“She’s only fainted,” he murmured. Still he reached for her neck to find her reassuring pulse. It was there—thready and fast, but there.
Put it on her? He opened the jar and sniffed it—it
didn’t smell bad at all—then dipped his index finger and felt the stuff between his thumb and finger. It was thick and somewhat greasy.
Lifting her hand, he smoothed it over her dry, pale skin, rubbing it in until it disappeared, leaving her hand smooth and supple. He continued, rubbing the lotion up one arm and down the other. He massaged it into her chest, breasts and stomach, and down her legs. He rubbed it into her feet, between each of her toes.
When he’d finished she looked dewy and soft, and he was probably imagining it, but her face didn’t look as yellow-pale as it had earlier. There was a bit left in the jar, so he gently turned her and rubbed it over her back.
He’d used every bit of the creamy ointment. He hoped that was what she’d meant for him to do.
He slid off the bed to put the jar away, and looking up at the clock, saw that it was nearly midnight. He slid into the chair beside the bed and watched her limp form as she struggled for every breath.
“I love her,” he murmured out loud. And he didn’t know what the hell he’d do if he lost her.
Olivia woke, sore but comfortable, but when she swallowed her throat was painfully dry.
“Thirsty,” she whispered. Her voice came out in a grating croak.
Immediately, a hand was supporting her neck, lifting her enough that she could drink from the glass pressed against her lips.
The water was smooth, cool, and crisp. It seemed to cleanse her mouth and throat as it went down. She swallowed one refreshing gulp, and then several more.
“Thank you, Max,” she murmured as he laid her back onto the pillow.
“How did you know it was me?”
His low voice was just as much of a balm as his touch. She smiled. It was the way he touched her. The way he was just… there. It seemed he’d been there forever. She wondered how long it had been since she’d arrived in Prescot and fallen sick. She had no idea.
But all of that was simply too much, too soon, to say. She didn’t have the strength, but she knew she would soon. She’d tell him then.
For now, she simply smiled and said, “I just knew.”
Soon, as soon as she had the strength, she’d tell him she was sorry for asking him to leave her alone. The bet he’d made with Fenwicke—that had been a different Max. The Max who had only seen her from a distance and hadn’t really known her.
She’d always thought her illness would repel any possible suitor. She’d thought no man would want her if he knew how sick she became.
Max was still here. He knew her now, he knew all of her; he’d slept beside her during the worst of it, and he was still here.
There was a certain masculine roughness inherent in Max’s touch. And she loved that. She loved how he’d held her against him while she’d been sick. How she’d wake in the throes of feverish delirium and take comfort from his heavy, even breaths.
She heard him suck in a breath, and finally, she opened her eyes.
“You’re not feverish,” he said. His eyes were wide and shining.
She shook her head. “No. I’m getting better.”
“Was it the Peruvian bark lotion?”
“The Peruvian bark lotion?”
“You told me to put it on you yesterday—last night—so I spread it all over your body.”
She laughed softly. “You did? I don’t remember.”
“You were unconscious.”
“Well, I don’t know,” she murmured, “it might have been that.” Or maybe it was just Max. Maybe his tender care had frightened the malaria right out of her.
Before she knew it, he’d gathered her into his arms. “Then you shall have it every time you’re sick, love. As much of it as you need.”
She slipped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder. “Thank you.”
“Are you really feeling better?” There was hope—and vulnerability—in the question.
“Yes,” she said. “I know from experience when the fevers take a turn. This one… well, it’s gone.”
“Thank God.” He bent to press a kiss on her forehead.
“Max?”
“Yes?”
“Was I very awful? I mean… when I was sick? I mean, I know sometimes I’m not completely lucid. And my sisters say I’ll jabber and drool and toss and turn. And they say I’ve yelled at them and once I threw hot soup at Jessica.”
“And I’d wager Jessica was there to take care of you the next time you fell ill, even after the soup-throwing incident.”
“Well, yes.”
“She loves you unconditionally.”
There was a short silence, and then she hesitantly asked. “And you?”
