B005R3LZ90 EBOK (28 page)

* * *

That night the fever returned. And the next night. Whenever the fever came back, a horrible dread lived within Sally. She even tried to imagine life without George. As much as she loved the children, she would not wish to live if George weren't there to share her life with. How empty life would be without this wonderful, unselfish man. She marveled that a love as deep as hers hurt with such depth.

She kept thinking about the gloomy way the doctor had tried to prepare her for losing George.
Thirty to fifty percent, recovery's poor.
How could he—or anyone—discuss George's fate with such arbitrary numbers? Didn't that doctor know how . . . how irreplaceable George was? Was there not something else the doctor could do to promote greater healing?

She fell into a pattern where Mr. Basingstoke would sit with George during the mornings while Sally went to her chamber and slept. Each night she presided over the sick room. She made an effort now to wear a fresh dress each day, but she refused to take time away from George to have her hair curled.

Now that she was not needed at George's bedside every second, Sally finally gathered the courage to write to Glee and Felicity and inform them of their brother's brush with death. Glee fired a letter back immediately, telling Sally that Felicity had been terribly sick, but as soon as she could leave her, she would come to Hornsby.

On the second week, the fever went away. Sally prayed her thanks.

Though his pain was extreme, Sally knew that now George would recover. She continued to indulge him with brandy or whiskey to abate the pain. And she kept fresh leaves on the burn wounds.

Now that he was alert, his nudity embarrassed him. "I need to start wearing clothes," he told her.

"Perhaps pantaloons," she said, "but I'm afraid it will be too painful to wear clothing on your upper body."

He gave her a probing gaze. "When I had the fever . . . did I throw off my covers in your presence?"

"I am your wife, George."

"But . . ."

"Discussion closed. Unless my behaving like a wife offends you." She brazenly met his gaze.

"Of course not, Sally. I rather like having you for a wife. In fact, I cannot think anyone on the planet could be a better wife than you."

She could kiss him.

"Nor is there a man on the planet who is as brave and selfless as you."

He shook his head. "Pray, don't make a hero out of me. I did what any father would do."

"You're not like just any father. You're the most unselfish man I've ever known."

"And you're not equally as unselfish? I was told that you flung your own body over my burning body. That seems a most brave—and most foolish—thing to do."

"It was nothing. I've suffered no ill effects." Her voice cracked. "Not like you."

Anger flashed in his eyes. "I've tried to understand why I've been dealt more than a man should be asked to bear."

She set her hand on his. "But, dearest, the fire was an accident."

His voice went cold. "I wonder."

Her eyes widened. "What are you saying?"

"I don't trust the new groom. Nothing evil happened until after he came to Hornsby.

Her hand began to tremble. "But, George, the poor boy has no ax to grind against you! You'd never met him until he came to Hornsby."

"Came here and offered to work for no wages. I was a fool not to suspect something."

"There was no reason for you to expect something evil to come visiting you. You have no enemies."

He nodded solemnly. "I've probed my memory for anything I've done which would cause such hostility, but I honestly do not believe I've made such an enemy. In fact, I can think of no man who holds me in animosity."

"Because there is no such man," she said.

* * *

Healing was slow progress, but George's tolerance for pain increased weekly. Now he forced himself to do simple movements. He sat up in bed. "I wish to hold your hand, my lady."

She put her hand in his.

He gazed into her eyes. "I'm very grateful for your devotion to my sick room."

She wished to tell him she could not have left him, could never leave him, for she loved him with all her heart. But, of course, she could not blabber such silly feelings.

* * *

Now that some movement was possible and now that George was able to hide his pain, Sally decided to allow the children to visit their father's chamber.

The first day they came, Georgette entered shyly, almost as if she were afraid to come into the sick room.

Not so with Sam. As soon as he realized this was the chamber occupied by his father and that it was his father who lay on the big full-tester bed, he ran to the bed and began to climb on it. When he met his father's warm green eyes, he spoke. "Papa sick?"

