Candice Hern (64 page)

He knew he should have shown more support, spent more time with her. He ought to have helped ease her into Society more gently. He ought to have tried to bolster her self-confidence somehow. But he had been young and selfish and unconcerned with his sister's plight.

When she had returned to Thornhill and announced to their father that she did not want a second Season, Terrence had not missed the relief in her eyes when their father had agreed. It was clear that she was much more comfortable in familiar surroundings, with familiar people. From that day on, Meg had never expressed the slightest interest in men or marriage, even though gentlemen paraded in and out of Thornhill with some regularity, on the lookout for prime horseflesh. She seemed to be completely at ease with herself and her situation, and Terrence could not imagine that even so fine a catch as Lord Sedgewick would tempt her to change her mind.

He returned his attention to the letter to Lady Sedgewick, but before long his thoughts drifted once again to Gram's notion that the viscount might actually show an interest in Meg. He supposed it was not such a far-fetched idea. It was true, Meg was no longer the skinny, awkward young girl she had once been. Terrence was not blind to his sister's beauty, though he suspected she was. Meg appeared to be completely indifferent to, or perhaps even unaware of, the admiring looks she received from the grooms and stable boys—especially when she was wearing a pair of his breeches. Meg had grown into a beautiful woman. He was not sure when it had happened, or when he had first noticed it. Somewhere along the way she had grown from gangly to statuesque. She also seemed to have become more complacent about her height, for she never slouched anymore. Rather, she walked straight and proud, just as she sat on a horse, displaying her full height for all the world to see.

All six feet of her.

Despite her regal beauty, however, she was still more at home in the stables than the drawing room, more comfortable in breeches than a ball gown, and he had difficulty imagining his sister involved in even so much as a light flirtation.

A knock on the library door jerked Terrence from his reverie. He returned the quill to its stand. "Come in."

Gittings, the butler, entered and announced that Mr. Coogan would like a word with him. At Terrence's nod, Seamus Coogan, Thornhill's head groom, was shown into the library.

"What is it, Seamus?" he asked. The fellow seldom stepped foot inside the house, unless it was something urgent. "Is that new foal in trouble?"

"No, sir." Seamus shuffled his feet and looked thoroughly uneasy. "T'ain't the young'un. He be just fine, he is. But somethin' else mighty queer I thought you should know about"

"Go on, Seamus. What is it, then?"

"Well, that gen'lman's curricle ..."

"Lord Sedgewick's, you mean?"

"Ah, so he's a lord, is he?" Seamus's black brows disappeared behind the unruly salt-and-pepper curls that hung over his forehead. "Well, it looks like his lordship's got hisself in a bit of trouble, you might say. I had the boys bring in the pieces of the curricle. Oh, and a beautiful thing it is, too, sir. A terrible shame it got so cracked up. Can be fixed, though. It needs only—" he stopped as Terrence glared at him through narrowed eyes. "Yes, well, the thing of it is, the axle was split. Clean in two."

"So, that's what caused the accident?"

"Well," Seamus hesitated, twisting his hat in his hands, "not to put too fine a point on it, sir, but it weren't no accident."

Terrence leaned forward on his elbows. "What do you mean, no accident?"

"I mean the axle was cut, sawed almost clear through, it was. Deliberate, like. That rig was bound to break apart at the first deep pothole. 'Twas meant to break apart, if you git my meanin', sir."

Terrence blew out a breath through puffed cheeks. "Good Lord.

Chapter 3

"Wake up, you ungrateful cur. After such tender ministrations, the least you can do is crack open an eye."

Meg mopped Lord Sedgewick's face and neck with a cool, damp cloth. She had been performing this ritual with increasing frequency for two days. She and Gram and even Terrence had taken their turns in watching over the sick man. His continued unconsciousness, not to mention the dangerously high fever that had begun the day before, frightened her more than she could say. To combat her own fear and frustration, she had begun to talk to him, to cajole him, to admonish him, to berate him. It made her feel better somehow to blame him, for she could not bear to think that his life might be in her hands. Perhaps she could shame him into consciousness, if any of her reproachful words actually penetrated his brain.

More likely her chatter would bore him into a sounder sleep.