He pulled back a little, using one hand to tilt her head up to look into his face. “I love you, too, Olivia. I thought I was going to lose you…” He shook his head, his frown darkening his eyes. “And I’ve never felt so lost. I need you. You’ve become a part of me I cannot bear to lose.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
His eyes widened. “Sorry? For what?”
“For telling you I didn’t want to see you. For sending you away. It was stupid of me.”
“I knew you needed time. But if you thought I was going to let you go that easily… Well, I wasn’t.”
She’d known that, too, deep inside. “I’m so sorry I fell ill and that you were forced to take care of me.”
His arms tightened around her. “I
want
to take care of you.”
She looked up at him, frowning. “Why?”
“Because I love you. And when you love someone you want to care for them. You want to make them happy.”
“I wish I could care for you. I wish I could make
you
happy.”
His lips quirked into a smile. “You have made me happy, Olivia. Because I think you just told me you love me, too.”
She sighed, feeling happy, content, fulfilled, and so much better. “Oh, Max. I think you’re right.”
A few days later, Olivia had begun using her new supply of quinine that had come from London, they’d hired temporary servants to help with the house as well as a man to repair the broken-down door, and Olivia took her
first steps outside since her arrival. Though she was still recovering, it felt wonderful to be outdoors.
“You know,” she murmured, “when I lived with my mother and sisters in Antigua, they’d never let me see the light of day for a full month after one of the fevers, because Mother was convinced exposure to the outside air would make me relapse.”
Max drew to a halt beside her, frowning. “Are you sure it won’t?”
She laughed. “It won’t.” She leaned up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek, not caring if any of the servants were watching. After her illness, she and Max were beyond behaving discreetly. “I promise.”
He squeezed her hand. “Good. But if it does, thank God you have your medicine now.”
“Yes.” She tilted her head at him and asked softly, “Is it selfish of me to revel in the fact that you seem to care so much for me?” she asked musingly.
“
Seem to
care? God, Olivia. I do care.”
She smiled. “Then is it selfish of me to revel in the fact that you care so much for me?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Everyone should have someone who cares for them. And everyone should revel in it.”
She bit her lower lip, looked up at him from under her lashes, and asked, “Do you revel in the fact that I care for you?”
He stopped and turned to face her. Cupping her cheeks in both hands, he tilted her face up to him. “I do. I revel in it, and I thank God for it. Every minute of every day.”
He bent down, and for the first time since she’d awakened from the fever, he kissed her, smooth and soul-piercingly deep, his tongue, soft and warm, seeking hers,
dueling, and ultimately conquering. After long, sensuous moments, he pulled away, still holding her face, and pressed his forehead to hers.
“You’re a minx,” he whispered, breathing hard, the heat of his exhalations washing over her cheeks.
She smiled and traced the powerful muscles on his back with her hand. “I’ve missed you, Max.”
“I’ve been right here, sweetheart.”
“You know what I mean.”
He pulled back and looked into her eyes. “I’ve missed you, too.”
Despite the chill bite in the air, her body heated from the inside out.
He cocked his head in the direction of the house. “Shall we return to the warmth of the house?” His eyes glinted wickedly. “Of the bedroom?”
“What will the servants think?” she breathed.
He raised his brows. “Perhaps that we’re madly in love?”
She laughed as he took her hand and tugged her toward the house.
When they arrived, the man-of-all-work Max had hired, Peebles, was waiting for them at the door. “Ah, Your Grace, you received mail today.”
“Mail!” Olivia clasped her hands at her chest. It was the first bit of mail they’d received since they’d arrived in Lancashire. “Maybe there’s news about Jessica and Beatrice.”
They followed Peebles inside, and sure enough, sitting atop the small table in the entry hall, was a short pile of mail. Olivia retrieved the top letter. “This one is from a Samuel Childress. Do you know him?”
Max frowned and took the letter from her. Without
another word, he slid his finger under the seal to open it. As he read, Olivia glimpsed the name on the letter now at the top of the pile.
“Oh, it’s a letter from my sisters!” She tore off her gloves, tossed them onto the table, and opened the letter, and then gasped at the first line:
Neither Jessica nor Lady Fenwicke has returned to Sussex. We all assumed they were still in Lancashire.
