Johanna Lindsey (17 page)

Angry now that he was being utterly unreasonable again in trying to keep her there, she turned about to blast him with a piece of her mind and lost every thought.

He was standing there with his pants back on, thank God, but still no shirt, stockings, or shoes.

The expanse of his chest was amazing. He had seemed to be a prime specimen under his clothes, but without them, it was confirmed without a doubt. A Corinthian body, firm muscles, not a speck of excess flesh. A thin mat of dark hair across his chest that didn’t travel much lower than that. Tight, firm waist that led to narrow hips before his very long legs began. Thick bunches of muscles in his thighs rippled and smoothed out with each movement he made.

His long black hair had come undone from the tight knot where it was usually contained at his nape. It spread across his shoulders and back. Even when he tossed some of it back with one hand, it fell back to annoy him. He looked quite wild. He looked so handsome she could barely breathe.

She searched frantically for the anger she’d so justifiably felt toward him last night, found it, but still couldn’t open her mouth while he was standing there half naked. So she crossed to her bureau to find a pair of stockings that matched, praying he’d be finished dressing by the time she faced him again.

He was, mostly. His shirt on, at least half fastened and tucked into his pants, he was sitting in the chair now putting on his shoes. His hair was still in wild disarray, though, and he simply looked so different like that! Not so in control, certainly not so sinister. She had a brief urge to help him with his hair. Actually, she just wanted to touch it, it looked so soft.

“You need a barber,” she said curtly.

“I need a drink,” he shot back, then pinned her with his golden eyes. “That was quite possibly the worst night of hell I’ve ever experienced.”

“Muscles aching from the hard floor?” she smirked.

“No, Maggie, aching for you.”

Her mouth dropped open. The fluttering in her belly that his words caused actually felt—pleasant.

But she forgot to breathe again. What a horrid habit that was starting to be. She swung around, gulped in a deep breath, started to head to the bed to sit down to change her stockings, but quickly vetoed that idea and moved to the chaise longue instead.

By the time she had her own shoes on and stood up to glance at Sebastian, he had finished dressing as well, even had his hair clubbed back again. Much better. At least he looked civilized. But he was just standing there staring at her. Waiting for her to reply to his last outlandish remark? As if she would, she snorted to herself.

Calmly, or at least as calmly as she could manage with his eyes so intent on her, she said, “You really are going to have to be reasonable about this, Sebastian. There simply isn’t enough privacy in here for us to share this room.”

“I agree.”

“Thank God.” She went weak with relief.

“But that doesn’t solve our dilemma.”

He wasn’t going to be reasonable after all. She could see that, and it incensed her. “We don’t have a dilemma!”

“Be quiet, Maggie.”

She glared at him. “Don’t you dare start ordering me about again. If I want to chatter for a week, I bloody well will.”

“I was referring to your tone, m’dear. Flay me all you like, just do it without shouting. The walls are thick, but they’re not that thick.”

“Oh,” she said nonplussed and with a blush.

“Now, as I was saying,” he continued. “I do have another suggestion. But first, tell me, where did you get the kind of money you intend to pay me with?”

“I don’t have it, but I can get it. My family owned many properties. I’ll just sell a few.”

“Unless you’re talking about ducal estates, you won’t be getting more’n a few thousand pounds for ‘properties.’”

She blushed. He was probably right. But she simply hadn’t thought that far ahead.

When she didn’t answer, he added, “You could pay me off in trade.” She raised a brow at him. “What trade? I have nothing to trade you.” His golden gaze moved over her. “Your body will do.”

She drew in her breath sharply. “You are despicable!”

“No, just randy at the moment.”

Could her face get any hotter? She’d never in her life been subjected to the sort of things this man said, and he said them as if there was nothing wrong with saying them. The man really had forgotten how to behave in polite society, had far too long been The Raven, uncouth, deadly, a merciless mercenary.

Stiffly, she said, “That’s out of the question. I’ll get your money.” Was his shrug a little bit disappointed? she wondered, but he merely warned, “Don’t make me wait too long proving that you can.”