Her eyes moist, Sally looked from Sam to George and saw that huge tears had pooled in her husband's eyes.

Chapter 26

If only it did not hurt so damn much to move. He had grown bloody tired of lying on his stomach and bloody tired of that wife of his insisting on plastering him with those damned burdock leaves. The month of June had come and gone, and still George had not left this blasted bed. He had grown deuced sick of dark green, the color of the draperies at his windows and around his bed as well as on the velvet bedspread. He longed to be under blue skies, inhaling fresh air, and riding over the Hornsby estate.

 A month previously he would not have believed a simple act like sitting up could bring such pleasure. When he sat up for the first time yesterday, the accomplishment filled him with pride. Once he was seated, the pain passed. A pity the stretching of skin while getting to the seated position hurt so wretchedly.

All the pain had been worth it, though, when his son had hopped on his lap and smiled up at his papa. The little scamp held the key to the innermost chambers of his father's heart. No words ever had affected George as profoundly as Sam uttering his first sentence to his father. It had not been much of a sentence, but it was a sentence, nevertheless. And he had uttered it not to his sister, nor to his stepmother, but to the father who had only recently come to love the sturdy little lad. Nothing could have aided George's recovery more quickly than his son's words. The lad had obviously missed him. By God, the boy needed him, and he vowed he would recover and be a good father to him.

Yesterday when Sally had poured a glass of scotch to ease his pain, George had declined to drink it. As a mother must wean a babe from her breast, George had to wean himself from the spirits. He could not allow himself to become dependent upon them. He had to force himself to conquer the pain on his own.

As bad as the pain was, he knew it had lessened each week. He would steel himself to learn to live with it. His next objective was to get out of the damned bed.

The other impetus behind his recovery was Sally. He wanted nothing more than to recover so that he could take her in his arms and love her to completion. Every time he smelled her light scent, his heart tripped. Whenever she would lapse and call him
my darling
or
dearest
, he allowed himself the luxury of believing she cared for him as a woman cares for a man. And every time she swept into his chamber directing a bright smile at him, he hungrily watched the smooth curves of her lithe body, and he became aroused. He had even come to appreciate her hair—without curls. His Sally, the Viscountess Sedgewick, had become an aphrodisiac to him.

Adding wood to Sally's bonfire was her complete devotion to his recovery. Perhaps she did not love him. She most likely did not. But in his entire life, he had never felt so thoroughly cared for. Everything that would make him happy made her happy. He knew without a doubt that at this point in their lives, he was the most important person in her life.

Perhaps that was not love, but it came dangerously close.

He asked himself,
What if it had been Sally who had been hurt?
The very thought of seeing her injured sent his stomach plunging. He would kill with his bare hands the person responsible for hurting her. And he knew that if Sally were the one hurt, he would be as devoted to her recovery as she was to his.

Is that what being married was about? His heart swelled. Good Lord, Sally
was
the wife of his heart. Whether she knew it or not.

When she swept into his chamber that morning, he watched her with a dry mouth and pounding heart. God, but he wanted her. Everything about her intoxicated him.

"How are we today, dearest?" she asked brightly.

Wincing, he scooted up to a seated position. To hell with all this damn lying about! He wished Sally to find him manly—not some bedridden bag of bones. "I shall be better with a good-morning kiss," he said with a smile.

He had never been so bold with her before.

She gave him a quizzing look, as if she were taken aback. Then a smile tugged at her mouth when she moved closer and lowered her lips to his.

Oh, the sweetness of her willing lips! It was not a virgin's stiff peck. His Sally knew how to kiss!

He reluctantly pulled away.
Who in the hell had taught his wife how to kiss?
He hated the fellow. He took her hand and cleared his throat. "I thank you. For the kiss and for so much more. No man ever had a better advocate than I have in you."

Color tinged her cheeks as she contemplated his bed covering.

"I should like you to bring me a looking glass," he said somberly.

