The Seduction (33 page)

She wanted so badly to believe him. He was always asking her to trust him, but she was afraid to be made the fool. All her life she had wanted to let her heart rule her head, but her head always seemed to win that battle. She yearned to take risks, experience excitement, be daring and adventurous. Yet, try as she might, she could never seem to rid herself of her own deepest fears and insecurities.

Perhaps he meant what he said. He may have thought only of her money in the beginning, but time might have given him reason to form a more honorable and honest attachment to her. Perhaps he had truly come to care for her.

It was an astonishing notion. That this man, who seemed to have such a callous heart and whose reputation proved he had no trouble making conquests, might be falling in love with her.

If only it could be so. She hugged herself, wishing with all her heart that it were true. If only she could believe him. If only she could be certain.

During the next two days, Trevor did nothing to relieve her uncertainties. He was moody and distracted. He did not offer to massage her feet again. He did not kiss her or touch her. He hardly spoke a word to her.

They walked and walked, and with every mile they traveled, his mood seemed to worsen. On the afternoon of the third day, when Margaret casually asked how much further he thought they had to go, he nearly bit her head off with his reply.

"For God's sake, I told you three days ago we were a week away. Do you have to keep asking me?"

"What on earth is the matter with you?" she countered in exasperation. "You're as grouchy as a bear."

He resumed walking without answering her. The tension inside him was becoming unbearable. To be so close to her without having her was the worst possible torture. His mood was not helped by the fact that he did not feel well. By the time they made camp that night, he had a splitting headache, and he knew what that meant. It was the first sign of a malaria attack, and he had no quinine.

They ate without talking, and afterward Trevor laid down, hoping to ease the pain in his head.

"Going to sleep already?" Margaret asked in surprise. "It's quite early still."

"I'm tired."

"Don't you feel well?"

He opened his eyes to find her bent over him, frowning with concern. "I'm fine," he said. "I'm just tired, and I've got a bit of a headache."

"Are you certain that's all it is? You look quite ill." She reached out to touch his cheek. At the soft brush of her fingertips, something inside him snapped. He grabbed her wrist and pushed her hand away. "For God's sake, must you torture me?"

"What?"

"I'm just about at the end of my rope, so don't push me, Maggie."

She drew back with a hurt expression. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, yes, you do. You're trifling with me, and I don't like it. You know I want you, you know I want to marry you. I know you made it clear in Rome you didn't want to marry me, but I'd hoped I could change your mind. I am not a romantic man, and I will not fall to my knees and make myself a fool with stupid, gushing speeches of my affection. Nor can I tolerate this kind of suspense. When we arrive at Naples, I will leave you with Cornelia and Edward, and I will return to England alone. We will not be seeing each other again after that, because it would be agony to me to be so close to you and not be able to have you." He took a deep breath and said, "I want you for my wife, and anything less is unacceptable to me. When we get to Naples, you will have to make the choice, Maggie. It shall be marriage or nothing at all."

"Why must you make it so hard?" she cried.

"You are the one who makes it hard. For me, it is an easy choice and always was. If it is not the same for you, then I have my answer, don't I?" He moved to stand, but she grabbed his sleeve.

"And what, what of my money? Are you saying it does not matter to you?"

"How can I answer a question like that? If I say yes, it matters, you would put the worst possible slant on it, and I would be condemned. If I say no, it does not matter, I would be lying. I am not a rich man, and any marriage settlement your father wishes to bestow would be a most welcome benefit to me. But Maggie, I have met many wealthy women, and I can tell you quite honestly that I never asked any of them to marry me."

"You don't love me. You don't even believe in love," she countered.

"What am I supposed to say? I don't know what you mean when you talk about love. All I know is that until I met you, I never wanted any woman, rich or poor, passionately enough to spend the remainder of my life in her company. There, you have the truth as best I can say it. Make of it what you will."

Trevor rose to his feet and left their camp without another word. He knew he'd probably ruined any chance of winning her, but he refused to think about that. He went for a long walk in the forest, and he wished to hell he could just keep walking until he was as far away from her as he could get. Damn her, damn her money, damn her enticing body and her silly, romantic notions.

Love. Christ Almighty. Her idea of love was to have him on his knees.

By the time he returned, she was asleep. He looked down at her innocent face, and her earnest words about true love echoed through his mind.

She was so naive. To have her, all he had to do was say three simple words. All he had to do was give her the fantasy. All he had to do was lie. How simple. How easy.

