The Earl's Bargain (Historical Regency Romance) (18 page)

"I'll help," Louisa said calmly, knowing
that she must remain level headed for the sake of Lord Wycliff.

She extricated herself from him, and Harry's
upper torso fell back into the soft leather seat, his legs sprawled
in front of him. Then she stooped over him and wedged her left arm
between his sides and his arm and heaved upward. She succeeded in
bringing him to a sitting position while John gripped him from
under his other arm. Together they hoisted Harry from the carriage,
and with one of them on either side of him, walked toward the
inn.

"My master's sick and has urgent need of a
room," the coachman informed the innkeeper.

The swarthy innkeeper glanced behind them
where the door was still open, affording a view of Harry's
impressive carriage. "Come, put him in my room. There's a fire in
there."

Located on the first floor, the innkeepers'
room was far less tidy than Louisa supposed his guests' rooms were
-- because of the personal items littering the room -- but the bed
had been made, and at the hearth a fire blazed.

The innkeeper took over for Louisa and
helped the coachman lift Harry onto the bed as soon as Louisa had
pulled the covers back. Then he turned to her. "I'll send for the
doctor."

Moving swiftly to Harry's side, she thanked
him. She stood solemnly over Harry, wiping his brow. Though he was
perspiring, he began to tremble as does one with chills. She pulled
the blanket up to his chin and smoothed his brow once more.

John stood at the other side of the bed. "I
don't understand it. He was right as rain this morning."

She looked up at him, her eyes hooded with
shame. "It's all my fault. He took an injury rescuing me the day I
fell, and I fear the infection in his arm has spread to his whole
body." Her voice broke on the last few words.

John folded his mouth into a grim line.
"I'll stay here with you, ma'am, in case the master needs
anything."

She wished he weren't so nice to her. She
deserved his wrath for her foolishness that had caused Harry to . .
. she couldn't even think that her carelessness would lead to his
death.

Yet as she stood there
beside his bed, stroking his brow and trying to force water between
his parched lips, she knew he was terribly sick. He had been one of
the bravest, most vibrant men -- no, amend that to
the
bravest, most vibrant
man she had ever known -- and because of her he was reduced to a
shivering, helpless mass.

Impatient and frozen with fear, Louisa
thought it was hours before the doctor arrived when in reality it
had been less than one. The stooped old man wearing spectacles and
sporting longish hair strode into the room, the innkeeper on his
heels. "Well, what do we have here?" he asked.

Her words choked, Louisa said, "A very sick
man."

"I don't understand it none," the coachman
added, "he was fit as a fiddle this morn."

The doctor gently pushed John aside. "Let me
take a look."

Louisa stood at the other side of the bed.
"You might wish to examine the wound on his left arm. I believe it
has become infected."

"Let's get this shirt off," the doctor said,
leaning down and beginning to unfasten the pearl buttons. He
carefully lifted the shirt away from Harry's fevered body, then
proceeded to unwrap the bandages on his arms. When he saw the
yellow liquid oozing from Harry's left arm, he winced. "Nasty it
is, I'll say. However did he come to bruise himself so badly?" He
looked up at Louisa.

"He fell down a Cliffside."

"And lived?" the doctor joked. "Think I'll
bathe the wound in a decoction of winter cresses and rebandage it.
See if that will help stop the infection at the source." He turned
now to John. "Fetch me a bowl of hot water, will you?"

By the time the doctor had removed his own
coat and rolled up his sleeves, John was back.

Louisa stood helplessly watching the doctor
clean Harry's wound.

When he finished he looked up at Louisa.
"Now I'll bleed your husband."

Ignoring that he had addressed her as
Harry's wife, Louisa stiffened and regained her sternest voice. "I
will not allow you to bleed my husband."

"You don't want him to get well?" the doctor
asked.

"Of course I do, but after reading the works
of Dr. Heidbreder in Germany, I have decided that bleeding not only
does no good, but it can also be harmful."

"Heidbreder, Schneidebreder. Never heard of
the quack. I've been bleeding patients since I was a lad of
twenty."

