"It's
the only way to help your master! Now go!" Norah ordered.
"I'll
go!" the boy who had dared strike Sir Aidan volunteered as he barreled out
of the room.
Norah
turned back to the man who lay on the bed, writhing with pain.
"Poison,"
he squeezed the word between parched lips. "She... she's dead... how could
she..." That deep voice that had been laden with such sensuality, such
arrogance, shattered on a groan. Sir Aidan clawed at Norah, and she caught his
hand in her own.
"Help
her..." he rasped. "My baby... don't let her take—"
Norah
held his hand tightly, her worried gaze skating from Sir Aidan Kane's tortured
face to that of his daughter, so terrified, so young. Stricken with guilt far
too harsh for such a fairy child to endure.
With
trembling hands, she stroked back a lock of sweat-dampened hair from Sir Aidan
Kane's brow.
"Don't
leave her..." he rasped, in a final, shuddering breath. "Promise you
won't leave her... alone."
"I
won't," Norah said, her heart breaking for this man suffering so deeply,
tormented by fear for his child. "I'll help you both." But as she
stared at his anguished face, she prayed that Sir Aidan wouldn't be the one
leaving his daughter, starting on that deathly journey to a place Cassandra
could not follow.
"Miss
Linton, I must object to a lady remaining in Sir Aidan's quarters when he is...
en dishabille," the dour-faced valet insisted. "I am certain he would
be appalled at the prospect."
Norah
gritted her teeth, trying to restrain herself from insisting the valet tally up
the number of "ladies" who had likely seen Aidan Kane in such a state
of undress—to the man's indubitable delight.
"You
must depart with the rest of them." The valet gestured to the door through
which the other members of Rathcannon's staff had been banished—a frightened
Mrs. Brindle, a teary-eyed Cassandra, and the bevy of other servants who had
been gaping, horrified, at Aidan's condition.
"Much
as I hate t' agree with this pompous windbag, ye shouldn't be stayin' in here
with the master all undone," Cadagon said, bustling over with a carefully
pressed nightshirt. "A lady the likes o' you shouldn't be exposed to a gentleman
in this condition, miss. 'Tis most improper. I'm certain the doctor will be
here soon enough."
"And
I will be here when he arrives," Norah said firmly. "Sir Aidan asked
me to look out for things while he was ill, and I intend to do so."
The
valet choked in horror, his gaze flicking to his master's half-naked state. For
an instant, Norah feared the fool would fling himself across Aidan to shield
him from her maidenly eyes.
"I'm
hardly going to ogle Sir Aidan's unmentionables when he's at death's
door!" Norah snapped. "We must make him as comfortable as we
can."
"We?"
The valet went red as a fresh-baked brick. "Oh no, miss. You don't
understand. It just isn't fitting for you to—"
"Stop
arguing and help your master, or stand aside." Norah exploded, her
patience frayed beyond a thread. "I vow I'll get him out of those breeches
myself if I have to!"
Cadagon
went scarlet, and the valet uttered dire predictions about the fate that
awaited interfering women. But to Norah's abject relief, they did as they'd
been ordered.
She
rushed about, gathering whatever she might need: a mound of fresh cloths, a
cool basin of water from the pitcher on a stand in the corner. She only caught
glimpses of a hard, masculine chest limned with a smattering of dark curling
hair as the two other men fought to strip Aidan of his clothing on the huge
bed. Long muscular legs lashed out and Cadagon grunted as a knee caught him in
the stomach.
In
a dozen secret fantasies Norah had pictured Sir Aidan without the gilding of
elegant clothing. But she had never imagined she would catch her first glimpses
of him this way, tossing and turning in an agony not only of the body but of
the soul.
It
was horrible, shattering, to watch him fight against the poison, not knowing if
it was a battle that he could win. The valet attempted to wrestle Aidan into a
nightshirt, but those white-knuckled fingers fought to tear it away, as if it
were some sort of hellish snare of thorns trying to entrap him.
