Megan Frampton (14 page)

It was peaceful to lie there, just lie there, to stare at the daisy and believe he wouldn’t have to do anything ever again. That was the oblivion he sought, craved, needed. Not warmth, or security, or even love. He didn’t deserve those things.

The bed sagged as she sat down beside him. Moments later, he felt her hand stroking his hair. It felt good. So, so good.

He turned his face into her hand. After a brief hesitation, she continued touching him, her fingers soft and gentle on his face, caressing his eyebrows, the stubble on his cheeks, brushing her fingers across his lips.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, tracing the line of his jaw. He
shook his head no, not even opening his eyes. Her touch wasn’t just sensual, although it was that. It was also … 
comforting
. Comfort was an even more distant memory than sex.

“You rest for a bit, then,” she said, her voice low and gentle. “The landlord should arrive soon with our supper. Do you think you will be able to eat?” she asked, her voice anxious. He hadn’t had anybody worry about him like this since he was twelve years old. Twenty years ago.

“Mmph,” he replied, burying his face in the pillow. Her hand moved to his back, stroking his neck, his shoulder blades, his spine.

Her touch had changed, somehow; her caresses felt more intimate, more like the way a woman would touch her man. And that’s what he was, wasn’t it? Her man. Her husband. Hers.

His cock stiffened, and it was only by sheer force of will—the little he had left—that he didn’t pull her beneath him. He rolled his hips into the bed, grinding his erection into the softness of the mattress, knowing it couldn’t possibly be as soft as what was between her thighs.

He heard a scrape as the door opened. “Yer supper, sir,” the landlord said. He didn’t want her to get up, to leave him. Her touch felt so wonderful.

“Just set it over on the table there,” Mary replied, her hand still idly stroking his back. She must have sensed what he wanted.

It frightened him, how easily she read his thoughts.

She was silent as the landlord fussed around the table, and Alasdair heard the rustle of silverware and the sound of clanging plates. “Anything else I can get you?” the man asked.

“No, thank you,” she said, after it became clear that Alasdair wasn’t going to respond.

“Good night, then.” Alasdair heard the snick of the door shutting and felt Mary shift to get up.

“Would—would you like me to bring your food over here?”

“I’m not a damned invalid,” he snapped, swinging his legs off the bed. The room spun dizzily for a few moments, and he stared at the floor, concentrating on the wooden board closest to his feet so he wouldn’t faint. Even though he’d been chasing welcome
oblivion with the opium, he couldn’t allow it to happen until she was safe.

She didn’t reply, and anguish pressed down on his chest, making it hard to breath. He hoped she wasn’t going to finally lose her temper and desert him. Not that she had anything better than him; in fact, her half brother was certainly worse. As options went, he was the best. And that was as much of a reason to save her as anything.

Mustering all of his will, he shuffled over to the round wooden table that was at least a thousand miles from the bed. At last he reached it and sat down awkwardly in the chair she was holding out for him. Frowning in concern, she opened her mouth to speak, only to shut it again.

Alasdair picked up a glass from the table and downed it in one gulp before realizing it was water, not wine. The cold liquid slid down his throat into his hollow stomach. “No wine?” he asked, setting the empty glass on the table.

She bit her lip. “I didn’t think it would be wise, given your condition,” she said in a soft voice.

His eyes narrowed, and he was about to rail at her, when he realized she was right.
His condition
. The last thing he needed was to further dampen his senses, even though every nerve in his body was clamoring for something, anything, to take away the dull ache of being.

“Some beef pie, my lord?” she asked, gesturing toward one of the dishes on the table. Alasdair sniffed the air and was surprised to find it smelled appetizing.

She seemed to take his lack of response as an affirmative, because she took his plate and ladled a generous serving onto it. Of course, she would probably do the same even if he had told her not to. Controlling woman. His wife.

“This actually smells palatable,” he admitted grudgingly, picking up his fork from the table. He raised his head suddenly and caught her watching him. “My chef would be horrified to learn I was eating something so rustic,” he said, accenting the last word as if he were French.