Anger flashed in her eyes. "And I'll wager
you've lost many of those patients."

"I cannot keep to the earth what God desires
in heaven," he defended.

Now she glared at the man. "I do not wish my
husband to be in heaven, doctor." Her voice was harsh. She made eye
contact with John. "Pay the doctor, John, for his services."

John removed a pouch from his pocket, and
gave the doctor a half crown. He waited until the doctor had packed
his bag, donned his coat, and left before he spoke to Louisa. "Are
you sure the doctor should not bleed Lord Wycliff?"

Her face was grim when she answered. "I am
sure." She fervently wished she were as convinced as she
sounded.

For the next several hours, Harry went from
hot to cold. She would hold and rub his hand and cover him snugly
when he shook with chill, then she would take off his covers and
wipe his heated flesh with cool water when he was hot. Hot to cold.
Cold to hot. The hours dragged on. And Louisa's fear mounted.

Harry couldn't die!
Although they had known each other less than a
month, he was the only man -- the only person -- she had ever been
truly close to. He understood her as she understood him. She knew
his secret -- as he knew hers.

Louisa couldn't think about the immeasurable
loss it would be to lose his voice in Parliament. That seemed as
insignificant now as her foolish pride over the Philip Lewis'
essays. All that mattered in her life right now was that Harry get
well.

She tried to remember when she had ever been
so frightened. She had been too young when her beloved mother died
and too filled with scorn when the sixty-year-old gout-ridden
Godwin had died. But were she to lose Harry. . .

She tried to tell herself that she would
lose him anyway once he found Godwin's benefactor. But at least his
vibrancy would not still. All that really mattered was that he
live. She would always carry a place for Harry within her
heart.

As midnight came, a parlor maid brought more
wood for the fire, and Louisa told John to get some sleep. "I'll
need you fresh in the morning to watch out for Lord Wycliff while I
catch some sleep."

The tired old man nodded, then trudged off
to his room.

Louisa took his warm hand within her own and
sat down. She prayed some more until he began to flail about,
tossing his soaking sheets from him. Then she stood up again and
took the bowl of water in her hands and began to rub his burning
flesh with her wet hands, oblivious to the fact her tears were
dropping into the bowl.

As the hazy light of dawn began to squeeze
into the room,

Louisa set down the bowl of water and
stretched her arms high above her head. Her feet throbbed with
pain, her back ached, and her wounded knee had begun to swell.

Then Harry opened his eyes, and Louisa
thought she had never felt so wonderful.

"Harry?" she said softly, moving closer to
his bed.

"Where in the bloody hell are we?" he
groaned.

Giving no thought to what she was doing, she
took his hand and squeezed it. "We are in an innkeeper's bedchamber
in Polperro. You, my lord, have been very, very sick."

"Harry, not my lord," he corrected, a smile
on his face as he squeezed her hand back.

"Yes, Harry, dearest," she said in a
breaking voice, her eyes moist.

He smiled, turned over, and went back to
sleep.

He was going to make it!

She climbed in the bed beside him and went
fast to sleep.

In the days that followed, Harry showed a
little more improvement each day. He grew stronger with each
passing day, and the swelling on his arm -- like that of Louisa's
knee -- diminished each day. His fever stopped on the third day,
but his appetite had not returned, nor was he strong enough to get
out of bed.

Louisa continued to sleep with him. After
all, she had told everyone he was her husband.

As he regained his
strength, he listened to John's tales of how he had been at death's
door. During his recovery he gave a lot of thought to Louisa's
slavish devotion toward getting him well. He pictured her standing
over him, gently wiping him with cool water. And he kept
remembering her words when he awoke. She had referred to him
as
Harry dearest
.
No accolade on earth could have been more welcome than those two
words uttered by a sweet little blonde bending over him with
worried eyes.

Despite her kindness to him in those days
when he was recovering, he found himself growing short tempered
with her and knew it was not because of anything she had done. It
was his own self he hated. He wasn't worthy to touch the hem of her
skirt, such an angel was she. He had no right to be the recipient
of her kindness. He deserved to die.