The
idea of tending a man who was stark naked beneath the coverlets set discomfort
blazing inside Norah. Yet she couldn't bear the thought of Aidan suffering any
more than he was already.
"Leave
it off." Norah bit out the command, averting her eyes. "It is only
upsetting him even more."
Aghast,
the valet sputtered in protest, but Cadagon waved him to silence.
"Miss
Linton is right, 'tis only makin' him wilder. Always did when he was sick, from
the time he was a wee boy. 'Sides, the doctor'll want to be having a look at
him anyway. Jest draw up the covers an'—"
"I'll
not be party to this... this improper—"
"Then
get the divil out, ye crack-brained fool!" Cadagon roared.
Norah
couldn't have said it better herself.
The
groom caught Aidan's fist just as it thrashed out, narrowly missing Cadagon's
chin, that gravely old voice gentling as the valet rushed from the chamber.
"Easy
there, Aidan boy. 'Tis all right, me fine little man." Norah paused to
watch the groom tend his master as if Sir Aidan were his own son, so far gone
in suffering. Her throat closed at that gruff tenderness as the older man drew
the tumbled coverlets over Aidan's restless form.
"There
ye be, missy. He's all tucked up, an..." Were there tears in the old man's
eyes as he turned away? She never knew for certain, because the groom swept up
an armful of Aidan's cast-aside clothing. "That flea-bitten city fool
won't be pestering you further," he said as he exited the room. "Ye have
Gibbon Cadagon's word on it."
With
that he shut the door. Norah turned back to the bed, now alone with Sir Aidan,
this man so desperately sick. This man who unnerved her, entranced her,
infuriated her, and inspired her with secret dreams far too dangerous, too
ephemeral to admit, even to herself. She looked down into his rugged features.
The
white sheets were a startling contrast to the broad expanse of his bare chest,
his dark hair tossed against the pillow. Pain had robbed his handsome face of
all cynicism, stripping it away until his very soul seemed torn open, exposed
in his sweat-limned face.
Saints
above, what was she supposed to do with him? Norah thought with a quiver of
alarm. She didn't have the slightest idea how to tend someone who had ingested
poison. She didn't know what to say to calm him the way old Cadagon had done.
If she had a lick of sense she'd leave this chamber and put Aidan in the
capable care of his servants. She wouldn't bow to a promise dragged from her by
a man half out of his mind with pain.
Catching
her lower lip between her teeth, she approached the bed warily, a bowl of water
in her hands, a fresh cloth floating in the cooling liquid.
She
set it on the table beside him, then reached out tentative fingers to touch his
fevered face. He stilled for a heartbeat, turning toward that feminine touch,
as if he knew... knew that she had stayed, as she had promised.
Gently,
she stroked back his hair.
"De—Delia,"
he choked out the name, shuddering violently. "De—Delia, please,
God..."
He
was calling out for his wife? The wife he swore he didn't love? Had never
loved? The realization twisted inside Norah's heart like a knife.
"Oh,
God... Delia, don't... don't do this!"
Agony.
It vibrated through the broken words, laying bare wounds in Sir Aidan Kane's
soul.
Norah
took Aidan's hand and lifted it to her lips. "I won't do anything you
don't want me to," she whispered, knowing he was hearing another woman's
voice, another woman's promise.
"Don't
kill... my baby..."
"I
won't." Norah comforted him, but her mind reeled. What was he saying? What
was he pleading for? Had there been other children born to his wife? Or had
Cassandra been in some kind of peril? What in God's name could it mean?
"Delia...
bitch! Hate... won't let... hurt. Kill—"
The
sound of the door opening startled Norah, tearing a tiny cry from her throat.
She looked up to see Cassandra.
Tear-stained
cheeks flushed with regret, red-rimmed eyes brimming with guilt, Cassandra
clutched a blanket tightly against the front of her pale cambric gown. She
looked like a child, a child who was desperately hurting. A child who, Norah
was certain, would hurt even more terribly if she were to catch any of her
father's tortured whispers, his rasped, agonized cries.
