Moonstruck Madness (37 page)

"You're ill. Are you trying to kill yourself?" he demanded coldly, feeling anger at the poor sight she presented.

"It would be a blessing.
My own sister turning traitor.
How could she?" Sabrina repeated, forgetting Lucien's presence for the moment.

"She loves you and cares what happens to you. That is why she did the right thing and told me. Also, she knows that your escapade is useless, for the Marquis has already left for Europe, with a large settlement from me," Lucien told her, delivering the final blow.

Sabrina crumpled the thin piece of paper into a wad and let it drop. "You," she laughed, "have brought me nothing but trouble."

"You brought the trouble on yourself, Sabrina. After the way you acted last night, I should've let that fool put a hole through you."

"Fine, that would've saved us all a lot of time and trouble," Sabrina replied in a choked voice, "only then you'd be put to the trouble of finding another unwilling bride, and time is running short."

"That's right. I need
you,
Sabrina, but I also want you at my mercy for awhile. You need to be schooled in polite manners and the proper deportment for well-bred young ladies. I shall enjoy teaching you a few things, little Sabrina," Lucien taunted her cruelly, his patience getting out of control as she continued to despise him, her face full of contempt.

"Indeed, Your Grace, I fear I am beyond learning new tricks to amuse you." As she spoke Sabrina allowed her hand to slowly move toward her pistol, keeping her body slightly turned from his view. But Lucien had anticipated her thoughts and lunged at her, knocking her arm away and quickly finding her pistol and sword and disarming her as he spun her around to him, easily resisting her weak efforts to struggle free.

"You never give up, do you? And would you have shot me? I wonder," he murmured doubtfully. "Or were you going to use it on yourself?" He pressed his hand against her forehead and said with growing concern, "You're burning up. If I ever get my hands on those two big, dim-witted friends of yours for letting you hide out heaven knows where, I'll have their hides."

Sabrina jerked her head back and looked up at him, hate blazing in her eyes. Her body felt weighted down and she could hardly find the breath to speak.

"I hate you," she began, only to have her words cut off by a spasm of coughing.

"I've heard that too many times to take any notice of it, and I'm beginning to suspect you've a very limited vocabulary," he replied grimly and picked her unprotesting form up in his arms and carried her from the church to his carriage waiting outside.

Lady Malton was leaving the vicarage and happened to glance across the churchyard curiously as she recognized the Duke of Camareigh's carriage sitting in front of the church. Her round face beneath her canary-yellow bonnet sharpened with interest as the Duke came striding from the church with what looked to be a young gentleman clasped tightly in his arms. All Lady Malton could see was a pair of booted feet bobbing up and down, and an eagle's feather peeping over the Duke's shoulder. She squinted her eyes to see better, drawing back sharply behind a bush as the Duke glanced up, a dark, ominous expression on his hard features.

How extraordinary, Lady Malton thought excitedly as the Duke's carriage rumbled off, a riderless horse following behind. Something was very strange here. There was something so familiar about an eagle's feather. What was it? She gave a small gasp as she realized where she had seen an eagle's feather before, but what in the world would the Duke of Camareigh be doing carrying the notorious highwayman, Bonnie Charlie?

*
 
*
 
*

Sabrina knew little of the next couple of weeks as she burned with fever and shook with chills. Drinking herb teas and having evil-smelling salves rubbed on her chest Was all she recalled when she finally recovered her senses.

She woke one morning exhausted and drained, yet oddly relaxed as she lay in her bed. The sheets were fresh and cool and smelled of lavender. One of the casement windows was open and a balmy, rose-scented breeze moved the pages of a book left open in a chair near the bed. She turned her head towards the door as she heard voices and then it opened as Mary came in carrying a tea tray. She crossed the room silently and placed the tray on the table beside the chair with the book in it. Moving the book she sat down and poured herself a cup of tea.

Sabrina frowned as she noticed the dark circles under Mary's eyes and the paleness of her cheeks. She was surprised by the carelessness of Mary's appearance. Her primrose gown was wrinkled and had a stain near the hem and was too loose around the waist, and her hair was untidy with stray curls hanging down her neck. She looked tired and worried as she sipped her tea thoughtfully. This wasn't at all like Mary.

"Mary," Sabrina spoke distinctly from the bed.

Mary looked up startled, her cup clattering precariously in the saucer as she stared at Sabrina's face, the violet eyes clear and lucid as they returned her stare.

"Rina!" she cried tearfully, the tea sloshing out of the cup into the saucer as she hurriedly set it on the table. "You're yourself again?"

She rushed over to the bed and placed her hand against Sabrina's cool cheek and then kissed both thankfully. Sabrina looked at her oddly.

"What is wrong? You seem so distraught and worried," she asked Mary, who was perched on the side of the bed watching her carefully. "And you don't look yourself, either.
I
've never seen you so rumpled before. You look as though you'd slept in your clothes," Sabrina teased.

Mary smiled
a
trifle sheepishly. "As
a
matter of fact,
I
have."

At Sabrina's expression of disbelief she nodded. "Yes indeed, I've slept many a night in my clothes since you've been ill." She took one of Sabrina's thin, hands in her own. "You know, we thought you would surely die. You've been seriously ill."

Sabrina looked up at her incredulously.
"111?
Me? I don't believe it," she laughed.

Mary frowned as she heard the positive note in Sabrina's voice. "Don't you remember how you became ill?"