Meg dipped the cloth into the basin of cold water, wrung it out, and proceeded to bathe his hands. "Here you are, almost a perfect stranger," she muttered, taking his left hand and covering it with the damp cloth, "and yet we have all sat with you round the clock, helping you to fight this wretched fever." She stroked the cool cloth over his warm hand, very slowly, from wrist to fingertips. She then began to gently massage each long finger from base to tip as she continued to scold.

"We even put you in the best bedchamber, for heaven's sake," she said as she absently surveyed the large, comfortable room. The dark wood-paneled walls, highly polished and gleaming in the candlelight, were hung with several old family portraits, and over the intricately carved fireplace hung a large painting of Blue Blazes, the Arabian stallion who had been the pride of Thornhill's stables for some years. "And with the most comfortable bed," she added as she eyed the beautifully carved bedposts of the Portuguese bed purchased only a few years ago by her father. He had discovered that ships used to transport troops to the Peninsula often returned loaded with items of furniture as ballast. He had traded a prime hunter for many pieces, including this bed, which was the newest and most elegant in the house.

"And what thanks do we get?" Meg turned his hand over and gently stroked the palm with the cool cloth. "You just lie there," she said, massaging the soft mound at the base of his thumb. "Like a pile of dirty linen. Hmph! Not even the tiniest sign that you know we are here." She drew the damp cloth slowly between each of his long fingers. "That we care." She laid his hand carefully at his side, covered it with the counterpane, and picked up the right hand. "That I care. That I don't want you to die."

She cradled his hand in her own, gently bathing and massaging it ever so slowly, as though memorizing every part of it: the long, tapering fingers, the nails neatly trimmed, the square palm with its clearly marked lines, the fine, soft texture of the skin. An aristocrat's hands, no doubt about it. Not the blunt, broad, rough hands of a laborer. These hands had seen little labor. A sprinkling of coarse blond hair over the tops of his hands and the base of his fingers saved them from appearing effeminate. That, and their size. Hands that large could hardly be mistaken for a woman's

Except, perhaps, for her own. Pressing her left hand against his right, Meg stretched out his limp fingers to their full length against her own. His fingertips reached fully half an inch or more above hers. How extraordinary. "Your hands are even bigger than mine, Lord Sedgewick." She smiled, finding an odd source of pleasure at this small discovery. "Imagine that," she said as she studied their hands, noting that his was slightly broader than hers as well. Good heavens, she felt almost dainty! Slowly, she curled her fingers between his, gently wrapping them around his hand. His fingers naturally bent so that they were entwined with hers. Meg stared at their joined hands for a moment. She chewed on her lower lip as a tight knot formed in her chest.

Finally, she dropped his hand and quickly turned to rinse the cloth in the basin once again. "That bit about being a perfect stranger," she said, "well... that's not true, of course. Gram and I remembered you." After wringing the cloth out, she folded it and draped it over the matching ewer. "Yes, I remembered you."

Meg glanced at the mantel clock and saw that it was not yet time for another dose of laudanum, so she dropped into a chair pulled close to the bed. She gazed over at her patient. Dr. Garthwaite had instructed that his head be kept raised, so Lord Sedgewick was propped on a large stack of pillows, his head tilted to one side against the linen pillow slip. His blond hair above the bandage was rumpled from sleep, lending him an endearing boyish quality which brought to mind the times Meg had seen him in the past, always so cheerful and charming. His face, though, sporting several days' growth of dark blond beard, did not appear boyish at the moment as he scowled in his sleep. Meg studied his high cheekbones and long, straight nose, and the series of parallel lines at the corners of his mouth—lines that hinted at the huge, wonderfully attractive smile he so often wore.

"Yes, I remember you," she whispered. Having once had that famous smile turned upon her, how could any woman forget it?

Meg reached across the bed and laid the back of her hand against his flushed cheek. My God, his skin was blazing hot! She wondered for a moment if she would ever see that smile again.

"If you dare to die on me, my lord," she scolded, "I swear I will wring your neck."

* * *

"Try to keep his arms down!" Dr. Garthwaite shouted. "I don't want to have to reset this leg."