Fear flashed in her eyes. Did he look so hideous she did not wish for him to see himself? Dread choked him.

"Why do you need a looking glass? I swear that you're as handsome as ever."

Did she really think so
? Hope bubbled within him. Was it possible that she was attracted to him? He could not deny her willing participation in the kiss. "Allow me to reassure myself," he said.

Her face was solemn when she replied. "Very well."

She went through his dressing room into order to reach her own adjoining one. It suddenly occurred to him that since they had come to Hornsby neither of them had used the adjoining chamber door. A practice he meant to change.

A moment later she returned with a lady's hand mirror and presented it to him. His heart pounded. Was he to be a freak for the rest of his life? Was he hideously deformed? He had not been unaware of the unattractive way the skin on his arms and shoulders had healed with a swirling, uneven surface resembling hardened lava. Would the flesh on his face also be twisted in such a manner?

With the greatest trepidation, he brought the mirror closer to his face. And he gazed at it with a sickening disbelief roiling his gut. How changed he was! And it was not a change for the better. Fortunately, the shape of his face had not been altered. And it was good that the fire had not reached his eyes. The matched set still looked perfectly normal—as did his nose. But there was a disfigurement about the mouth that was most unattractive. Rather like one with a hairlip. In the future, he must be more sympathetic to those so afflicted. He had been prepared for the deformity of the skin that would never again be smooth. The raw, reddened skin on his cheeks and necks much resembled the deformation on his arm.

His own reflection sickened him. He handed her back the mirror.

Sally must have sensed his disappointment for she ran a loving hand over his burned cheek. "How fortunate we are that it's still the same loved face."

Loved face?
His heart drummed. Her words were so wildly welcomed, he almost forgot his great disappointment. His eyes misted. "I'm ugly." Though, thankfully, she doesn't seem to agree.

She scowled at him. "How dare you say that! Are you impugning my judgment?"

"Sally, I have eyes that, thankfully, still work."

She angrily thrust her hands to her hips. "So, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying my scars are quite noticeable, and they're ugly."

"Don't ever say that!" Tears came to her eyes, and her voice gentled. "I've never told you this before, but I still remember the first time I ever set eyes upon you. I thought you were the most handsome creature I had ever seen." She thrust out her chin defiantly. "I still think so."

Before his choked voice could respond, the chamber door was thrown open and a familiar voice boisterously greeted them. By Jove, it was his sister Glee, sweeping into the room, vibrant jade skirts trailing behind her – and her husband, Blanks, was with her. Damn, but it was good to see them! How good it was of them to come.

Glee scowled at Sally for a fraction of a second. "I'm upset that you did not notify me immediately of my brother's serious injuries, but I know, dearest sister, you had other things on your troubled mind." She took both of Sally's hands and smiled broadly.

Sally's eyes moistened. "We did not even know if George would live."

If only he could get out of this damned bed and comfort her! Every time she recalled that wretched day, she cried. And it tore at his heart to see his strong little Sally in tears.

Blanks came to set a hand on his wife's shoulder. "Then it's best you weren't here, my love. You're much too sensitive." Blanks faced George. "I must say, I expected worse, old fellow. You look awfully good to me."

Now Glee turned her full attention upon her brother. "Oh, dear me, I am so happy that you're still the same old George." She came to touch her lips to his forehead. "How are you feeling?"

"I've made good strides. Before yesterday, I couldn't even sit up."

Glee's green eyes began to swim in a pool of tears.

 "Now, don't go being a watering pot on me," George chided. He closed his hand over hers. "It's good of you to come."

"Felicity wanted ever so much to come, too, but Moreland would not hear of it." Glee dropped her voice to a whisper. "She's increasing again, you know."

George's glance flicked to Blanks, then back to Glee. "Yes, I know."

"I don't know why you've had to bear so much," Glee said to George. "It's not fair at all."

George frowned. "My thoughts exactly."