“Or what? You’ll leave? Without finishing the job?”

“A job you haven’t paid for.”

“This is your family,” she reminded him. “I shouldn’t have to pay you.”

“Ex-family. I warned you that they mean nothing to me now.”

“Liar,” she retorted, and then in an incredulous tone, “Good God, you even said it yourself, that you weren’t serious about that price.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

He started walking toward her. Margaret stiffened, but by the time he reached her, she could have been a statue for all the movement she was capable of. She expected the worst. He was looking too damn serious. And such close proximity to him flayed her nerves as it usually did. And quickened her pulse. And shot her anticipation sky-high.

He ran the back of his finger across her cheek. It was the lightest touch, and yet it set afire every nerve in her body and made her feel as if she were melting. How could something so harmless nearly buckle her knees? How could this man affect her so strongly? She simply didn’t understand it.

“You do realize that no one will expect you to be a virgin after you obtain your ‘divorce’?” he said in too soft a tone. “And it will settle the difficulty we are having with a single room. Think about it, Maggie.”

She’d do nothing of the sort. He was mad even to suggest it. But she wasn’t about to say that with him standing so close to her that she could feel his body’s heat and hear him breathing. She had to remind herself to breathe! And she wanted to step back, she really did, but couldn’t seem to move. Fear. That had to be it. He was terrifying her. Yes, that was a much better conclusion to draw than that he excited her beyond anything else she’d ever experienced.

Her silence must have encouraged him because he suddenly caressed her other cheek. Really, so lightly she might not even have noticed if it had been anyone but him touching her.

“You’re soft,” he murmured. “I wasn’t expecting that, as hard-nosed as you are.” She blinked. Teasing her when she was so frazzled she couldn’t put two thoughts together? But it allowed her to break the trance she’d been in and stumble away from him—stupid knees still weren’t working right.

But the distance let her think clearly again and she was quick to mention, “There is another option, the most commonsense one. You simply return to White Oaks until your father recovers. Make some excuse for doing so. You can’t talk to Douglas, anyway, until he regains consciousness. There’s really no reason for both of us to take the bedside vigil.”

He appeared to give that some thought, then said, “No. I need to be here when Juliette gets back from London. I need to see her reaction to my return. And besides, leaving here now that I’ve gained entrance defeats the purpose of our ‘marriage.’ I can’t very well push and prod to find out what’s been happening here if I’m at White Oaks.”

She sighed. “Fine. I’ll return home, then, and you do the bedside vigil.”

“I don’t do bedside vigils. And we don’t want my face to be the first thing my father sees when he awakens. That would probably shock him back to unconsciousness. Denton was right in that regard. He’

d much prefer you for his nurse.”

Margaret gritted her teeth. The man was absolutely impossible to deal with. And absolutely determined to share a room with her, apparently.

She threw up her hands and marched to the door. “Very well, but your bedding will be moved into the bathroom. There is plenty of floor space in there for it, and don’t you dare try to insist there isn’t.

And the door will remain closed between us. And you will knock before entering this room. And I will not discuss it further. That is my last word on it.”

She’d reached the door, opened it, and turned to glare at him, daring him to come up with an excuse to refute what she’d just said. He said nothing, was giving her his usual inscrutable look. He’d gotten what he wanted in the end, both of them “appearing” to be sharing the room. He’d thoroughly wracked her emotions and she’d still lost the battle. Odious man.

“And I’m not the least bit hard-nosed!” she added before she closed the door on him. “I merely exercise common sense.”

D
OUGLAS’S FEVER WAS STILL VERY HIGH, Dr. Culden stopped by again that morning, and this time even he was starting to look worried after he tried with no success to wake his patient. He wasn’t ready to resort to funneling liquid down his throat, but he did order them to feed Douglas the very moment he woke.

To accomplish that, Margaret had a cauldron of soup brought up and set near enough to the fireplace in Douglas’s room that it was kept warm. She also had buckets of icy water fetched from the cold cellar to be used for compresses for his brow, which were to be changed regularly.

