Then, drained, she lay down beside him as she had every night for the past week and went to sleep.
James spent most of the next few days sleeping. While his temperature fluctuated, he did not fall into another high fever. Laura was able to get his medicine down him as well as some food. Slowly but surely he was getting better. Because he was so often asleep, it was easy to hide his progress from his family. The only person who knew was Owen, whom Laura had sworn to secrecy.
Laura awoke one morning snuggled up against James, his arm thrown across her. She had become accustomed to waking up like this. Indeed, she found it was a pleasant way to awaken. Perhaps that was shameful of her, but there was something so warm and secure about it, so safe. The past weeks she had been grateful for every bit of safety and comfort she could find, no matter how illusory.
Laura started to slide away, but James’s arm tightened around her and he mumbled something, burrowing his face into her outspread hair. Laura stilled, enjoying it for another moment. James cuddled her closer, his breath hot upon the nape of her neck. Something pushed insistently against her backside. Her eyes flew open, and just as realization began to dawn on her, James’s arm suddenly tightened, then was yanked away just as quickly. Laura shot out of bed, her face flaming, and whirled to face him. He was staring at her, his face slack with astonishment or—or something. She hoped it wasn’t horror. “I—I fell asleep. I’ve been, well, the past few days, while I’ve been here taking care of you, it just, well, it was easier.” Laura knew she was babbling, and she forced herself to stop, pulling around her whatever remnants of her dignity remained. “I’ll tell Owen to set up a cot.”
“No, I, um . . . my fault.” His eyes strayed down her form, and it occurred to Laura that she was standing there in only her nightgown. She fled into the dressing room.
Well, that had certainly been humiliating. Her fingers trembled as she tugged at the ribbons on the front of her nightgown. She had become so used to being with James these past days, so accustomed to touching him, helping him, being with him all the time that she felt at ease with him. But they were still strangers, really.
He felt none of that familiarity with her, for he had been asleep or in a fever most of that time. After her sharp statements when he proposed, vowing not to share a bed with him, he had awakened to find her cuddled up against him. She dreaded what he must think of her—and what kind of acerbic comments he would make.
Reaching the top button of her bodice, she found that she had buttoned it wrong and had to start all over again. She drew a deep breath and pressed her hands against her heated cheeks, forcing herself into something resembling calm.
What had happened, happened, and she couldn’t change it. She’d had a good reason for sleeping there. Obviously James was in no condition to take advantage of the situation—and in any case, she was married to the man, which made it perfectly acceptable to share his bed. Anyway, if you came down to it, he was in her bed.
She shouldn’t feel ashamed. The only reason she did sprang from the knowledge that she liked lying in his arms. James wouldn’t know that. He had no idea she looked forward to snuggling up to him when she lay down at night—indeed, she had done an excellent job of hiding that fact from herself until this very moment.
That was obviously something she would have to deal with, but she didn’t have to worry about it this minute. Right now, her course must be to brazen it out. She would be like Graeme’s wife Abigail, who went her own way, holding her head up and not caring what others might be whispering about her . . . or, at least, not showing that she did.
But when she emerged from her dressing room, her pose vanished, for James was up and leaning against the dresser, pale as a ghost.
“What are you doing?” She rushed to him, taking his arm.
“I’m getting up. Getting dressed.” He set his jaw, keeping his gaze turned slightly away from her. “I refuse to spend my days lying about.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You are the most impossible man. Get back in bed before you fall over.”
“I am not going to fall over,” he replied with great dignity. “However, perhaps I should . . . sit down.” He sank into the chair beside the bed.
“You’ve been running a high fever on and off for days. Until last night, I was unsure whether you would live or die. You need to recuperate. Rest. If you overtax yourself, you’ll bring back your fever.”
“I refuse to be treated like a child.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t act like one.”
He sat back, copying her pose of crossed arms, and looked at her so sulkily that it was all she could do not to smile. Finally, with a sigh, James dropped his arms and let his head fall back against the high back of the chair. He rubbed his hands over his face and pushed his hands into his hair, fingertips pressing into his scalp.