“
Rusteek
is all I am accustomed to, my lord,” Mary said in a tart voice. She raised a forkful of pie to her lips and took a small bite. “I cooked for my father when my stepmother died. She was a very good cook. She taught me everything I know.”

“I ate worse in the army,” he admitted. He was lifting his own fork up when he
noticed her reaction to the food: She closed her mouth, chewed, and smiled, her eyes closed in pleasure. Then she darted her small, pink tongue out and licked her lips.

It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.

He cleared his throat.

Her eyes snapped open. “Is something wrong?” she asked. She licked her lips again.

Wrong? No, it was just so damnably right. Dear Lord, Alasdair thought, please grant me restraint in this, at least. If this is a test, please keep me from failing miserably. From failing her.

“No, nothing. Just a little dry.” She gave him an odd look, and he realized that he’d just drank an entire glass of water.

He picked the glass up again and peered at it, as though he was wondering where all the water had gone. When he set it back on the table, she got up and brought the pitcher over so she could refill his glass. He watched the graceful, practiced motion of her hands as she tipped the container sideways to spill the water out.

“Thank you.” He ate a few more bites of his pie, then leaned back and propped himself up on two legs of the chair. Her eyes tracked his legs as he hoisted them up, and he wondered if the hungry look in her eyes was similar to how he looked when he stared at her breasts.

Just thinking about them made him take a look, discreetly, from under his lashes. They were truly gorgeous, full, high, and firm—perfectly shaped for his hands.

He was clearly not doing a very good job at restraining himself; he was certain, if he asked her, she could quote the relevant Biblical section about lusting in one’s heart being as bad as actual adultery.

In which case, why was he stopping himself from having her? They were married, after all, even if he was planning on “till death do us part” happening sooner rather than later.
His
death.

He bit the inside of his mouth and concentrated on why it was so, so wrong to caress her skin, kiss her neck, tangle his hands in her hair, bury himself deep inside her … He groaned aloud, and she paused in the middle of taking another bite of food. He gritted his teeth, and shook her inquisitive look away with a wave of his hand.

He couldn’t have her because it wouldn’t be honorable, even if she knew what he was planning.

Actually, that would probably be worse, he thought sardonically; making love to your husband when you knew he was going to cast himself into oblivion, leaving you alone with his money and his title.

And doubtless it would be hard to get into the spirit of things anyway, if she knew. Yes, despite the fact that he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted opium, he couldn’t have her. Circular logic, perhaps, but maybe it would help him keep his hands to himself.

“My lord,” her soft voice interrupted his thoughts, “please eat some more. You’ve barely touched anything.”

He dropped the chair back down onto the floor again and picked up his fork. “You know, love, nobody tells me what to do. Not since my moth—” He shook his head and shoved a bite in his mouth.

She rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward, an interested look in her eyes. “Your mother—where is she?”

“Dead.” Chew, swallow, chew.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Your father, too, of course.”

He nodded in agreement. “Dead.” Stab another bite of food onto the fork.

“Oh.”

“And before you ask, my brother’s dead, too. You already know about my wife.”

“Oh.” She uttered the word in a soft voice.

He couldn’t bear her sympathetic expression. He dropped the fork onto the plate, where it clattered on the ceramic, pushed himself away from the table, and strode back to the bed.

“I’m sorry for your pain.” Her quiet words sent skittering prickles of irritation across his skin. He lay down against the quilt, resting his feet just off the edge of the bed.

“Don’t apologize. That’s all anyone’s ever done.”

“Well,” she asked with humor edging her voice, “what else would you expect? People feel sorry for other people, they express sympathy. What is wrong with that?”

Alasdair flung his arm over his eyes. “Nothing. Of course, nothing. People utter
platitudes that mean absolutely nothing because it’s what’s expected. I never apologize.”

“I’ve noticed,” she replied. Now she was definitely amused.

He removed his arm and glared at her. “Are you trying to aggravate
me
now?”

“If I were, would it be working?”

He put his arm back. “No.”

“Then I’m not.”

