Candice Hern (65 page)

"Keep him as cool and comfortable as possible," the doctor told her. Turning to Terrence, he added, "And hold him down as best you can when he becomes delirious. There's little more to be done. If only there were still snow on the ground, we could pack it around him. We cannot even immerse him in a cold bath without disturbing the leg. We will just have to wait this one out, I'm afraid."

"We will continue to bathe his face and neck with damp cloths," Meg said. "That should help keep him cool."

"His hands, too," Dr. Garthwaite said. "It seems to help."

"His hands, too," Meg repeated. "I have not forgotten."

"And no more laudanum until morning. Such a large man could probably tolerate a higher dosage, but I would prefer to be conservative. Opiates offer relief, to be sure, but can also mask other problems. No more laudanum tonight."

"Yes, Doctor," Meg said before dropping her head into her hands and massaging her temples.

"And see if you can force some nourishment down him when he is quiet," the doctor added.

Meg's head jerked up in surprise, thinking she must have heard wrong. "Feed him?" She studied the doctor with a furrowed brow. "But he has such a fever. Do you not mean—"

"Yes, I meant feed him," the doctor said, turning away from his patient to look at Meg. "I have been reading some interesting papers from a physician in Bristol who has had very good luck with fever patients he fed rather than starved. His results have been very impressive. So, yes, Meg, I would like our patient to be fed." He smiled and turned away and began to pack his bag. "And I would like him to begin taking your grandmother's herbal infusion as soon as possible. The comfrey mixture will help both his wounds to heal quickly."

Meg dropped her head back into her hands. She sincerely hoped Terrence was paying attention to Dr. Garthwaite's instructions—laudanum, food, herbals, what else?—for she was so tired she did not believe she would be able to recall his words an hour from now.

* * *

Lord Sedgewick's fever continued through the night. After a few hours fitful sleep, Meg relieved Gram in the sickroom once again.

"No change, I am afraid," Gram said in a weary tone. "He is quiet, though, thank the good Lord."

"Go on to your own bed, Gram," Meg said, putting an arm around her grandmother's shoulders and ushering her out the door. "I'll ring for help if he becomes delirious again."

And so Meg sat and watched Lord Sedgewick through the rest of the night, scolding him softly now and then about being such a stubborn, disagreeable houseguest.

"Horrid man!" she chided. "Just see if you are ever invited back to Thornhill after such thoughtless, ill-mannered behavior. Wretch!"

Between scolds, she bathed his face and hands and even dozed a bit in a chair beside the bed. Just after dawn she rose, walked to the window, and pulled aside the heavy curtains. It was a beautiful, clear morning, sparkling with wintry brilliance. Good Lord, but she was tired of this dark, dreary sickroom. She yearned for sunshine and a brisk ride.

Meg tied back the curtains and allowed the sunlight to pour into the bedchamber. It was so much more comforting than the prescribed darkness, that surely it would—

A faint groan arrested her thoughts, and she turned quickly toward the sickbed. A sunbeam fell directly over the bed and onto the face of their patient. His eyes seemed to squint slightly in reaction. A pang of guilt stabbed Meg as she dashed back to the window and drew the curtains closed. But he had groaned. She was sure of it. He had groaned. He was not dead.

She moved to the other side of the bed and dipped the cloth into the basin of water, movements so often repeated that she did them now almost without thinking. As she reached down to bathe Lord Sedgewick's face, her hand froze in midair. Could it be? Had she seen what she thought she saw?

"Do not tease me, you beastly man. Do not dare."

She dropped the cloth and reached frantically for the candle holder on the night table. Her hand shook slightly so that the candlelight flickered over Lord Sedgewick's face, but there was no mistaking what she saw.

His face was bathed in a sheen of perspiration. Beads of moisture had formed on his upper lip. His head bandage and nightshirt were drenched. The fever had broken.

Meg's hand flew to her mouth as she choked on a sob.

"Thank God. Oh, thank God."

Another faint groan escaped Lord Sedgewick's lips. Meg wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and bent closer. His eyes flickered open briefly, locked with hers, and then as quickly snapped shut, as though even the light of the candle was too irritating. His lips moved and he mumbled something unintelligible. Meg bent closer.

