Desire and Deception (68 page)

Lauren closed her eyes as a combination of nausea and anxiety overwhelmed her. The knowledge that she was grasping at her last chance for happiness only served to increase the strain of the past twenty-four hours—one that left her exhausted.

How she ever found the strength to carry out her hastily devised plan when she arrived home, Lauren never knew. After ordering her coachman to wait, she mounted the stairs to her rooms and penned the note that she would have delivered to Jason. She was relieved that Molly was busy in the laundry, for she didn't want the
abigail
to see her packing. With dazed automation, Lauren stuffed a change of clothes and a warm mantle into a bandbox. She would tell the coachman it contained a gown that needed alteration, and when he had driven her to the dressmaker's shop, she would send him home and slip out the back way. She should easily be able to take a hackney to a posting house, where she could hire a post-chaise for the journey to Liverpool.

But she needed funds. Jason had given her an extremely generous allowance of pin money, most of which she hadn't spent yet. As Lauren filled her reticule with coins and bank notes, though, she was forcibly reminded of the last time she had left London in a hurry. Jason had financed her escape then, too. Fiercely, she banished the memory, stifling
an
hysterical urge to cry.

The seconds were ticking away, but there was one more thing Lauren had to do. Going to the bureau, she unlocked the jewel box containing the priceless family gems Jason had given her. She could never take them, of course, and she would leave behind the little emerald heart, as well, for it no longer belonged to her.

Willing her fingers to stop their trembling, Lauren removed the chain from about her neck. As she brought the jeweled heart to her lips, though, her breath caught on a sob, and when she laid the necklace upon its bed of velvet, the tight ache in her throat threatened to choke her.

Although her plan worked well—without any hitches at all, in fact—it was after midday when Lauren found herself on the first leg of her journey. The pace was rapid, however. The driver, anticipating a heavy reward for reaching Liverpool in record time, set the horses to a steady gallop. At one point, they even passed the speeding Mail.

The journey was grueling. Dust swirled so thickly inside the carriage that Lauren was forced to hold a handkerchief over her mouth and nose, and as the vehicle bucked and swayed, she had to grasp the strap to keep from being thrown to the floor. Yet she made no complaints. The need for speed was far more important than any momentary discomfort she might be suffering. Even now, she knew quite well, Jason might be searching for her.

As she drew farther and farther away from the metropolis, Lauren couldn't help wondering what he was thinking. Had he discovered her absence already? Would he be fooled by the note that said she meant to spend the afternoon at the dressmaker's? There was no question in her mind that he would try to find her. And so she urged the greatest possible haste. She fretted each time she was forced to break her journey, chafing even at the necessity of changing the tired horses for fresh ones.

By the time dusk settled, though, Lauren was half convinced she had succeeded in disguising her destination. At least there was no one immediately upon her trail. When the driver halted to light the carriage lamps, Lauren bit back her impatience and nodded when she was told the pace would be slower. It was far too dark to continue at the same clipping rate. Such speed would be reckless and foolhardy, if not actually dangerous. Still, she found it hard to relax.

A few hours later, she was given real cause for worry, for the coach suddenly gave a tremendous jolt,
then
lurched along the ground for several hundred yards, before coming to rest at a precarious angle.

Lauren had been thrown to one side, shaken but unhurt. Realizing they had lost a wheel, though, she couldn't prevent a groan of dismay. A broken wheel would take hours to repair, and even if a wheelwright could be located, it was possible that he would refuse to work in the dark. Lauren found herself wearily tramping the nearly three miles to an inn they had passed, praying that Jason hadn't yet deduced where she was headed. Fortunately, the inn was
uncrowded
and could accommodate her, so she bespoke a private parlor where she could wait for the repairs to be completed.

Remembering her pregnancy, then, Lauren asked if she could be served some supper. When an obliging landlady brought her a bowl of soup and half a roasted fowl, Lauren forced herself to eat a few bites, even though her stomach was tied in knots. She felt somewhat relieved when her coachman delivered the welcome news that the wheel would be ready by first light.

Abjuring him to get some rest while he could, she called for the proprietress once more and requested a bedroom for the remainder of the night. Convinced, then, that she could do nothing to speed events along, Lauren stretched out on the bed and instantly fell into an exhausted sleep.

She was wakened by a servant at dawn. She almost wished she hadn't slept, though, for her head was pounding unmercifully and she felt extremely weak. Her flushed cheeks indicated that she had a touch of fever, as well, and the warm water she used to wash with did nothing to cool her hot brow. Afterward, she felt even worse when her usual nausea welled
up.

Trying to ignore her queasiness, Lauren smoothed her crumpled gown and hid her tousled hair beneath a concealing bonnet. Her morning sickness precluded taking anything solid in her stomach, so she was ready to continue her journey in a very short time. Letting herself out of the room, she made her way down the dark hall.

She was descending the steep wooden staircase at the end of the corridor when she heard men's voices speaking in low conversation—one of which sounded elusively familiar. Remembering hearing the rattle of a coach in the yard as she was tying the strings of her bonnet, Lauren continued down the stairs more cautiously.

She halted abruptly as she caught sight of a pair of rough boots and worn canvas trousers. The man was coming toward her, heading straight for the stairs where she stood. When he came into view, Lauren's heart leapt to her throat. It wasn't Jason who had followed her. She was staring down at the wizened face of Ned Sikes!

