Devotion (38 page)

"Maria," he
said aloud
in
the still air, then shouted it, "Maria!"
while
doing his best to pull himself up on a boulder, out of the snow. His head throbbed. His fingers burned. The image in his mind of her frail body crushed within the tangle of debris made him groan. He drove his fist into the rock until the pain overwhelmed him, and he collapsed, rolling onto his back in the snow. He closed his eyes.

A sound.

A sigh.

A murmur.

Rousing, he looked around.

The cleft of rock whereon he lay curved to the right and was crowned by a beard of brushwood and thistle. Near the crest, rimmed by shear black rock, lay a form. Salterdon pulled himself up onto the boulder again, blinked the frozen water from his eyes, and focused.

Maria!

He clawed his way to her, found her lying on her back in the snow, her hair a silver web around her head. She was shoeless. Her small pink toes peeked through holes in her stockings. Her chin was scuffed. A large purple knot had begun to rise just above her left eye.

Upon dragging his body up against hers, he slid his arms around her and pulled her close. She moaned, moved, rolled her head toward his as her eyelashes fluttered open.

"
Your
Grace?"

"Don't move. Don't talk. Jesus." He laughed in relief. "I thought you were dead."

"Do I look dead, sir?"

"Dreadfully dead, my love.
Like an angel.
A snow angel, with ice-crystal lips."

"I'm cold, sir."

"Come here.
Careful.
Can you move?" He managed to open his coat, and collecting her pliant body against his, closed the cloak around her. She nestled against him, her form molding to his, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. Her slender arms wrapped around him; one leg drew over his hip and thigh as if she were some sated lover ready to nap.

He kissed the top of her head, which smelled like snow-drenched violets. She snuggled again and murmured, "Not to worry, Your Grace. I'm here if you should need me."

If you should need me.

Christ, how deliciously innocent.

Occasionally, he ran his hands up and down her arms; he kneaded her back, massaged her neck— anything to kindle her body warmth as the minutes crawled into hours and the daylight dwindled.

Where the
blazes was
Thaddeus? Had he gone over the precipice with the coach and horses?

Certainly someone would come looking for them soon. The storm was escalating, the winds groaning and sending sprays of snow driving like sharp little needles through the air. He did not dare close his eyes; he would die.
She
would die.

He held her tighter, shook her, roused her from her dreamy state,
forced
her to look at him squarely. Her wide blue eyes rimmed in ice reflected a dullness that speared him with panic.

"Talk to me," he demanded.

Her eyes drifted closed.

He covered her mouth with a hard kiss, holding her chin while his fingers bracketed her jaw. He kissed her harder, forcing open her lips, sliding his tongue inside her—she moved and groaned—"Kiss me," he said through his teeth, and felt her body flutter. Her breathing escalated. Her cold skin turned warm and supple, and she moaned deep in her throat.

His hand moved down her chest, found her breast, closed on it gently at first, then harder, rougher, until he felt her small hands twist into the shirt on his back. Her leg drew him closer, so close he could feel the heat between her thighs. She turned her soft open mouth against his shoulder and sighed deeply.

His blood warmed.

His brow began to sweat.

Heart pounding, he dragged his hands out of her clothes, folded his arms around her and crushed her to his chest . . . until her breathing became even again, until she lay quietly in his arms. Turning his face into the falling snow, he began to laugh. He laughed so hard tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and grew thick as treacle on his freezing cheeks.

At last, Maria raised her head and blinked at him. Her blue lips whispered, "I fail to see what's so funny about freezing to death."

Grabbing her face between his hands, he said, "Maria . . . my toes are cold."

She frowned.

"Maria . . . my legs hurt."

"Your legs?"

He nodded and kissed her fully on the mouth before laughing again.

Woozily, Maria struggle to her knees. Conscious at last to the import of his discovery, she fumbled with her hands down his body, to his legs, and squeezed.

"Yes!" he cried out, and beat the snow with his fists. "I can feel that, Maria."

"And there?"

"Yes!"

"Here? Can you move them?"

Gritting his teeth, he tried—nothing—then tried again. Exhausted, he fell back in the snow, took a long deep
breath
then . . .

"
Your
Grace!" she cried.
"Your foot.
Did you move it?"

He nodded and forced himself up on his elbows. Perched on her knees, her flimsy cape a pitiful barrier from the cruel elements, she appeared little more than a
spectre
in the failing light and driving snow. Hands clasped at her chin, her face turned up toward the heavens, she wept so softly he barely heard her.

"Come here before you freeze," he said.

"Nay, not until I've thanked God for His favor," she replied.