He heard the clatter of dishes as she straightened up the remains of their supper, and he wished it wasn’t so damn cozy and domestic. So comfortable. Just as it would have been if he were a normal, average man, perhaps a farmer, maybe a scholar or a vicar, like his wife’s father.

Instead, he had responsibilities, duties as befit a marquess, even if the marquess in question had shirked his responsibilities since inheriting the title.

She was his last responsibility, and this time, he wouldn’t fail.

It was his last clear thought before the pain started.

***

“Aagh!”

Mary dropped the dish she was holding. The fragments flew across the room but she didn’t notice as she rushed to his side. He was clutching his stomach in agony, rolling back and forth across the bed. His forehead was coated in sweat, and his skin had developed an eerie pallor.

Obviously it wouldn’t help to ask him what was wrong, but she still knelt down by the side of the bed and grasped his hand. “What is wrong? What can I do?’

“Nothing,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Is it the … the opium?”

His eyes blazed green fire as he looked at her. “Yes, of course it’s the opium. Or lack thereof. Damn it,” he finished. Another wave of pain must have hit him, because he winced.

She put her hand on his head and smoothed the hair from his hot forehead. “Relax, my lord—”

“Alasdair,” he said sharply.

“Alasdair. Perhaps a damp cloth for your head? That often soothes a fever, I remember …” She was babbling. It always happened when she was anxious.

“Just—just touch me, like you did before.” His words came out through clenched teeth.

Touch him? Like before?

The thought made her spine prickle and an unfamiliar flush of excitement course through her veins.

He clamped his hand onto hers, still on his forehead, making it clear what he wanted.

She began to stroke his head, watching as he clearly made an effort to stop thrashing. He closed his eyes and she could tell he was willing himself to relax.

“Tell me about yourself.” His request was unexpected, and Mary’s hand froze for a moment before returning to its repetitive rhythm. His hair was silky under her fingers.

“You already know I am twenty-five.”

“Why weren’t you married before now?”

Mary shrugged, then realized he couldn’t see her. “Nobody asked.”

“Damn fools.” His voice was already calmer.

She warmed at the compliment. “Anyway, I was born in the same house where my father died, I am quite well-read, and until recently, as I mentioned before”—she swallowed as she remembered—“I taught school for the children of my father’s parishioners.”

“It does explain a lot,” he muttered.

She decided to ignore him. “My favorite subject is science—”

“Not literature? With your love of poetry and all?” he said with a snort.

“Look,” she said, removing her hand from his hair, “if you are feeling well enough to make sport of me, perhaps you can take care of yourself as well.”

He grabbed her hand and placed it on his chest. “No, for God’s sake, don’t. Feel that? It sounds like I’m about to explode.”

Thump, thump, thump. His heart beat a staccato rhythm, a churning, quick sound that seemed a lot faster than it should be. What if he died out here? What if his family
blamed her? Could she go to prison?

What if he
died
?

She couldn’t bear the thought. Despite—or maybe because of—his arrogant, overbearing, egotistical nature, she liked him. She wanted to spend time with him, get to know him, although their marriage still seemed like a ludicrously bad idea. The scent of coal clung to her still.

She slid her hand across his chest, surprised at how quickly he’d soaked through his shirt. “We need to get you out of your damp clothing.”

He really was ill; he didn’t even make any kind of leading comment. He tried to sit up, leaning back on his hands, but his body began to shake, and he dropped back onto the bed, a frustrated look on his face.

“I can’t do it,” he said in a quiet voice. “None of it,” he added, in a broken tone that made Mary’s heart ache.

“Let me help,” she replied, tugging his shirt up off his chest. She was forced to move closer to his body, since the shirt was sticking to his skin and he was only able to shift himself slightly to help her remove it.

At last she got his shirt off and flung it onto the ground. Frowning, she focused on his bare chest, wondering how to get him under the covers. Of course, he’d probably sweat through them anyway, unless she was able to do something.

She had no idea how to ease his suffering. Until her father caught the ague and died, the worst illness she’d ever treated was when one of her pupils had gotten influenza. And recovered within a day. The best she could do was try to make him comfortable and, hopefully, make sure he didn’t die.