Dr. Culden had checked Douglas’s head wound again and reported that it looked clean and didn’t appear to be infected. The swelling hadn’t gone down, though. And until they knew otherwise, the fever remained the greater problem. As long as it remained high, Douglas was still in danger.

Margaret spent the morning in his room. He’d certainly had enough sleep, so if he was going to wake, it should be soon, and she wanted to be there when he did.

At midmorning Abigail poked her head around the door. She didn’t come into the room, merely squinted at the bed, though she probably couldn’t see that Douglas was still sleeping.

“Any change?” she asked.

“No, none yet,” Margaret told her.

“I’m not surprised,” Abigail said in a disagreeable tone. “He’s a stubborn fool even when he’s sick.”

That remark harked back to Abigail’s old bitterness, the reason she and her son hadn’t spoken in all these years. Margaret joined her by the door and said quietly, “He doesn’t know yet that Sebastian is here. I’d rather keep it that way, until he’s feeling up to scratch and able to deal with it.”

“Deal with it?” Abigail scoffed. “You mean give Sebby the boot again.” Margaret winced. “That’s quite possible. In fact, Sebastian expects it. He’s here to visit with you, Abbie, not patch things up with his father.”

“Which would be a useless endeavor if he tried,” Abigail predicted.

Margaret raised a curious brow. “Do you really think so? After eleven years?”

“Has it been that long? Yes, of course it has. But nothing has occurred to make Douglas change his mind. He wouldn’t discuss it back then, why would he now?”

“I’m sure he had his reasons—”

“Don’t defend him to me, gel,” Abigail cut in. “He was wrong, so wrong. Instead of standing by Sebastian in that unfortunate tragedy, he did what he assumed would be expected of him.”

“Sebastian outright defied him and caused a death in doing so. Did you never think that that was the reason Douglas took the stand he did?”

“Sebastian made a mistake. He didn’t deserve to be condemned by his own family for it.”

“You have a tender heart, Abbie. You see it that way. Obviously Douglas saw it differently. But that’s all water under the bridge.”

“Water soon to rise again,” Abigail said with a snort, then headed back down the corridor.

Margaret sighed and quietly closed the door. Douglas and Abigail were both too stubborn by half.

She’d never noticed that trait in Denton. Sebastian, possibly…

“Was that my mother?”

“Douglas!” Margaret gasped and swung about, then rushed to the bed to feel his brow. It was still quite hot. “Let’s feed you first, before we talk. Doctor’s orders.” His eyes were only half opened. She was quite fearful that he would nod off again before she could get some nourishment into him. He tried to sit up to eat. That didn’t work, so she stuffed some pillows behind him to prop him up a bit. He reached for the bowl of soup she brought him as well, but when he nearly spilled it, she took it back and started spoon-feeding him herself.

He didn’t like being waited on to that extent and demanded between spoonfuls, “Why am I so weak?”

“You lost a good deal of blood, and you’re running a nasty fever. Now, shh. We’ll talk after you finish this bowl of soup.”

He complied, though grudgingly. In fact, he looked about as annoyed as his tone had been.

Margaret recalled two times during her stay here when Douglas had been sick and told to stay in bed. It had been like trying to contain a lion in a small cage.

He finished the soup, but by the time he did, his eyes were starting to droop. “Normally I would suggest more sleep, until you feel better,” she told him. “But you’ve had so much of it already…Does your head hurt?”

“Like it’s splitting in two.”

“Oh, dear. Well, I have a powder here for that, one of Dr. Culden’s concoctions to relieve the pain. Give me a moment to stir it into some tea for you.”

She moved to the table where a tray of tea had been brought for her. “How did you get that wound?” she asked over her shoulder. “Do you remember?”

“I’m not positive,” he replied. “I think my horse got spooked by something. I recall I was riding down the road on my way home when he suddenly bolted to the side. Blasted branch there swept me out of the saddle. I think I tumbled a bit. Must have been the slope off the side there. Then a wicked pain in my head. Then nothing. Remind me to cut down those lower branches along the road to the house. They serve no useful purpose.”