Sabrina shook her dark head, beginning to feel panicked as her thoughts came vaguely to her. "I-I remember a picnic we went on.
You and Richard, Aunt Margaret and myself.
We had roast chicken and pickled salmon, which I remember Aunt Margaret said was a bit too salty," she told Mary, wrinkling her brow as she tried to remember, not seeing the horrified look in Mary's eyes as she continued, "and that was yesterday, wasn't it?"

Sabrina looked up at Mary, her violet eyes troubled. "That's
strange,
I can't seem to remember anything but the picnic. Everything else seems hazy. I don't remember becoming ill. But I suppose I have, for I do feel weak," she told Mary,
then
smiled up at her ingenuously. "Do you suppose there are any gooseberry tarts left? I am starved to death," she laughed, looking like the Sabrina of long ago, her eyes twinkling as her dimple appeared.

"Oh, I think we might find something in the kitchen for you," Mary promised, her expression strained. She pulled the downy coverlet back over Sabrina's shoulders and smiled with an effort. "Now that you are well again we must see that you stay that way. You lie back now and I'll go get you a nice bowl of broth, and maybe a small dish of custard."

"With cinnamon," Sabrina added as she settled under the covers and stretched lazily.

"With cinnamon," Mary agreed as she forced herself to sedately leave the room. As soon as the door closed behind
her she leaned against it, feeling her knees too weak to hold her. After a brief moment she hurried downstairs, running into the salon, her expression desperate.

"Lucien!" she cried out thankfully.

He got up abruptly from the chair he'd been sitting in at the desk, his correspondence forgotten as he saw the look on Mary's face. He clasped her shoulders, dread in his eyes as he stared down into her stricken face.

"She's dead?" he said tonelessly.

Mary swallowed, trying to find her voice, but could only shake her head in reply.

Lucien's grip tightened painfully. "My God, Mary, what has happened? Is Sabrina all right, then?" he cried, a light entering his darkened eyes.

"The fever has broken, she's awake."

Lucien released her and sank down on the edge of the settee. "Thank God."

Mary bit her lip, not knowing how to continue and stood there silently watching until Lucien looked up, sensing there was more. "What is it? You might as well tell me."

Mary sighed and pressed her fingers against her eyes tiredly. "You know, I've said I thought Sabrina was suffering from more than just a chest cold and marsh fever."

Lucien nodded. "I remember." He could remember everything of the last fortnight as vividly as a moment ago. How many times had he sat beside Sabrina's bed helplessly watching her toss and turn with nightmares, watching her burn with fever as he cooled her with cold compresses, only to have her shake uncontrollably the very next instant, watching her grow thinner and thinner before his eyes.

"I think she had brain fever as well," Mary's voice broke into his thoughts.

"What are you saying?" he demanded.

"She cannot remember anything before her illness." She held up her hand at his ejaculation of amazement. "Oh, she knows who she is, but she doesn't remember any of the traumatic events preceding her illness." She paused,
then
continued hesitantly, "In fact, I don't believe that she will remember you, Lucien, or even masquerading as Bonnie Charlie."

Lucien's scar seemed to throb and Mary looked away from the look on his face.

"It's as though she has blocked out all that was painful to her and all that had hurt her. She is completely untroubled—almost like a child."

Lucien hid his face in his hands as he sat with his elbows on his knees and stared at the pattern of the carpet beneath his boots. "Well," he laughed harshly, "she never did intend to marry me, and it would seem as though she will have her wish—at least for now—unless she never remembers me."

Lucien looked up, a cynical sneer curling his lips. "Or maybe she does, and this is just another of her damned masquerades to elude me. Is it? Is it another hoax concocted between you two? Is she still playing games, Mary?"

"No, I honestly believe she does not remember. I know her—why would she pretend to me? We both saw how ill she was, she hadn't the strength to fight you, Lucien," Mary said honestly. "She has truly forgotten. I believe her."

Mary shifted her position uncomfortably, a distressed look entering her gray eyes as she coughed nervously. "I'm afraid there is another problem. I did not mention it earlier because, well, frankly I did not believe that Sabrina would live, so it did not matter." Mary spoke softly, looking Lucien directly in the eye. "I have cared for Sabrina most of the time, except when you sat with her. We have always been very close, of course, and living here in the same house, well, I . . ." Mary stumbled over the words and looking out of the window took a deep breath and said quickly, "I think Sabrina is with child."

Mary's face burned painfully and she felt it must be as red as her hair as .she watched the Duke for his reaction. She cleared her throat. "It could of course be that her illness has affected her, but I really do not believe that is the reason. S-she talked a lot in her delirium, and so I wondered if it might be a possibility, her being with child, and whether it could possibly be yours? I don't believe it would be any other man's."

Mary felt a shiver of fear run through her body at the angry blaze in the Duke's sherry-colored eyes as he stood up and took a step towards her. She unhesitantly took a step backwards and continued to face him.

"Mine," he said arrogantly, "and no other man's."

Mary expelled her breath, her shoulders sagging.
"I
don't know what to do? If she doesn't remember
you,
and she is with child—how do I explain the baby?"

Lucien picked up his discarded coat from the back of the chair he'd been sitting in and slung it across his shoulder. "You don't."

"But I don't understand? She'll have to know."

"Of course, but any necessary explaining will be done by me. After all, I am her fiancée—and the father of her child. I think I know what needs to be done."