He could not do it, and he knew everything was for naught. He banked the fire, pulled the blanket up around her shoulders, and laid down as close to her as he could get without touching her. Finally, he drifted off to sleep.

When Trevor awoke the following morning, his headache was even worse than it had been the day before. Though it was barely dawn, even the soft gray light seemed to pierce his skull like a needle. He turned his head to the side and saw that Margaret was still asleep. She lay facing him, her head resting on her folded arm. Her long hair had come loose from its knot during the night and fell over her shoulder and across her cheek in a soft, shimmering wave. At any other time, he might have taken a moment to appreciate the sight, but not this morning.

He rose to his feet and told himself that, perhaps if he bathed and shaved, he'd feel better, but, without his quinine, he could not stop what was to come.

He stripped off his shirt, removed his boots and socks, and waded into the stream. The bath soothed him, but did not stop his headache. He got out, and the sound of splashing water awakened Margaret.

She sat up, brushing the hair out of her face. "Good morning," she said, smiling at him.

He pulled on his shirt, tucked the ends into his wet trousers, and began to button his shirt, hoping she would not notice how wretched he felt. But her smile faded as she watched him, and he knew his hope was a futile one.

She frowned with concern as she studied his face. "You look quite ill."

"I'm fine," he answered, raking a hand through his wet hair. "Let's get moving."

They started off, and for awhile he was able to keep a steady pace, but as the morning wore on, he could feel himself getting worse. The pain in his head became acute, his body ached, and by the time the sun was high overhead, he could feel the chills of fever beginning.

When they came to a fork in the road, he hesitated, uncertain. The map he'd brought was gone, and he could not seem to think.

"Why are we stopping?" she asked. "Are we lost?"

He stared at the two paths ahead, and they blurred into one. Light began to flicker behind his eyes.

"Trevor, we're lost, aren't we?"

He tried to focus, but it was useless. "We've got a bigger problem than that."

His voice sounded strange in his own ears, fuzzy and distant. The sack of food slipped from his fingers, and the earth suddenly tilted sideways. He took deep breaths, trying to regain his equilibrium, but the ground beneath him would not stop shifting.

Margaret put her hand on his arm. "You
are
ill. I knew it."

"I"—he licked his dry lips—"I think it's—"

His knees buckled, and he could feel himself falling. He hit the ground with bone-jarring force, but that was nothing compared to the pain in his head. All he wanted to do was grab the nearest rock and smash in his own skull to stop it.

Margaret knelt down beside him and touched his face, her palm soft and cool on his forehead. When she spoke, her voice seemed miles away. "You're burning with fever."

"It's the malaria," he said hoarsely, striving to get the words out. "No . . . quinine."

"Malaria?" she repeated. "No, no. You can't. Not now."

"Sorry, Maggie," he mumbled. "Promised Cornelia . . . take care of you. Can't."

"Oh, God," she moaned. "Trevor? Oh, heavens. What do I do? What do you need?"

He heard the panic in her voice. He wanted to reassure her, tell her not to worry, but he couldn't seem to force his thoughts into words. The last thing he remembered was the soft touch of her hand on his cheek just before everything went black.

Margaret knelt beside Trevor
in the middle of the road, feeling completely helpless. He was unconscious and burning with fever. She looked around, but saw no signs of civilization. She didn't know where they were, where she might get help, or what to do for him.

She knew almost nothing of medicine, but realized that the first thing she had to do was get water. She glanced at the stream which paralleled the road they'd been following.

After wrapping Trevor in a blanket, she pulled the bottle of wine out of their food sack. She poured out the
chianti
that remained, then went down to the stream and refilled the bottle with water.

She tried to force some water into him, but had little success. Using a napkin, she bathed his face and neck. Though she nursed him throughout the afternoon, his fever only worsened.

Trevor became delirious, muttering nonsense in several languages. She caught bits of Italian, French, and English, as well as a guttural language she concluded must be some sort of Egyptian dialect.

He mentioned names—some she knew, others she did not. He talked about Emilio, Edward, his brother Geoffrey, someone named Lucci, and a woman called Isabella. Margaret wondered jealously who Isabella might be, but nothing he said gave a hint of his relationship with her.

Trevor mentioned her name, too. Though Margaret strained to listen, his words were disjointed mumblings that made little sense. He awoke occasionally, his deep blue eyes over-bright and feverish as he stared at her without really seeing. He had moments of lucidity, when he seemed to recognize who she was and where they were, but those moments did not last long.

The sun went down, but still his fever did not break. Margaret continued to bathe his face, but it did little good. Her feeling of helpless frustration gave way to panic.