"If you don't come here and keep me warm, Miss Ashton, I fear both of us will be speaking to God face to face before long."

"But—"

"God is patient, lass. I'm not." Grabbing her arm, he pulled her down, wrapped his wool and fur coat around her shivering frame and concentrated on the tingling sensation working up his leg, from his toes to his calves to his knees. Damn if he could not wiggle his toes. If he tried hard enough, he might manage his ankle—

"Think how thrilled and relieved your family will be," Maria said against his chest.

His smile faded.

"You can go on with your life now, just as you had planned. You'll be as good as new. Imagine the duchess's pleasure—"

"Hush, Maria."

"She'll—"

"Be quiet!" he shouted, then digging his fingers into her upper arms, lifted her up to face level and shook her fiercely. "You're not to breathe a word of this to anyone. Not to
Edgcumbe
. Not to my grandmother. Do you understand me, Maria?"

"Nay, I don't understand."

"Promise me. Swear it. Not a solitary word until I'm ready."

At last, she nodded. Again, he wrapped his arms around her and stared unseeing through the flying snow.

For two days Maria lay in her bed shivering first with cold, then with fever. Gertrude slipped in and out of the room, mopping her brow, stoking the fire. Now and again snippets of conversation came to her, but the words made no sense. Faces came and went: Gertrude's, whose brow was constantly creased in concern;
Edgcumbe's
, which regarded her as if she were some specimen to be poked and prodded.

Once, she roused enough to recognize John's face smiling down at her. His hands were cool when he touched her brow, and soft. Other
times . . .
his hands felt warm and strong. They cupped her face in so caressing a manner she wanted to weep. Those times always came late at night, when the fire had dwindled to glowing embers; when only a solitary lamp near her bed filled the immense quiet with soft hissing.

She dreamt they were her master's hands. Thai the litany of
"Maria, Maria, don't die"
whispered near her ear were spoken by Salterdon's lips.

Had she imagined it all in her feverish mind? Had he held her? Touched her? Kissed her?

And had she realized, at long last, that she had fallen hopelessly in love with the Duke of Salterdon?

On the fourth day she awoke with a clear head and sat straight up in bed. John sat in a chair near the fire, his head bent over the open Bible in his lap. He looked up, surprised.

"His Grace," she cried. "Where is he?"

Putting aside the Book, John left the chair.

Maria scrambled from the bed, swayed back and forth, clutched the bedpost for support,
then
stumbled toward Salterdon's bedroom door.

"Wait!" John called, and ran after her.

Flinging open the door, she fled into the chamber, paused only long enough to note that his bed was empty—she scanned the room—her sight locking at once on his form in the wheeled chair by the window. With a cry of relief, she dashed over the carpeted floor, and throwing her arms around his shoulders, pressing his shaggy head against her bosom, she wept, "You're alive! Thank God. Precious master—" She covered the top of his head with kisses. "You saved my life. How can I repay you?"

John looped his arm around her waist and tugged her away. She fought him, arms and legs flailing.

"Stop this," John demanded.

"Nay, I won't! Can't you see that he needs me?" At last, she managed to shove John away. Turning to Salterdon again, she dropped to the floor and flung herself upon Salterdon's knees. She grabbed his hand and clutched it to her breast.

His features appeared haggard, his face unshaven. Staring out over the frozen countryside, his eyes looked glazed and vacant as glass.

"No. Not again," she told him frantically. "You won't hide from me—from us again. I would rather die than lose you again to that dreadful madness!"

Briefly, he closed his eyes; his shoulders drooped.

Wearily, Maria
lay
her head on his lap and entwined her fingers through his. "I didn't imagine it," she whispered. "You're not insane. You're not ill. And your legs—"

He touched one fingertip to her lips. Lifting her head, she regarded his countenance and his eyes that were far from remote now, and regarding her so fixedly she could scarcely swallow.

"You promised," he breathed. "You promised."

"You can't imagine how frightened we were when Thaddeus returned to Thorn Rose looking as if he had been beaten with a cudgel. He babbled frantically about thieves and a mishap—of the coach careening from the road and plummeting down the hillside. I thought I had lost you . . . again."

John reached across the lap tray and took the cup and saucer from her. "My relief upon finding you alive was too great to fathom. Since you left
Huddersfield
I continued to tell myself that you would come back— that once experiencing the
ofttimes
harsh and cruel realities of the world you would
come
flying back to the security of your own home. As days turned into weeks I realized that I had been too complacent in my expectations. I should never have allowed you to leave in the first place. I want you to come back to
Huddersfield
with me. We'll be married. We'll go immediately to Bristol—"