Madness (21 page)

It was slow going, but at the end of her exertions, the bed was clean, she had made it up with decent cotton, and Simon was clean, fresh smelling and thoroughly ashamed at the way he had spilled like a schoolboy on several occasions as she had given him a slow, thorough and deliberately sensual sponge bath.

But if Gabrielle thought ill of him for the way he appeared, and the physical response to her nearness which he manifested, she certainly gave no sign.

She poured the water out of the basin down the primitive drain, and began to comb and part his hair, which she then trimmed neatly.

“I’ll make it a bit shorter than is your wont, since we’ll be rather busy for a few weeks. But you look so much better already.”

“And you’ve certainly seen an eyeful,” he said with a rueful grin.

“As you’ve already seen too, Simon. Between the first time we ever met and this dress, your knowledge of my bosom is no doubt just about complete.”

He grinned. “Ah no, for I’ve not tasted their sweetness yet, and I would need at least two years to compose sonnets to each one of them.”

She grinned. “Not much point, for you wouldn’t want anyone to know about my secret charms. They’re for you, and you alone.”

He grinned broadly, his face even more handsome now that he was relaxed instead of tense with pain. “Damn, but you play the game well. Where did you say you were raised again?”

“Dorset. You remember.”

He settled himself on the bed more comfortably. “Aye, that I do." He winked. "Dashed fine fillies reared in Dorset.”

“I can’t say I know anything about the stallions, though. The geldings aren’t much to speak of.”

He laughed uproariously then. “No, dear, they never are.”

Then he sobered. “I have to thank you, my dear. I can't recall the last time I ever laughed so hard, or was flirted with so flatteringly. But in all earnestness, my love, I really think you need to leave. I thank you for the bath and all your help with my ablutions. My haircut, trimming my beard. I really have never met a woman like you before. I’m only sorry I’ve not been able to keep myself as chaste as I could have wished for one so lovely and virginal. But really, my treasure, you need to go.”

She shook her head. “We’ve already--”

“You must leave. This is going to be impossible, not to mention dangerous if Spence comes back and—”

“Please, let’s not argue again. Simon. I've told you, I'm staying. And we have so many more things we could be doing. Let’s try chess or draughts, shall we? There are cards as well. Of course, we could read a little now too if you liked. Clarissa will bring plenty of candles and anything else we need on her visits.”

“What did you bring?” he asked despite himself, more eager for books even than food or water.

“Some poetry, a collection of plays. We can get more—”

“My angel. I forgive you anything.”

She gazed deeply into his eyes. “Just so long as you know that I forgive you anything that happens in this cell. And later. Once you’re free.”

He gazed back at her, and only wished her words could be true. But he knew if he let her stay, he would be subjecting her to who only know what misery…

And yet to allow her to go was almost as unthinkable….

She gazed into his handsome face, and her heart went out to him. “Some times you can’t help it. I mean, you could have an entire family waiting for you at home, in which case-”

He shook his head. “Brothers, but they’re dead. No one is going to come for me now.”

She blinked in surprise. When she had questioned him directly about his past he had screamed in pain. But engaging his attention seemed to let him get over whatever barriers to remembrance he had put up. Or which had been imposed upon him…

“How can you be so sure?” she asked casually, as she put all their supplies near to hand so that as it got darker, she would be able to locate the candles and tinder box.

“I was told.”

“How many?”

“Brothers? Two.”

“Older or younger?”

“One and one.”

“So that makes you the middle boy?” she calculated, shaking out the towel she had used for his ablutions, and looking around for somewhere to hang it to dry.

“The mathematical one.”

She grimaced. “Not something I know much about.”

His eyes lit with enthusiasm. “Ah, a fascinating subject. Endless permutations. Like roses.”

“Roses?” she echoed, her brows knitting.

Simon nodded and gave another of his magnificent if rare smiles. “Yes. Well, any flower, really.”

She listened to him carefully as he began to highlight selective breeding, wondering as she did so why the words seemed vaguely familiar.

