Dancing at Midnight (35 page)

miracles. She was definitely going to get worse before she got any better.

Belle was still restless. "Water," she croaked.

John pressed a glass to her lips, using a towel to wipe away the water

that dribbled down her chin. "Is that better?"

Belle licked her parched lips. "Don't leave me."

"I won't."

"I'm scared, John."

"I know you are, but there is nothing to worry about," he lied. "You'll

see."

"I'm not so cold anymore."

"Thafs good," he said encouragingly.

"My skin is still a little cold, but my insides—" She coughed, and her

entire body shook with spasms. When she finally settled down, she

completed her thought. "My insides are hot."

John fought back despair. He had to be strong for her. He had to share

this battle with her. He wasn't sure she'd be able to do it alone.

"Shhh, darling," he said soothingly, rubbing his palm softly against her

brow. "Go to sleep now. You need to get some rest."

Belle drifted away. "I forgot to tell you," she mumbled. "I forgot to

tell you this afternoon."

This afternoon? Lord, John thought, that seemed an eternity ago.

"I forgot to tell you," Belle persisted.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

"Always love you. Doesn't matter if you love me back."

And for once, he didn't feel that odd choking feeling.

*

*

*

*

*Chapter 21

*

From his position next to the bed, John looked down at Belle, worry

clouding his expression. It had been several hours since

she'd awakened and tried to crawl to the fire. She was still shivering,

and her fever had steadily worsened.

She was in a bad way.

There was a perfunctory knock, and then the door to the room opened.

Caroline entered, lines of worry etched clearly on

her face. "What happened?" she asked in a urgent whisper. "We just

arrived home, and Thornton told us Belle is ill."

John reluctantly let go of Belle's hand and escorted Caroline out into

the hall. "Belle went for a walk and was caught in the

rain. She hit her head." He recounted the rest of the details briefly,

leaving out the argument that had prompted her to run

outside in the first place. He'd only met his in-laws a day earlier. If

Belle wanted to tell her parents of their troubles that

was fine. He, a virtual stranger, was not going to do so.

Caroline's hand strayed nervously to her throat. "You look terribly

tired. Why don't you sleep? I'll sit with her now."

"No."

"But John—"

"You may remain with me, but I'll not leave her." He turned on his heel

and strode back to Belle's bedside. She was breathing evenly. It was a

good sign. He put his hand on her forehead. Damn. It was even hotter

than before. He doubted she'd be breathing so evenly in an hour's time.

Caroline followed him and stood by his side. "Has she been like this all

evening?" she whispered.

John nodded. He reached down, picked up a cloth which had been soaking

in cool water, and wrung it out. "There you go, sweetheart," he crooned,

laying it on her hot forehead. She mumbled something in her sleep and

fitfully shifted positions.

She tossed about again and men suddenly opened her eyes wide. Her

expression was filled with panic.

"Shhh, I'm here," he said softly, stroking her cheek. Belle seemed to

take some comfort in that and slowly let her eyelids

flutter shut. John had the impression that she'd never really seen him.

Caroline swallowed nervously. "I think we should send for a doctor."

"At this time of night?"

She nodded. "I'll see to it."

As John sat by Belle's side, carefully and worriedly watching over her,

his mind refused to stop replaying the devastating

comment she had made several hours earlier.

/Doesn't matter if you love me back./

Was it possible that she loved him unconditionally? Even with his past?

/Always love you./

And then it suddenly occurred to him—no one had ever said those words to

him before.

John lifted the cloth from Belle's forehead and cooled it off in the

basin of water. He didn't have time to sit around feeling sorry

for himself over an unhappy childhood. It wasn't as if he'd gone hungry

or been abused. He just hadn't been loved, and he suspected that

thousands of children across Britain had shared similar fates.

Over in the bed, Belle had grown fitful. John immediately turned his

full attention to her.

"Stop," she moaned.

"Stop what, love?"

"Stop!"

He leaned over and gently shook her by the shoulders. "You're having a

nightmare." Dear God, it tore him up to see her this way. Her face was

flushed and feverish, and her entire body was covered by a thin sheen of

perspiration. He tried to push her hair

out of her eyes, but she batted his hand away. He wished he knew how to

use one of those blasted hair things she always had lying around. She'd

be more comfortable if he could secure her heavy tresses away from her face.

"Fire," Belle moaned.

"There's no fire here save the one in the fireplace."

"Too hot."

John quickly wrung out the wet cloth.

"No, no, stop..." Belle suddenly sat up and screamed.

"No, love, lie back down." John started wiping the sweat from her body,

hoping the motion would cool her down. Belle's eyes

were open and she was looking at him, but John didn't see even a flicker

of recognition in her gaze.

"Stop, stop!" she shrieked, slapping his hands away. "Don't touch me!

It's too hot."

"I'm only trying to—"

"What the devil is going on?" Caroline burst into the room.

"She's delirious," John said, trying to cover Belle up with the sheet.

"But there was so much screaming."

"I said she's gone delirious," John snapped, attempting to hold the

sheet over Belle's writhing form. "See if we've any laudanum. We need to

calm her down." He sighed, remembering that he was talking to his

mother-in-law. "I'm sorry, Lady Worth.

It's just—"

She held up a hand. "I understand. I'll go look for the laudanum."

Belle started fighting him in earnest, her strength fueled considerably

by her fever. She was no match for John, however, whose firmly muscled

body had been honed by years in the military. "Wake up, damn you," he

said fiercely. "If you wake up the fire

will go away. I promise you."

Belle's only response was to struggle harder.

John didn't budge an inch. "Belle," he pleaded. His throat worked

violently. "Please."

