She wasn’t drunk. She was ill, and he was scared to death—and furious. He’d done his best by her, even fed her until her breeches’ buttons probably were ready to pop, and she’d had the gall to get ill. She was roasting with fever, limp as her breeches, which were now folded neatly over the back of a chair that looked to be older than the aunts.
Gray watched the little man straighten. His name was Dr. Hyde, and he was Jack’s size and completely bald. He was also clean, which was a good sign. Gray had been relieved no end when Harbottle, the innkeeper, had brought him up. “My lord,” said Dr. Hyde, who recognized a lord when he saw one, since he himself was the second son of a baronet, “the girl—yes, I know this is a girl despite the ridiculous clothing—she’s indeed ill, as anyone can see.” He raised a small, narrow, very clean hand when Gray opened his mouth. “No, I don’t need to know anything about either of you. She’s got the fever. It’s evident she was in the elements. It was a heavy rainstorm last night.”
“We were on our way to London.”
“If you want her to remain alive, you won’t go anywhere,” Dr. Hyde said. He placed his palm on her forehead again, then slipped his hand beneath the blankets to lay it over her breast. He closed his eyes and was quiet for a good minute. Finally, he looked up and said, “She sh
ould survive this if you keep her very warm and pour water down her throat, else she’ll just shrivel up and she’ll die, my lord. Now, here’s a tonic for her. It’s good for many things, a fever among them. I’ll return this evening. If she suddenly worsens, have Harbottle send for me.” Dr. Hyde cleared his throat. It took Gray a moment to realize that he wanted money. He pulled out a wad of notes from his waistcoat pocket. It wasn’t all that big a wad. He paid the doctor, not moving until the little man had let himself out of the bedchamber—the best bedchamber in his inn, Mr. Harbottle had told Gray when he’d followed him upstairs, carrying an unconscious Jack over his shoulder, since she was a little rooster and thus couldn’t be carried in his arms.
Gray cursed and nearly ran from the bedchamber, calling out when he saw Dr. Hyde at the end of the hall, “Dr. Hyde, the boy is my younger brother, Jack. I ask that you not forget that. It’s very important.”
Dr. Hyde frowned down his very thin nose, then slowly nodded.
Gray was cursing again an hour later when Jack shot up in bed, looked straight at him, and said, “If I don’t get Georgie, he’ll realize that he can use her against me, and I don’t know what he’ll do.”
Then she simply collapsed back onto the bed, her eyes closed, the fever hard on her now.
She was shivering violently. He took off his wrinkled clothes and climbed in beside her. Her chemise was damp. He managed to get it off her without ripping it, then pulled her tightly against him. He rubbed his hands up and down her back, over her hips, as far down the back of her legs as he could reach.
He said quietly, hoping that at some level she could hear him, “Come on now, Jack, you’re ill and that’s all right, but for just a little while. I’m getting you all warmed up, and soon you’ll be sweating like a mistress I once enjoyed who hated the summer heat because she sweated and she thought it would revolt me. Can you begin to imagine anything more silly than that? No one could, at least no man could. Come now, breathe more slowly, stay close to me. Yes, that’s it.”
He thought he’d die of heat prostration when, suddenly, without warning, she lurched up again and yelled, “I can say ‘damn,’ I can. It’s not a really bad word. Mrs. Gilroy says it under her breath when Mr. Gilroy eats garlic and then tries to kiss her. It’s a better word than ‘turnips.’ No, don’t make me eat those horrible turnips. Oh, goodness, it’s hot in here.” And she flung off the covers, pushed herself away from him, and jumped up from the bed.
He stared at the naked girl just standing there, staring down at him, her expression blank as a slate, her dark blond hair tangled wildly around her face. She was very nicely knit together, and had breasts made for a man’s mouth and his hands, although which part of himself a man would select first would be hard to decide. Damnation, he couldn’t think like this. She ran to the long, narrow window and flung it open. She leaned out, breathing in the fresh, crisp air. He looked at a white backside and a stretch of long legs that nearly made him swallow his tongue. A man’s mouth or a man’s hands—tough decision.
“No, Jack. Good God, you’re buck naked and leaning out the window. No, don’t wave.” He pulled her away from that open window, relieved that no one on the ground below had yet noticed her, and towed her back to the bed. “Come on now, you’re ill, Jack. You’ve got to keep warm.”
“I am warm, you fool,” she said, even her breath hot against his bare flesh. “I’m burning up. Flames are near my skin. Oh, goodness. Where are some scissors? I want to cut off this dreadful hair.”
She started pulling on her hair. Then she groaned and collapsed forward, her face against his belly. He gently eased her onto her back, then straightened over her.
“All right, I’ll try to cool you down.” He was stymied for a moment, then eyed the basin of cool water beside the bed. He wet her chemise, since he didn’t have anything else, and began to wipe her down. He would swear that when that cool, damp chemise stroked over her, she stretched and purred just like Eleanor.
He kept rubbing her with the damp cloth until finally she opened her eyes, smiled up at him, and said, “That’s very nice.” Her head fell to the side.
“Oh, no,” he said, bringing her head up into the crook of his elbow. “You’ve got to drink some water.” He got nearly a full glass down her before she fell completely slack against him.
He felt utter panic, then saw that this time she was asleep, not unconscious. He eased her back onto the bed and brought the covers to her chin, spreading her hair out in a halo around her head. Then he rose and dressed in his ravaged clothes. He felt her forehead again. She was cool to the touch. Thank God. She was asleep.
He quickly left the bedchamber.
7
THE RAIN slammed against the narrow windows in the bedchamber. The windows rattled when lightning followed by a crash of thunder shook the table beside the bed. It was a god-awful day, dreary, cold, and gray. And there was nothing for him to do except wait. He wasn’t all that patient. It was a chore for him not to pace a hole through the very old rag rug that covered the oak floor.
At some deep level she was aware of the drumming rain. Hours later, it was the absence of that rhythmic rain that woke her. She lay there, aware finally that things had changed, but she didn’t know what exactly had happened. She thought she was back in the barn again when she saw the sun shining hard through the panes of the window, right in her face.
She was with some fat bird. A fat bird? Where? No, that wasn’t right. She was at the Corpulent Goose inn. She sighed deeply, pleased to have gotten that cobweb cleared out of her brain.
She was here with the baron, with Gray. That was a nice name. He’d never told her his name. She’d heard the aunts speak of him. But she remembered that smile of his, all white-toothed and wicked, that smile that could flatten a female, and she smiled now herself, thinking of it.
He wasn’t here. Oh, goodness, had he left her? Had he dusted his hands of her, taken Durban and Brewster and gone back to London?
It hurt now to smile and, she discovered, to swallow. She was thirsty. She was more than thirsty, she was close to dying of thirst. She saw a pitcher of water on a small table beside the bed. She had to have that water—she had to. Then she’d worry about Gray deserting her.
Gray opened the bedchamber door to see her flailing wildly in an effort not to fall out of bed. She didn’t make it. He didn’t either. She crashed to the floor, blankets and sheets twisted around her.
He cursed as he came down to his knees over her.