The Sherbrooke Series Novels 1-5 (119 page)

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

T
HE 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.

“Turnips,” she said, sounding like the creaky gate in Maude’s rose garden. “My mother will make you eat turnips.”

He grinned at her. “Good, you didn’t break your neck.” He scooped her and all the covers up and put her back on the bed. Everything was a mess.

“I was trying to reach the water.”

“Hold still.” Soon she was attacking a glass of water the way he’d attacked that delicious pork kniver. She drank a full glass, then fell back, just a bit of water dribbling down her chin. He flicked the water away with his finger.

She eyed him, then eyed him some more. “You’re not wrinkled. You look very much a baron today.”

“No more wrinkles. Squire Leon took pity on me.” He stopped then. “You’re awake and you’re making sense. I’ve become used to a moaning, sweaty girl who occasionally squeaks or sings nasty ditties or tells me about a frog
she once had named Fred or how her older cousin used to throw her in a pond on the first day of May every year.”

“Poor Fred. A Frenchman got him, I know it. He was visiting in the neighborhood—the Frenchman, not Fred. Fred lived in the neighborhood. I knew the Frenchman was a guest at Gorkin Manor. He must have seen Fred, and it was all over. Fred was gone.” She coughed. “My voice feels all rusty. It doesn’t hurt that much right now, but it’s still strange. May I have some more water?”

After drinking another glass, she said, “I really told you about Fred?”

“Yes. Where’s your cousin?” He lightly stroked his fingertips over her cheek, a healthy color now, which relieved him enormously.

“Bernard died in the Peninsula three years ago.”

“I’m sorry. Now, do you remember when we came to the inn?”

“This morning. We came late morning and we were starving. I remember the pork kniver that you ate without offering me a single bite.”

“As I recall, you tried to eat all the chicken and disdained the kniver. At least you passed out after you’d eaten and not before. Now, you’re not quite right about the time. Actually, that happened four days ago. I was very worried about you, Jack. Even the local vicar was here, praying over you. Dr. Hyde told Squire Leon about the two of us, told him I was a peer, for God’s sake, and Squire Leon came to visit, took one look at the abysmal state I was in, and offered me clothes. His wife left clothes for you. Yes, everyone appears to know that you’re a female, including Mr. Harbottle. I suppose it was just too meaty a tale for Dr. Hyde not to pass on to his neighbors. It’s not really that important.

“Now, you’ve drunk two glasses of water. You’re
looking desperate. Let me get you the chamber pot.”

He left her to herself for a good three minutes before fear that she would fall on her face again drove him back into the bedchamber. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding the blankets over her, staring hard at her toes. They were nice toes. An appallingly clear image of himself nibbling those toes flashed through his mind. He cleared his throat.

“The squire’s wife, Betty, left you a nightgown. I’ll put it on you right after you’ve had a bath. What do you think?”

“A bath?” she scratched her leg, then touched the thick, oily braid. She nearly shouted, she was so excited. But once he had her sitting in the deep tub, the water just covering her breasts, she didn’t have the strength to balance herself. She slid directly down and nearly drowned herself.

“You’re weak,” he said matter-of-factly, his hands under her arms, pulling her up. “That’s perfectly natural. You just keep yourself sitting up, yes, that’s it, hang on to the sides, and I’ll wash your hair for you.”

She was trembling, her lips nearly blue, when finally she was clean, from her toes to her head, and he had wrapped her in towels. She sat bundled in the single chair, watching Susie, the maid, change the bed. When Susie was finished, she curtsied and said, “Shall I comb out your hair, my lady?”

Her hair was nearly dry before she realized what Susie had called her.
Oh, dear
, she thought, but it was a half-hearted
oh, dear
because she was simply too tired to care. She was only vaguely aware of Gray putting her into a nightgown and lifting her into bed. He smoothed the nightgown over her legs and tucked her between those delicious, sweet-smelling fresh linens. She felt his warm hand lightly stroking her wrist as she sank into a pleasant stupor.

“Come on, Jack, open your eyes. You can do it. Can you smell the chicken soup Mrs. Harbottle made just for you? Yes, that’s right. Breathe in deeply. Now open your mouth. Good. Just a little bite at first.”

He kept spooning in the soup until she simply couldn’t hold another bite. He set the bowl aside and leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

She stretched beneath the covers. “I’m alive and I feel clean. It’s wonderful.”

“Yes.” He remembered each and every inch of her, since he’d been diligent, not missing a single patch of her with that washing cloth. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to wipe that picture out of his mind and not succeeding to any great extent, and said easily, “You’ve got a lot of hair. I don’t recall ever having washed a girl’s hair before. It’s still not quite dry. Try not to move your head.”

“Can I have some water?”

After she’d drunk her fill, he laid her back down and sat in his chair again, leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees. “A lot has happened in the past four days,” he said, watching her carefully. “I sent a messenger to London with a letter to Mathilda and Maude. He waited for them to write me a response.”

