“Will you?” Rose looked at him hopefully. “Can you make her better again, Mr. Bronson?”
The innocent faith in the question somehow twisted his heart and made him laugh at the same time. He reached down and clasped his hand gently over the top of her dark head. “I'm afraid not, Rose. But I can make certain she has everything she needs.”
He left her and ascended the stairs two at a time. Reaching Holly's room just as Maude was exiting, he noted the tension and concern on the maid's face. The peppery sting of anxiety filled his chest. “Maude,” he said gruffly, “what the devil is the matter with Lady Holland?”
Quickly the heavyset blonde jerked a finger to her lips in a signal to keep quiet. “One of her megrims again, sir,” she said in a whisper. “They come on very quick-like, an' any sound or smell or light causes her dreadful pain.”
“What brings them on?”
“I don't know, sir. She's had them every now and again ever since Mr. Taylor passed on to his reward. It usually lasts a day, perhaps a bit more, and then she's back to herself.”
“I'll send for a doctor,” Zachary said decisively.
Maude shook her head at once. “Pardon, sir, but there's no need for that. Lady Holland has seen a specialist, an' he said there's no cure for her kind of megrims, just to rest and take her medicine until she feels better.”
“I'm going to see her.”
The maid's broad face registered instant alarm. “Oh, sir, I do wish ye wouldn't trouble her! Lady Holland isn't fit to speak with anyone—she's in misery, and the medicine makes her a bit out of her head. And she's not…well, she's not properly attired.”
“I won't trouble her, Maude. Now go tend to Rose. She's sitting on the stairs by herself.” Ignoring the maid's protests, Zachary pushed his way past the door and entered the bedroom. Blinking, he let his eyes adjust to the darkness and shadows. He could hear the strained sound of Holly's breathing. A faint sickly-sweet scent hovered in the air, and he sniffed curiously. Making his way to the bedside, he found a bottle and a sticky spoon at the night table. Touching his finger to the spoon, he brought it to his lips and discovered the taste of opiate-laced syrup.
Holly stirred beneath the light sheet, sensing someone's presence in the room. Her eyes and forehead were covered with a damp cloth. “M-Maude?” she whispered.
Zachary hesitated before replying. “I thought you would come away from our dance lesson with your feet hurting,” he murmured, “not your head.”
The soft rumble of his voice caused her to twitch. “Oh…Mr. Bronson…you must leave at once.” She spoke groggily, clearly under the influence of the opiates. “I…I'm not dressed…and this tonic sometimes…makes me say things I don't usually mean to say…”
“In that case, I insist on staying.”
A faint gasp of laughter escaped her. “Please don't make me laugh…hurts dreadfully.”
Zachary lowered himself into the chair that had been placed by the bedside. The creak it made as it bore his weight made Holly flinch. As his gaze adapted to the lack of light, he stared at the luminous whiteness of her shoulders and the sweet curve where her throat flowed into the slope of her chest. “That medicine you're taking is full of opium, sweet lady. I would hate to see you become addicted to it. I've seen the healthiest of men turn into walking skeletons that way.”
“It's the only thing that helps,” she murmured, her mind clearly fogged with pain and drugs. “I'll sleep for a day or so…then the megrims will go away. No lessons tomorrow…forgive me…”
“Damn the lessons,” Zachary said softly.
“Your language,” she reproved with a weak sigh.
“How do the megrims start? Did I do something earlier—”
“No, no…never a reason. I start to see sparks and flashes. The pain starts on one side of my head, or my neck…it spreads until I'm sick and nauseous everywhere.”
Cautiously Zachary moved to the mattress and sat beside her. Holly mumbled a protest as she felt the bed give beneath him. “Mr. Bronson…please…leave me in peace.”
Zachary slid his fingers beneath her neck. The area between her nape and the base of her skull was so tight that he could feel the hard, contracted bands of muscle. Holly moaned at the exquisite pain of his touch. Using the fingertips of both hands, he rubbed the knotted muscles with extreme gentleness. A tear leaked out from beneath the cloth covering her eyes, and she released a quivering breath.
“Does this help?” Zachary whispered after a minute, feeling some of her tension ease.
“Yes, a little…”
“Shall I stop?”
Immediately one of her hands came to his wrist, her fingers curling around the side of it. “No, don't stop.”
He continued to massage her neck in silence, while her breathing deepened and lengthened until he thought she might have gone to sleep. After a while she surprised him by speaking, her voice blurred and soft.
“The megrims started after George passed away. First one happened when I spent a day reading letters…people were so kind…they shared their memories…everyone said how surprised they were…no one surprised as I, though.” Her tone was absent, detached, as if she spoke from the heart of a dream. “Such a healthy man. Not quite so robust as you, but still…very fit. Then the fever came, and George could keep nothing down but tea. He took to his bed for a week. He lost weight so quickly…the bones stood out on his face. The second week I became frightened when his mind began to wander. He seemed to know he was dying…he began to prepare. One day he sent for his dearest friend, Ravenhill…known since boyhood. He made Ravenhill and me promise…”