Delaney slipped his arm beneath her and felt the pain of her breathing. He placed the rim of the glass to her lips and tipped it. She tried to turn her head away, but he forced her to swallow.
Chauncey felt the rippling waves of pain engulfing her, drawing her inward. I hate tears, she thought angrily. “I don’t want to be weak,” she gasped her thoughts aloud.
“You should have heard me when I was shot last year. I yowled like a trapped bear.” It was all a lie, but he would have said anything to ease her. “Hush now. I know it hurts drea
dfully for you to talk. The laudanum will take effect in a few minutes.”
“I don’t want to die . . . not from laudanum.”
“I imagine that you’re going to live until you’re ninety. Doc Morris will be back shortly. You’ll believe him, won’t you?”
She felt a veil of vagueness cloak her mind. She could feel the pain, could nearly taste it, but it was growing fainter, like an animal’s fangs drawing out of her flesh. “I didn’t want this to happen,” she whispered.
“No one ever wants pain.”
“I don’t want to be . . . weak around you.”
“You’re not.”
“I can’t allow you to hurt me. Not until . . . not ever . . .”
He stared at her, not understanding her words, waiting, but her head lolled on the pillow and her eyelashes swept closed in sleep.
“Eliz . . . Chauncey,” he began, suddenly frightened that he had given her too much laudanum. Surely she shouldn’t sleep, not with a concussion.
He rose and strode toward the door, only to come to an abrupt halt in front of her maid, Mary, Lucas at her side. He said tensely to Lucas, “Go fetch Saint. She came out of it and I gave her some laudanum.”
“How is she, sir?”
Delaney studied the girl in front of him. Her face wasn’t precisely plain, for her gray eyes held a good deal of humor and common sense. Her mouth was too wide, her nose uptilted. She was plump and would likely be comfortably fat in later years. “What? Oh, Chauncey.” Her expression altered, doubtless at the use of her mistress’s nickname. “Listen, Mary. It is not an act. She was accidentally struck by a tree branch and thrown.”
Mary shook her head, still expecting to see Miss Chauncey wink at her when she entered the bedroom. “Not an act,” she repeated, trying to gather her scattered wits.
“I know that she set out to meet me, to have me execute a daring, quite needless rescue. I did, but she was hurt.”
“Oh God,” Mary whispered, swaying a bit. “How bad is it, sir?”
“A concussion and cracked ribs. The doctor will be returning shortly. He assures me that she’ll be all right, with proper care.”
Mary’s tongue ran nervously over her lower lip. “How do you know it wasn’t the . . . real thing?”
“She told me. Undoubtedly she didn’t intend to, but it slipped out. What is your full name, Mary?”
“Mary Leona MacTavish, sir.”
“Thank you. It just occurred to me that I have put Miss Jameson in my bedroom. At least it’s large and airy. You can sleep in the adjoining room. You will be my guests for a while.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Delaney turned about, only to ask abruptly over his shoulder, “But I get the impression that was what you planned on, Mary?”
“Of course not, sir!”
He frowned at her, and Mary, unable to control her limpid gaze, dropped her head and wrung her hands. “Oh, when Miss Chauncey gets the bit between her teeth! I’ll go to her now, sir.”
“Yes, certainly. We will share the nursing. You’ll find her in one of my nightshirts. You can change her when she’s well enough.”
Delaney counted the soft chimes. Twelve strokes. Midnight. Mary was, he hoped, finally asleep in the adjoining room. He’d had to order her to get some sleep, and had gotten the distinct impression that she was afraid to leave her mistress alone with him. “I am not a rapist,” he’d said sharply. “You won’t be any good to her if you collapse from lack of rest.”