Slowly, she looked up at Max, and nearly took a step back when she saw the stark look on his face that surely mirrored hers.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“It’s Fenwicke. He’s left London.”
“Did he go home to Sussex?”
Max glanced at Peebles, then reached for the remaining letters. “We’ll read them in the parlor, Peebles, thank you. You may go.”
“Yes, sir.” Peebles swiveled and left, and Olivia followed Max into the parlor.
They both sat on the sofa before Max said, “After we escaped from Fenwicke in London, I hired a man to watch him. I didn’t want him coming after you again, and if he started anything, I believed I’d know well in advance.
“However, it seems Fenwicke left London even before you and I did. He let it be widely known that he was bedridden, but he wasn’t. He left Town secretly at night. I think he knew—or assumed—I was having him watched.”
“So your man discovered all this?”
“Yes, a few days ago. He obtained the information from one of Fenwicke’s servants. But it seems even he hadn’t any idea of where Fenwicke intended to go.”
“Oh, dear,” Olivia breathed.
Max nodded, tightlipped. “If he finds Lady Fenwicke in Sussex—”
“He won’t,” Olivia said bleakly. “She and Olivia aren’t there. Phoebe said they should have been here when I arrived.”
“Which means…” Max said slowly.
“… Fenwicke has found them,” Olivia finished, her chest growing tight. “Oh, Max. That horrible man has my sister!”
She jumped up from the sofa, turning on him. “Where would he have taken them?” She blinked hard. God… after what Fenwicke had attempted with her, what would he do to Jessica? And… oh God… what would he do to his runaway wife?
“We have to find him,” she said. “He might… he might murder them.”
Max stood and pulled her into his embrace. “He has a house near Manchester. It’s his nearest property. I’d wager he took them there.”
“But what if he didn’t?”
“I’ll find them, Olivia.” His voice was firm. Confident.
“Oh, no. No, Max.”
“No?”
“You wouldn’t leave me here!”
“You’re too weak—”
“I’m going with you. Do you think I can sit here, helpless and among strangers, while my sister is in trouble?”
“You’ll be safer here, Olivia.”
“I’ll be safer with
you.
”
He sighed, hesitated, and finally nodded. “You’re right. I wouldn’t feel comfortable letting you out of my
sight. But when we arrive in Manchester, you’ll remain in the hotel until I return with Jessica and Lady Fenwicke.”
She nodded gravely. “Of course.”
“Are you certain you’re not too weak to travel?”
“I walked three miles today,” she pointed out. “At least that much.”
“And it took you most of the day.”
“I’m getting better, Max. Truly. By the time we arrive in Manchester, I’ll be good as new.”
Holding her upper arms, he pulled her forward and pressed a hard kiss to her forehead. “God, I hope you’re right.”
By late that evening, they’d hired a comfortable traveling carriage with lanterns that would light the roads at night. Max had fashioned a bed for Olivia on the forward-facing squabs, and he sat on the rear-facing seat, watching her as the carriage rattled along and she snuggled into the warmth of the blankets. It seemed she could never be warm anymore without him lying beside her.
“This is wrong,” she murmured.
“Wrong?” He raised a dark brow, but his features were muted in the dim lantern light coming in through the windows. “Why?”
“I’m cozy and buried under piles of soft blankets, but you look terribly uncomfortable.”
He smiled and bent forward to rub a knuckle over her cheek. He seemed to like touching her like that, and she nuzzled into his touch. “I’m fine. Get some rest, all right?”
“I don’t think I can.” She was too worried about Jessica and Beatrice.
“Try.”
“I’ll try,” she promised.
They traveled on in silence for a while. Max plumped up one of the extra pillows and leaned against the side of the carriage, but his eyes didn’t close. Instead, she could feel him watching her.
“I wish you could lie next to me,” she murmured.
“So do I, Olivia. So do I.”
T
hey arrived in Manchester late the following day. Max had visited the area before, and he knew the layout of the city and the general location of Fenwicke’s house. He found a hotel and took rooms for him and Olivia under an assumed name. If something happened to him, he didn’t want to leave any clues for Fenwicke to find her here.