"Get off of me!" Belle screamed.

Caroline chose that rather inopportune moment to reenter the room with a

bottle of laudanum. "What are you doing to her?"

John replied with a question. "Where is the laudanum?"

Caroline poured some into a glass and handed it to him.

"Here you go, Belle," he said softly, trying to pull her into a sitting

position and keep her still at the same time. He held the glass

to her lips. "Just a little now."

Belle's eyes focused on something behind him and she screamed again. Her

hands shot up to her head, knocking the glass from John's hands. It

rolled onto the floor, spilling the drug.

"I'll feed it to her this time," Caroline said. "You hold her down." She

held the glass to her daughter's lips and forced her to take

a gulp.

After a few moments Belle calmed down, and both mother and husband

breathed a weary sigh.

"Shhh," John crooned. "You can sleep now. The nightmare is gone. Rest,

my love."

Caroline pushed some of Belle's heavy locks from her face. "There must

be some way we can make her more comfortable."

John walked over to the bureau and picked something up. "Here is one of

her hair contraptions. Perhaps you could pin her hair back from her face?"

Caroline smiled. "It's called a barrette, John." She lifted Belle's hair

and secured it into a sloppy bun. "Are you certain you don't want to

sleep for a few hours?"

"I can't," he said hoarsely.

Caroline nodded sympathetically. "I will sleep then. You'll be weary in

the morning. You'll need help." She moved to the door.

"Thank you," he said abruptly.

"She is my daughter."

He swallowed, remembering when he had been sick as a child. His mother

had never come to visit him. His mouth opened

and closed, and then he nodded.

"It is I who should thank you," Caroline continued.

John looked up sharply, his expression clearly asking the question, "Why?"

"For loving her. I couldn't ask for more. I couldn't hope for more." She

left the room.

Belle soon fell into a deep sleep. John scooted her over to the other

side of the bed, where the sheets weren't so sweaty. He leaned down and

kissed her temple. "You can fight this," he whispered. "You can do

anything."

He walked back over to his chair and slumped into it. He must have dozed

off, because when he next opened his eyes, it was

past dawn, although one could barely tell for sure through the driving

rain. The weather was intensely bleak, and the rain didn't show any sign

of letting up. John's eyes searched the scene, trying to find one small

piece of the cityscape which might give

cause for optimism. And then he did something he hadn't done in many years.

He began to pray.

*  *  *

Neither Belle's condition nor the weather improved for several days.

John remained ever vigilant at his patient's bedside, forcing her to

drink water and broth whenever possible, and giving her laudanum when

she grew hysterical. By the end of the third day, John knew that she

would be in serious trouble if the fever did not break soon. She hadn't

eaten any solid food, and she was getting thin, much too thin. The last

time John had bathed her with the damp cloth he'd noticed that her ribs

had become painfully prominent.

The doctor had come every day, but he hadn't been especially helpful.

They could do nothing other than wait and pray, he had

told the family.

John swallowed down his worry and reached out to touch Belle's forehead.

She seemed completely unaware of his presence. Indeed, she seemed

unaware of anything other than the nightmares which plagued her

fever-ridden mind. John had been calm

and purposeful when he began to care for her, but now his even temper

was beginning to deteriorate. He'd barely slept in three days, and he

hadn't eaten much more than Belle had. His eyes were bloodshot, his face

was gaunt, and a look in the mirror told him that he looked almost as

bad as his patient did.

He was getting desperate. If Belle didn't pull through soon, he didn't

know what he would do. Several times during his vigil he

let his head fall limply into his hands, not even bothering to try to

stem the tears that ran down his face. He didn't know how he would be

able to make it from day to day if she died.

His face bleak, he crossed over to her bedside and perched on the

mattress next to her. She was lying there quite peacefully,

but John detected a slight change in her condition. She seemed still,

unnaturally still, and her breathing had grown shallow. Panic gripped

John like a hand around his heart, and he leaned down and grabbed her by

the shoulders. "Are you giving up on me?"

he demanded harshly. "Are you?"

Belle's head lolled to the side, and she whimpered.

"Damn you! You can't give up!" John shook her even harder.

Belle heard his voice as if it were coming to her through a long, long

tunnel. It sounded like John, but she couldn't imagine

why he would be with her in her bedroom. He sounded angry. Was he angry

at her? Belle sighed. She was tired. Too tired

to deal with an angry man.

"Do you hear me, Belle?" she heard him say. "I will never forgive you if

you give up on me."

Belle winced as she felt his large hands squeezing her upper arms. She

wanted to moan at the pain but she just didn't have the energy. Why

wouldn't he leave her alone? All she wanted to do was sleep. She'd never

felt this tired. She'd just like to cuddle

up and sleep forever. Summoning up all of her strength, she managed to

say, "Go away."

"Aha!" John shouted triumphantly. "You're still here with me. Hang on

now, Belle. Can you hear me?"

Of course she could hear him, Belle thought irritably. "Go away," she

said with a little more force. She shifted restlessly,

burrowing back under the covers. Maybe he wouldn't keep on bothering her

if she hid underneath the quilts. If she could

just keep on sleeping, she'd feel so much better.

John could see the will slipping out of her even though she'd managed to

speak. He'd seen that look before, on the faces of

men he knew during the war. Not the lucky ones who died in battle, but

the poor souls who had fought fever and infection for weeks afterward.

Watching Belle slowly letting go of life was more than he could take,

and something inside of him snapped.

Fury rose within him, and he forgot all of his vows to be tender and

considerate while nursing her through her illness.

"Damn it, Belle," he shouted angrily. "I'm not going to sit here and