"Still dead," he muttered so softly Meg was not sure if she had understood him. "Angels."

His head dropped to the side as he fell asleep once again.

Chapter 4

"Ah, you're coming round at last. Good! Good!"

Sedge came awake slowly, struggling to force his eyes open. Finally, lifting his lashes to let in only the tiniest crack of light, he squinted against the pain at the unfamiliar surroundings as he tried to sit up. Good God, his head was pounding like a thousand drums! He fell back against the pillows, his eyes clamping shut against the pain. Someone must have driven a steel spike through his head while he slept. His hand moved instinctively to his head. My God, he felt so weak that even such a simple movement seemed an impossible effort. His limp hand came in contact with an unexpected obstacle. Cloth? No, bandaging. Bandaging?

"What the..."

"Here you are, my lord. Try and drink a bit of this. It will help ease the pain."

Before he could wonder who belonged to the unfamiliar voice, he felt a cup being pressed to his mouth. Suddenly aware of a terrible parched dryness, he opened his lips without thinking, and a tepid brew was trickled down his throat.

Good Lord, what poison was this? He almost gagged on the foul-tasting liquid. The shock of it caused his eyes to pop open of their own volition. He blinked against the scratchy sting of full light in order to see just who was this soft-voiced tormentor.

A round-faced, elderly woman in a white lace cap bent close to his face, smiling benevolently as she held a cup near his lips.

"I know it tastes nasty, my lord," she said, "but you really must drink it if you ever want to regain your strength. It is full of good, healing herbs. Not the tastiest, to be sure, but the best there are for your condition." She put the cup to his lips once again. "Here, try to swallow just a bit more."

Sedge had no strength to object, and reluctantly allowed more of the horrid brew to be poured down his throat. God's teeth, but it was ghastly! When one more tiny swallow left him hacking and sputtering, the old woman relented and took the cup away. He heard the rustle of her skirts and the clink of glass or porcelain, but did not turn to watch what she did. He was too busy trying to keep the hellish brew down without embarrassing himself in front of this stranger. Finally, he collapsed once again against the pillows.

"Where am I?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"You are at Thornhill Farm, my lord," the woman said, standing close to the bed with her hands clasped at her waist. "In Suffolk. It is the home of Sir Terrence Ashburton. I am Mrs. Lattimer, his grandmother."

Sedge attempted a weak smile. "I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. Lattimer. Despite your dreadful concoction. I am Lord—"

"Sedgewick. Yes, we know who you are, my lord."

Sedge lifted a brow at that comment and instantly felt as if his head might explode. He reached for his brow and once again encountered the bandage. "What happened?" he asked. "Why am I—"

"You had a terrible accident, my lord. You were thrown from your curricle not far from Thornhill."

"Ah, yes." He seemed to recall the odd sensation of flying through the air. "I remember a little." He paused and attempted another smile. "I thought I had died."

"We feared you might, if you don't mind my saying so. I am afraid you have a broken leg as well as the gash on your head."

"Broken—?" Sedge leaned slightly forward to see his right leg, above the counterpane, splinted and strapped and bandaged. "Oh, God," he groaned as he sank back into the pillows. "Any other damage?"

"Well," Mrs. Lattimer said, "that nasty gash over your left eye gave you a concussion. But our Dr. Garthwaite stitched it up nice and neat." She grinned at him and added, "It will make a very dashing scar, I am sure."

"Wonderful. A limp and a scar. Dashing indeed." Sedge closed his eyes and considered that this was no doubt one of the larger messes into which he had ever landed. "I am almost afraid to ask," he said without opening his eyes, "but is there anything else?"

"Just that you have been fighting a dangerously high fever the last few days," she said. "You have been quite delirious, off and on. But now the worst is over, and you will be on the mend in a trice. Especially if you continue to drink my herbal infusion. It is Dr. Garthwaite's recipe, with a bit extra of my own thrown in."

Sedge opened his eyes and twitched his lips into what he sincerely hoped was a smile for the kindly woman at his side. "I suppose it is but a small sacrifice compared to what you have done on my behalf. How long have I been here?"

"Four days."

