Selkirk came in with his luncheon, preferring not to eat. He would even forgo his whiskey, because in order to get a new supply, he would have to interact with the man and ask for it. It was bad enough he lay helpless in this bed; he would not beg. The butler quietly set the tray on the table within reach and left. But he, too, left the damnable drapes open.

* * *

Even after Nicholas's tirade, Jaci continued to tell herself it was because of the fever, or the drink, that he said the things he did. She had to make herself believe that, or most certainly she would fall apart.

She glanced around the kitchen table where several of the staff and she and Amanda had gathered for lunch. Somehow, she had been given charge of keeping everyone else from collapsing under the strain of Nicholas's illness.

Of course, no one actually needed to be told what to do; they had been doing it for years. But cook still needed someone to check the menus, and Mrs. Jeffrey liked to know that she and the housemaids such as Molly were continuing on the right track with a little praise for their hard work. Without wanting or asking for the responsibility, Jaci had been thrust into the role of Mistress of the Manor.

She watched as Selkirk entered the kitchen to visit in whispers with Delta before coming over to the table. Nicholas rang for Selkirk several times a day, but the butler never gave any indication of what the two of them discussed. Normally, Jaci would assume it didn't pertain to the running of the household, and she didn't question him. After her recent argument with Nicholas, though, she felt she needed to say something.

"Did Mr. Westbrooke eat?" At her question, Selkirk shook his head and poured himself a cup of tea. She glanced at Amanda, whose face mirrored her own concern, and decided it wouldn't do to discuss too much in front of the child. Nicholas still refused to see her and it was devastating to the little girl.

"Amanda, be a sweetheart and help Delta with the dishes, would you?" Without a question, the child left the table to help Cook.

"You didn't take him another bottle of whiskey, did you?" Jaci whispered to Selkirk. "It's imperative that he--"

"I understand your reasons for taking away his bottles, miss," the butler answered. "I simply don't know that will make a difference." Poor Selkirk appeared to have aged much more than anyone else, and again she wondered what it was that Nicholas saw fit only to tell this man.

"What does Nicholas say to you all those times you go up there alone?" She asked what she thought was a simple question, but Selkirk's face turned red and he tipped over his chair in his hurry to leave the table.

"Nothing, miss, nothing at all."

She wouldn't take that for an answer. She grabbed the sleeve of his coat before he got far. "Selkirk, you sit down here and tell me what's going on. Don't you think all of us want to help him get well?" She gestured to the rest of the staff, all avidly staring at him with wide eyes.

"I can't do that, miss." His tone was remorseful.

"Can't; or won't?" Jaci challenged him.

Selkirk's gaze bounced rapidly around the room, never settling anywhere, and definitely not on her.

"Please?" she pleaded, for suddenly her heart pounded and she felt somehow this man held the key to Nicholas's life.

He jerked his head towards the door, and without a word, she followed him into the hall, away from the other servants. Heaven only knew that the servant's grapevine would have the news soon enough, but apparently Selkirk kept his own counsel because no gossip had reached her yet.

"It has to do with his...bodily functions," he whispered, his face turning redder by the minute.

She scrunched up her face. "I don't understand."

He sighed, staring at the wall off to the side of her head, refusing to look at her. "Miss, this is exceedingly embarrassing. I cannot begin to explain something like this to a lady."

Her eyebrows flew up as understanding dawned. "Oh, my, I never thought.. .but you say he rings for you when he needs to go to the bathroom?" Loud bells were going off in her head, and her heart had begun to beat faster at the possibilities.

"Miss, really..."

She grabbed the butler by the lapels, determined to get him to tell her. "Don't clam up on me, now, Selkirk. If he knows he needs to go, he feels something in his lower body." When she saw the look of awareness on his face, she released her hold on his jacket. Patting it smooth, a gigantic smile came to her.

"And if he feels that particular sensation, his nerves are healing and he should be able to eventually walk." She turned away and headed for the stairs. "This is great; this is incredible. Oh, Nicholas is going to be so happy--"

"Miss?" Selkirk stopped her progress. "It's a most embarrassing situation. I wouldn't suggest that you bring it up to Mr. Westbrooke."

"Nonsense, Selkirk. It's time things got back to normal around here." She lifted her skirts to race up the stairs, the butler groaning behind her.