Terrence and Meg were struggling to hold the delirious Lord Sedgewick still while the doctor attempted to secure the leg splint. It was the third night of fever, and during that time the patient had alternated between total unconsciousness and feverish delirium. Just now, his violent thrashing had pulled some of the leather straps loose from the wooden splint, and the doctor's carefully woven bandage was also coming loose.

"Blast!" Dr. Garthwaite exclaimed as he tried to save his meticulous handiwork from ruin. "Hold him, dammit! This bone might not be so easily reset. And watch his head, Meg! Don't let him flail so. It will only encourage further infection if those stitches come loose."

Meg held tightly on to Lord Sedgewick's left arm, trying to keep it immobilized while Terrence held the right. Though taller and stronger than most women, Meg was no match for Lord Sedgewick's superior strength as he continued to thrash against her grip.

"Damn!" she muttered, heartsick with frustration and fatigue as she tried to hold on. "Hold still, my lord! Please. Hold still!" Her words went unheard as the delirious man continued to toss himself about. Undaunted, she climbed right onto the bed and pressed her full weight against his torso, pinning one arm beneath her knees. Thank God she was wearing breeches. Dr. Garthwaite, having known Meg for some time, expressed not the least shock at her unladylike pose. In fact, she could have sworn she heard a muttered, "Good girl," from the other end of the bed. Her weight on Lord Sedgewick's chest seemed to knock the wind out of him momentarily.

"Quickly," she shouted to Terrence, "the laudanum."

With some difficulty she held Lord Sedgewick down while Terrence forced his mouth open and trickled a few drops of the liquid medicine down his throat.

The undiluted drug seemed to take effect almost at once. Lord Sedgewick's body relaxed slightly, and his breathing gradually slowed from a pant to something more normal. Meg threw her own head back and heaved a great sigh. She closed her eyes in exhaustion as she heard Terrence move to the foot of the bed to help the doctor with the straps.

"It's all right, now, Meg," she heard the doctor say. "He's all right. You did beautifully, Meg. He's all right."

Meg opened her eyes and felt a tear roll down her cheek. God, but she was tired. She had had almost no sleep during the past three days while she tended to Lord Sedgewick. How much longer could this go on? The wretched man was going to wear himself out, despite their efforts to keep him alive. She slowly climbed off the bed and sank into an adjacent chair. She propped her elbows on her knees and dropped her head into her hands. How much longer?
How much longer are you going to put us through this, you hateful rogue?
How much longer could he hold on? For that matter, how much longer could she hold on?

As long as it takes
, Meg scolded herself as she raised her head and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. She reached over to the table next to the bed and, with what little energy she could muster, dipped a cloth in the basin of cool water. She applied the cloth briefly to her own cheeks before bathing Lord Sedgewick's face.

"Good Lord, he's still so hot," she murmured.

"Yes," said the doctor, suddenly at her side and bending over his patient. "All my good efforts with his leg will be for naught if the fever does not break soon."

"What more can we do, Doctor?" she asked.

"You are doing everything you can do, Meg," he replied, taking the cloth from her hands. "Your stamina and compassion are no less than admirable, especially as the gentleman is completely unknown to you. You are to be commended. I could not have asked for any better assistance. I thank you, Meg. And Sir Terrence and your grandmother as well. You have all been a great help to me." Dr. Garthwaite ran the back of his hand gently over Lord Sedgewick's brow, cheeks, and neck, then tilted his head to one side to examine the bandage over the eye. "He is such a large man," the doctor muttered absently, "in height if not in frame, that I could not have worked without your help."

He returned the damp cloth to Meg and nudged her drooping chin with his knuckle. Meg looked up at the young doctor and found encouragement and hope in his soft brown eyes. She gave him a weak smile, and he smiled in return. He was such a gentle man, and not much older than Terrence. At one time Meg thought he might have had a serious interest in her, and she would have welcomed it, for she was fond of him. No one else at Thornhill, except Gram on occasion, had ever considered her in that way, considered that she might want the same things other women wanted. But even Gram would have regarded a country doctor as beneath Meg's notice. It did not matter anyway, since Dr. Garthwaite had never actually shown an interest after all. He was simply being polite. Just as Lord Sedgewick had been polite six years ago.