She closed her eyes against the enormity of life. “Do they ever want to see me again?”

“Oh, yes, you’re still their little lambkin. As you can imagine, they as well as my entire household were frantic when I unexpectedly disappeared, evidently taking both Durban and Brewster with me. Naturally the aunts had to spill to Quincy that Jack the valet wasn’t Jack at all. Unfortunately, by the time they worked themselves up to the sticking point, Quincy had already notified all of my friends, not just one or two. No, he’d notified at least a dozen, inquiring if they knew where I’d gone to.

“Then Sir Henry Wallace-Stanford came back, nearly ran over Quincy, and was met by the manly Remie, who properly set him back out on the street. While Remie was manhandling Sir Henry, a good friend of mine, Ryder Sherbrooke, came along and was quickly told by Quincy that I was missing and that this man was trying to steal into the house for some nefarious purpose.” Gray paused a moment, smiling as he pictured the scene, and said, “Ryder then proceeded to pound him into the ground.

“Ryder was there when my letter to Quincy arrived.” Gray looked down at his fingernails. They were clean and well buffed. “Ryder will be coming here to escort us back. I expect him anytime now. There was nothing I could do to prevent it. But we don’t have to worry about Ryder. He’ll not say a word to hurt me. Since you’re with me, you’ll not be hurt either.”

She was giving him a bitter look that made him angry. He hadn’t done a damn thing, and here she was looking all wounded. Now that expressive face of hers was drifting toward desperation. “All because I stole Durban,” she said, looking at the ceiling. “What will I do now?”

He sat forward, groped beneath the pile of blankets to find her hand, and pulled it out. He held her fingers, feeling how dry her skin was, and frowned. “We need some cream. Illness does strange things to our bodies. Your skin feels like a dry leaf. This isn’t good. I’ll take care of it.”

He didn’t say another word, just got up and left the bedchamber immediately. She lay there because she didn’t have the strength to lift her own dry hand. Where had he gone? What was he going to take care of? Everything was a mess. There was indeed life waiting outside this bedchamber, and she didn’t like it.

Where had he gone, damn him? She didn’t say the curse aloud, just thought it. It surprised her that when she’d even
thought the ‘damn,’ she’d tasted turnips. Her mother had a lot to answer for.

When Gray came back, he was carrying a small jar. “Hold still,” he said and began smoothing cream into her hand. He shoved up the arm of her nightgown and rubbed the cream into her forearm, then up to her shoulder. “That feels better,” he said, then moved to her other arm. He rubbed slowly; he was thorough. “Now your face.”

When he’d finished to his satisfaction, he set the jar beside the water carafe, sat down, and leaned forward, his hands clasped. He said, “Who’s Georgie?”

She said, “You’re not a bad man, are you? The aunts were wrong to even consider for a moment that you weren’t honorable. You’re not at all like your father. Was he really bad?”

“Yes, I already told you. He was a nightmare. He’s dead. I’m not at all like him. Enough of your attempts to distract me. If you don’t think you can trust me now, then you’re a blockhead. Tell me, Winifrede, who’s Georgie?”

“My little sister.”

“You were riding toward Folkstone to visit your little sister?”

“I was going to take her away from my stepfather. I must protect her.”

“Because he’ll finally think of her and use her as leverage against you?”

“How did you know that?”

“You were delirious. You said that.”

She fell silent. She wouldn’t look at him. He was so irritated, he nearly threw the pitcher against the wall. He rose and began to pace. The clothing Squire Leon had given him fit him well enough. Actually, she thought, looking toward him, the trousers were black and tight. He looked quite fit, no fat on him that she could see, and he was a
good deal taller than she was. It was difficult to tell how tall he was, since she was lying flat on her back. Squire Leon’s waistcoat was also black, not terribly stylish, but she thought that with the full-sleeved white shirt he looked quite dashing. His black boots were his own, she assumed, and his attempts to clean them hadn’t been terribly successful. Yes, Gray was a man of many nice aspects.

What else had she spewed out when she’d been out of her head? Had she told him about little Tommy Lathbridge putting his hand on her leg when she was six years old and he was seven? Then she’d put her hand on Tommy’s leg, and he was so mortified he hadn’t spoken to her for a month.

She sighed. Life was here in the room with her, and he was trying to shove it down her throat. There was no hope for it. She either trusted him or she didn’t. He’d saved her life. On the other hand, if he hadn’t stopped her, she would have—would have what? Ridden to Bath before she’d realized she was going the wrong direction?

She cleared her throat and spit it out. “You saved my life. Thank you. I’ll be ready to leave in another day, surely not longer. I’m young and usually very well—not even colds bring me down. Will you loan me some money? Will you loan me Durban? Will you just forget all this happened? Please?”