 
“So you can get an endless number of possibilities. It’s all in a special kind of code. Like people. Why does one child end up with blue eyes and one with green, when parents have those colours too?”

“And yours are gold.”

“Yes, and Georges a dark brown, almost black, and—” Simon grabbed his head then, in the throes of one of one his fits.

She shoved the food parcels toward the foot of the bed, got him safely onto it, and held him tightly to her until the fit finally subsided.

“Was that as bad as the others?” she asked when his thrashing about had subsided somewhat.

“Not quite,” he gasped, his jaw clenched.

She put some vinegar and brown paper on his head and then sat down and laid it in her lap. She took up her book of poetry and began to read to him quietly.

Soon he kissed her hand, and said, “Can we please have something more to eat?”

She got the bread and cheese out of their paper wrappers, and stretched over to hand him the cup of water he had been sipping from while she had been cleaning.

“I miss wine. We grew up on it, of course. Can’t remember the last time—”
 
A sucked in breath cut him off.

“Try not to remember for now, Simon," she urged. "You’re fighting a huge battle with the opiates. Don’t weaken yourself by forcing recollections which literally give you pain.”

He sighed. “No, you’re right. It’s just that seeing you again, it brings it all back to me. You’re very like your mother, I suppose. That’s why I think I recognise you. Of course I couldn’t. You were only a little girl, you and your sister. You were the dazzling one with that red hair of yours.
 
But though you've both grown from girls into women since I last saw you, I can see the same cast to your faces. What happened to your sister?” he asked suddenly.

“She’s in the cell next door.”

He shook his head slightly as she stroked his thick dark hair while he ate. “No, I meant why is she here?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “As is often the way in our world, alas. A bad marriage, to an indifferent husband. He tricked me into committing her. Told me she would be helped here. By the time I knew what this place was like, it was already too late.”

“She would have died if you hadn’t come along. Like me.”

Gabrielle shook her head. “Oh, I don’t think it would have been—”

“I know it would have been. And the baby?” he asked softly.

“It’s still with us. She needs to be careful, though.”

“And so who is the woman looking after her while you’re stuck here with me?" he asked, shifting onto his back to look at her more closely.

“Clarissa. My cousin Antony’s assistant. You remember Antony, don’t you? Dr. Herriot?”

Simon nodded. “I do. He warned you about me, didn’t he?”

“Yes, about the addiction,” she lied.

Simon took another mouthful of food, chewing thoughtfully.

“And does he know where you are, what you’re doing?”

She shook her head. “No. He thinks I’m with my cousin in the country for a month. Clarissa will take him some letters from me.”

“You have pen and paper?” he said, with a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

“Not with me, but she’ll be bringing some soon. All sort of supplies. I promise. It will be fine.”

“If I could get a message out to someone to help—”

He convulsed so powerfully then that he nearly fell flat on his face off the edge of the cot. Gabrielle caught him by a handful of shirt just in time and hauled him back into the bed, then climbed over him to press him against the wall, and forced him to lie down.

“There now, it’s all right. You’ll be fine. Just don’t think about it. I’ll read to you now, and you can rest.”

But the poem she chose only seemed to make him worse. It was ‘Go Lovely Rose’ by Edmund Waller.

He began to thrash and would have screamed if she had not clamped her hand over his mouth.

Alarmed at his almost uncontrollable hysteria, she did the only thing she could think of, and planted her lips on his in a blistering kiss.

His shivering subsided for a moment. His arms went around Gabrielle and pulled her right up full against his massively aroused body.
 
He rubbed against her like a powerful jungle cat pouncing on its prey, and then rolled onto his side and dragged his mouth away. His arms tightened around her, and for a moment she was nervous he was going to press his attentions to their natural conclusion.

But he only moved down to her shoulder and snuggled against her, one hand on her shoulder, the other lacing in her hair. He ran it down her hair to her face and throat, then moved it to her waist without touching her breasts.

Gabrielle had to admit she was rather disappointed that he did not. She adored his hands, so huge and masculine. They ought to have been threatening, but she felt safe cradled against him.
Safe with a madman, locked in his cell in Bedlam...