For a moment Lauren found it impossible to move. Panicking then, she whirled, intent on fleeing up the stairs. She neglected to hold up her skirts, though, and her foot caught the hem of her gown. Before she could even put out a hand to break her fall, the stairs were rushing up to meet her.

Her stomach suffered the major impact of the blow, the force so great that all the air was driven fiercely from her body. She lay there, unable to breathe, feeling as if she were suffocating. The stars in her vision receded,
then
appeared again. She heard first a shout and then rapid footsteps on the stairs below her, but she couldn't move, not even to save
herself
.

Her arms were grasped then, none too gently, but she couldn't even fight. It was a struggle just to raise her hand to protect her face from the expected blow.

But it never came. No one hit her. She thought she must be dreaming when she heard Jason's voice angrily telling her to look at him. She opened her eyes . . . and looked directly into his blazing blue ones.

She stared at Jason in shocked confusion, her lips parting to say his name. Yet no sound came out. Then a cry was ripped from her throat as an agonizing pain knifed through her.

Doubling over, she clutched fiercely at her stomach. "No!" Lauren sobbed. The knifing pain in her midsection was unbearable, but even more unbearable was the thought of losing her child.

Jason lifted her in his arms and bellowed for the innkeeper to fetch a doctor.

"No," Lauren cried again. The last thing she remembered was the look of savage fury contorting Jason's handsome features as he carried her up the remaining stairs.

Pain, sharp and cutting, then dull and throbbing, slowly, too slowly, receding.
Heat.
Sweltering, suffocating heat.
Hands, cool and soothing.
Hushed voices.

For three days Lauren lay in a pain-dazed stupor, her body so racked by fever that she was aware of almost nothing happening around her. Once she woke to find Jason bending over her, his gaze trained anxiously on her face as he held a cool cloth to her brow. By the light of the bedside candle, she could see his unkempt, unshaven appearance. He looked so utterly ragged and weary that Lauren wanted to reach up and touch him, to warn him to take better care of himself, but her throat was so parched that she could only manage to hoarsely whisper his name. Immediately he was holding a glass to her lips and forcing a bitter liquid between her teeth.

When next she woke, it was daylight. Lauren lay there, trying to remember where she was, before a slight noise made her turn her head. She frowned in confusion, wondering why Lady Agatha should be sitting beside her bed. The elderly woman was bent over a tambour frame, steadily plying a needle.

When Lady Agatha saw that her patient was awake, she put aside her sewing and leaned forward to feel of Lauren's forehead. "So, you decided to join the living," she said briskly. "I knew when your fever broke that it was just a matter of time. It was my own physician's remedy that did it. Country doctors, ha! How little they know. You'll be fine, my girl. Now drink
this and see if you can sleep. Sleep is the best cure for the body, I always say. You'll be up and about in no time."

Suddenly an image returned to Lauren, of a kindly-looking man at her bedside. He was saying something to her, but she hadn't heard because of the pain. She remembered gripping Jason's hand, though, as another wave of agony made her cry out.

Yet a pain more savage raked her when she realized why her body still ached. "My . . . my baby," Lauren whispered hoarsely. She tried to sit up, but Agatha's firm hand prevented her from moving.

"You lost the child, my dear," Agatha said sympathetically. "But don't concern yourself unduly. I miscarried twice before my eldest was born and I went on to have half a dozen healthy children."

"No," Lauren rasped, yet she knew her protest was meaningless. She couldn't change what had happened, couldn't bring back the tiny life that had been lost. The tears that flooded her eyes ran down her cheeks to splash unheeded on her pillow.

"That's it, my dear. Shed a few tears. You'll feel better afterward. Now drink this. . . ."

Again it was daylight when Lauren woke, but this time she found Molly bustling quietly about the room, humming to herself. The
abigail
had cleaned the small bedroom and simple furnishings until everything sparkled. There were also fresh flowers by the bed, and the windows had been thrown open to let in a soft summer breeze along with the afternoon sunlight.

When Molly greeted her with a gaiety that seemed a trifle forced, Lauren suspected that the girl's cheerfulness had been ordered by Lady Agatha as part of her "remedy". Lauren couldn't summon the energy to respond, though. Physically, she felt bruised and battered; emotionally, she felt devastated.

Fleetingly, she wondered if anyone had ever died from depression. She wanted Jason desperately, wanted him to hold her and comfort her, but she was afraid to ask for him. She was afraid to face Jason, afraid he wouldn't want to see her after what she had done. Besides, she didn't
deserve
to be comforted, she reflected miserably, riding a wave of remorse that was nine- tenths self-censure. Feeling wretched, Lauren closed her eyes and let Molly's bright chatter wash over her.

Yet as the
abigail
attended her, Lauren discovered answers to certain questions without asking. She was still at the same inn, she learned, for the doctor had said she couldn't be moved. Immediately after the accident, Jason had sent for his aunt and Molly, and they had been there for several days. Lauren herself had been in bed for nearly a week, and at one point, her fever had been so high that they had feared for her life.

Lauren felt a little better when she had been given a sponge bath and a fresh nightgown to wear. Molly offered her a frilly peignoir but she refused, for it seemed far too frivolous. Instead she drew on a thick woolen wrapper, while the
abigail
changed the bed linens and fluffed the pillows.