Instead of keeping his feelings of self
loathing within him, he took them out on her. He treated her with
gruffness and displayed a consistent bad humor.

And at night when she would lay her weary
body beside him on the big feather bed, he would shudder with his
need to take her within his arms.

Then he would awaken the
next morning and begin lashing out angrily at her.
The porridge was too cold
.
She'd awakened him up with her
comings and goings to and from the kitchen. Why couldn't she let
things bloody well alone? Was she obsessed with her ridiculous
notions of ruling the world with her possessive ways?

He winced and turned away to avoid seeing
the pain in her face. Despite his own remorse, he knew his
unconscious had its own way of keeping someone as pure as Louisa
Phillips out of his sordid life.

* * *

One afternoon after Louisa was convinced
Harry was on the mend, she left him in the coachman's care as she
went to the church on the outskirts of Polperro.

She would be the only person at the church
for it was a Tuesday. She opened the creaking timber door, entered
the dark church, and strolled down the nave. She fell to her knees
on the stone floors and gave thanks that Harry had survived.

A noise beyond the altar startled her. She
raised her lowered lids to see a young cleric – concern on his face
– moving toward her. "Is there anything I can do to help you?" he
asked in a gentle voice.

She shook her head. "I've never been better.
I'm here to give thanks to the Almighty."

The young man smiled. "You're not from
around here."

He had obviously determined a great deal
from her voice. "I've come from London."

He nodded. "I'm the vicar here. Rouse is my
name."

She stood up and curtsied. "I'm . . . " She
started to say Mrs. Phillips. Then quickly said, "Mrs. Smith."
Suddenly an idea occurred to her. "Does Lord Treleavens provide
your living here in Polperro?"

His green eyes flashed with good humor. "He
does. Do you know him?"

"No, but my husband may. Is he an older
gentleman? Tall and lean?"

He chuckled. "Not at all. Trelly and I were
at Oxford together. He's my age and rather portly, I'd say."

"Oh, dear. Perhaps it was his father my
husband is thinking of. Was he tall and rather thin?"

"Actually, Trelly inherited at the age of
twelve from his uncle. I never met the chap."

Then the uncle had to have been dead at
least fifteen years, Louisa reasoned, for the vicar looked to be
far closer to thirty than to twenty. Which meant neither the
current Lord Treleavens nor his predecessor could have been
Godwin's benefactor -- and the previous Lord Wycliff's menace.

"My husband will be so disappointed that
Lord Treleavens is not the man he had thought he might know."

"Did your husband attend Oxford?"

Louisa had no idea where Harry had gone to
university. Then again, Harry would not want to be confronting
anyone who might recognize him. "I'm afraid not. Mr. Smith went to
Cambridge." She flashed the vicar a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Rouse,
for your concern and for answering my questions." She curtsied and
left.

* * *

Early the next week Harry was strong enough
to travel. The weather had turned mild and sunny, and Louisa
regained some of her feistiness.

In no uncertain terms she refused to let him
sit on her side of the carriage. "To put it bluntly, my lord, I
have no desire for you to touch me even in the most innocent way.
If I had my choice, I would refuse to share a room with you at the
inns, too, but I fear that might lead to the discovery of your true
person, which would foil our plans."

Our
plans
. Despite everything, it came back to
the simple fact that, like it or not, desire it or not, he and
Louisa Phillips were as drawn together as those united by clergy.
His heart's desire lay within the grasp of her small hands. And her
heart's desire did not lie with him, he thought
bitterly.

Leaving the Polperro innkeeper's chambers
brought Louisa mixed emotions. On the one hand, she was sorry to
leave the intimacy of the room where she had been for so many days
with Harry, days of worry and of a closeness she doubted she would
ever rekindle with another human being. On the other hand, she knew
they needed to be getting along. She had never planned to leave
Ellie for this long, and she was becoming worried over her
sister.