"Miss
Linton, I—I came down to sit with Papa," she said, fighting the tears
brimming on thick lashes. "He always sits with me when I'm sick, even
while I'm sleeping. He holds my hand and—and tells me stories, and I feel
better just knowing he's there. He'll feel better too, if I'm with him."
Norah
regarded the fifteen-year-old, her heart aching with the image of the
accustomed myriad of childhood illnesses that must have trooped through
Rathcannon, dulling Cassandra's eyes, making her fretful, restless.
It
was all too easy to picture Aidan standing sentry beside her sickbed, plying
her with tales and pretty toys, tenderness and treats, until the bloom returned
to her cheeks. His daughter's earnest desire to stay with him now was silent
testimony to the special relationship the two of them shared. One Norah envied.
One whose rarity she understood enough to treasure.
But
the thought of this innocent, impressionable girl remaining here while his
fever raged was unthinkable. The thought of Cassandra overhearing the
incoherent cries Norah had just listened to was appalling.
Norah
was certain that would be the last thing Aidan Kane would want. And, Norah
thought with a painful tug, sparing Cassandra his anguish might be the only
gift she could give this man who lay even now fighting for his life.
"Cassandra,
I know that your father loves you with all his heart," Norah began,
groping for some logical reason she could bar the girl from the bedchamber.
Something beside the torment that was tearing broken words from her father's
fevered lips, words that could cripple this sheltered, headstrong girl as
deeply as they had her father. With fierce gratitude toward the quarrelsome
valet, Norah latched on to another excuse. "Your father would be the first
to tell you that a gentleman's sickroom isn't a proper place for a young
lady."
"Not
proper?" The fair brow creased. "Don't be silly. Papa and I have
always... I mean, he's my papa, and he's sick, and—"
"I
know how difficult this is for you, sweeting. But try to understand. You need
to be quite grown up and do as your father would wish you to. What he needs you
to do."
Resentment
simmered in the girl's blue eyes. "He needs me here! He needs me beside
him!"
"No,
he needs to be able to work through this—this illness without sensing that you
are hovering over him, all white-faced and half sick yourself."
Norah
saw the girl gape at her, hurt and a fierce stubbornness firing in her eyes.
"How do you know what he needs? You're barely acquainted. You don't even
like each other."
"Cassandra—"
"You're
supposed to be leaving Rathcannon altogether, Papa said. So don't trouble
yourself to tarry here. Papa and I have been getting along on our own ever
since my mother died. We will work through this... this disaster as well."
The
proprietary tone left no doubt that young Cassandra Kane was setting up
boundaries, building some enchanted circle around parent and child, banishing
Norah from that special place.
Cassandra
tipped her chin up in regal dismissal. "I am quite certain you're anxious
to be on your way."
Norah
realized, with a tug in her chest, that it was now Cassandra who was eager to
see her leave. But Norah remembered all too clearly Sir Aidan's broken pleas,
his desperate need to know she would not leave his daughter alone. "I
intend to stay here until your father is well again," she said, gently but
firmly.
"Well,
I'm staying too."
A
groan tore from Aidan's chest, muttered words falling from his taut lips. Words
barely intelligible, for now. Words that could become brutally clear in a
heartbeat, rending Cassandra even more savagely than they had Norah minutes
before.
"Cassandra,
you have to leave. Now," Norah said as Cadagon returned through the
doorway.
"No!
You can't make me leave!" the girl cried, outraged. Her piercing voice
drove Aidan to claw at the coverlets with increasing restlessness.
"Mr.
Cadagon! Tell her she's not in charge here! Make her leave!"
"You're
the one who needs to be leavin', sweeting," the old groom said quietly.
"Come along with ol' Gibbon here, an' I'll take you down to the cottage
where you can play wi' the little ones."