"Four days! Good Lord." Sedge shook his head slightly before realizing the movement only intensified the throbbing. He leaned back into the mountain of pillows and stared at Mrs. Lattimer in astonishment. He had lost four days. Four whole days! It was incredible. Such a thing had never before happened to him.

"I was ... on my way to ... to Trevelian's," he muttered as he tried to recollect what days he had lost. "Yes, Trevelian's hunting box. He invited me for a shooting party. Partridge, I think."

"Yes," Mrs. Lattimer said, "we discovered that. I hope you will not mind, but my grandson, Sir Terrence, went through your things. You were so badly injured, you see, that we wanted to notify someone. He found your
Peacock's
and saw the note about Lord Trevelian. He sent a note to Norfolk, informing his lordship of your accident."

"No, no, of course I do not mind," Sedge said. "I appreciate all your help. My valet may have already arrived at Trevelian's. He had taken ill and remained behind at Hawstead. And my cousin was to join me at Trevelian's, as well. They will all be wondering where I have got to, no doubt."

"Terrence also sent a note to Mount Street, and one to your mother in Lincolnshire as well."

"That was most kind of him," Sedge said. "Of all of you."

He offered another smile, which was feeling much more natural by now, though still slightly jarring to the constant throbbing of his left temple. "I am afraid I have put you and your family to a great deal of trouble. I cannot thank you enough for all you have done."

Mrs. Lattimer gave a dismissive wave accompanied by a dainty sniff. "Anyone would have done as much, my lord. Now, you say you remember where you were going. Do you recall much else? What might have caused the accident?"

"I have only the recollection of flying through the air," Sedge said. "Not much else beyond that. Very little, anyway. I do recall... but, no. I must have been dreaming." He chuckled softly. "You will think it foolish, but I dreamed I had died and gone to heaven. I even recall a beautiful, red-haired angel bending over me and calling my name."

All at once, Mrs. Lattimer's face lit up like a candle. Her eyes widened and a broad smile stretched from ear to ear. "That was no dream, my lord," she said in an excited tone. "That was my granddaughter, Meg. Miss Margaret Ashburton, that is. She has been tending you valiantly throughout your fever."

"Then, I am most grateful to her," Sedge said, too weary to puzzle over the woman's sudden burst of enthusiasm.

"She was the one who first recognized you, you see," Mrs. Lattimer continued. "She remembered you from her Season, a few years back. No doubt you recall her. I believe you danced with her... more than once."

"Miss Ashburton?" Sedge attempted, without success, to place the name, to link it with the beautiful red-haired angel of his dreams. "You must forgive me, please. My head is ... I am still somewhat muddled, I suppose. But I cannot seem to—"

At that moment, the bedchamber door flew open. Sedge turned his head toward the door ... and beheld a vision. Not just any vision. It was his angel.

One of the tallest women he had ever seen glided into the room with a long, purposeful stride. She wore a dark green velvet habit that hugged her shapely curves in such a way as to cause his breath to catch in his throat. She was in the process of removing a jaunty black beaver hat with a green plume, to reveal hair of a remarkable shade of russet, and eyes of almost the exact same color. Her red hair was pulled back in a knot at her neck, but several wayward tendrils refused to be confined and softly framed her face. She had high cheekbones, luminous skin, and an unexpected and thoroughly delightful sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

All this was noted in the space of a breath—the one caught in Sedge's throat—as the elegant beauty glided into the room. She was his angel, there was no doubt of it. But she was more than an angel. She was as regal and elegant as any queen—a Celtic goddess, an Amazon, a warrior queen. She was Boadicea herself.

She was glorious.

He could not tear his eyes from her as she moved to stand beside Mrs. Lattimer. An uncharacteristic pang of embarrassment shot through him, that such a woman should meet him just now, when he was at his worst, helpless and weak as a kitten.

Boadicea placed an arm around Mrs. Lattimer's shoulder in a fond gesture. "Your herbal seems to have done the trick. Gram. Welcome back to the Land of the Living, my lord."

"Th-thank you." Curse it all, he was stammering and gawking like a schoolboy.

* * *

Gram pressed a hand in the small of Meg's back and pushed her closer to the bed.

"This is my granddaughter, my lord," Gram said, edging Meg forward. "Miss Ashburton. The one I was telling you about, who nursed you so tirelessly these last few days."