A Momentary Marriage(36)

James closed his eyes. If he had even the slightest bit of energy, he would be hard all over again, remembering it. It had to be real. It couldn’t be something he imagined. But Laura wouldn’t have kissed him, wouldn’t have let him caress her.

Not willingly.

He remembered taking her arm and moving her hand down; he had clamped his hand behind her neck and pulled her down. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted it at all. Because he could remember, too, that she left him and he had reached out, trying to pull her back, only she was out of his reach. Then he was running after her, and she was fleeing from him. Had he hurt her? Had he tried? He had been so desperate, so yearning, he would have believed himself capable of almost anything.

The icy dread in him now was enough to make him push up and out of bed. He swayed when he stood up, but he wrapped a hand around the bedpost and managed to stay upright. He looked around. There was a bag on the chair. Yes, that had been what she had carried in here, and there, beside his washbowl, were two damp rags, hanging to dry. He picked up one and brought it to his face. It smelled of lavender.

A knock sounded on his door, and he turned so quickly he overbalanced and again had to grab the bedpost to keep from toppling over. The door opened a crack, a woman’s soft voice, saying, “James.”

“Laura!” The word came out in a croak, and he took a step forward, afraid to let go of the post. He looked like a fool, he knew, standing there shirt hanging open and feet bare, clinging to the bedpost and clutching the washcloth in his hand like a spinster about to have a fit of the vapors. But then, he so often looked like a fool these days, he supposed it scarcely mattered.

The door swung wider, and Laura came into the room. She was smiling in that way of hers, calm and serene, but with a glimmer in her eyes that spoke of a readiness to laugh. He had always thought her beautiful in the way a perfect piece of art was, but now he could see how much more intriguing she was than perfection. He wished . . . well, no use wishing anything.

The important thing was she wasn’t angry or disgusted or fearful, all the emotions he had feared he might see in her face. The knot in his chest eased. It had been a dream.

He took a step toward her and crumpled to the ground.



The dog reached James first, prodding him with his nose and licking his cheek. Laura knelt beside him, pushing Dem aside.

“James?” She laid her hand on his forehead. He wasn’t hot again. She shook his shoulder. “James, get up. I need you to get into bed. Please, I can’t lift you.”

Laura ran to the bell pull and yanked it several times. There was a noise behind her, and the mastiff growled deep in his throat. Laura swung around. Walter stood in the door, staring at James. “Good God. James.”

“Don’t stand there,” Laura snapped. “Come here and help me.”

Her orders broke the young man from his paralysis and he hurried to her side. Together they tugged and pulled, but could manage to do no more than get James into a sitting position. Laura cradled him against her breast, holding his head to keep it from lolling back. She stroked her hand across his forehead.

James opened his eyes and blinked owlishly at her. “Laura. Beg pardon.”

Laura was perilously close to hysterical tears. What was she to do? A fever she could battle, but she felt lost now. Nodding toward the bell pull, she told Walter, “Go ring again.”

But at that moment, Simpson came in, followed by one of the footmen. Between the men, they managed to lift James and put him in the bed. Simpson shoved the pitcher at the footman and told him to fetch more water, and Laura turned to her father’s bag.

With shaking fingers, she poured willow bark tincture into a glass, then patted James on the cheek. “James, wake up. Look at me. James.” Her voice grew sharper, and her hand against his cheek was a little stinging.

James muttered a curse and opened his eyes. They were clearer now, at least. She managed to get some of the liquid down him, though he gave her a baleful glare. She cupped her hand against his cheek, running her thumb along his cheekbone.

“Stay awake now. Will you?”

He nodded and ran his tongue over his lip. “Thirsty.”

The footman brought the pitcher of water, and she gave James a sip. He looked slightly better, though his face was bloodless. The footman retreated to the foot of the bed, but Walter remained on the other side, staring down at his brother. He looked, she thought, quite lost.

“James . . .” he said vaguely, then, gazing up at her, “He can’t—he’ll be all right, won’t he?”

Behind her, more practically, Simpson said, “I’ll send for the doctor, ma’am.”