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Authors: Mary J. Putney

BOOK: The Bargain
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Sally appeared, her face anxious even after he assured her that he was fine and she needn't stay. Kinlock was there too, frowning over his pulse rate and saying he was a thrice-damned fool. Hazily he agreed, but argued that since he was already well into the withdrawal period, why waste the suffering if he would just have to do it again later?
His logic must have worked—Kinlock didn't force any more laudanum on him. A reasonable man for a quack.
Hours dragged by as muscles spasmed with pain and he shook with cold no matter how many blankets Hugh piled on him. During a dark hour of the night, he almost broke. His craving for the velvet numbness of the drug was so fierce, so all-consuming that he buried his face in the pillows to keep himself from begging for laudanum. Just a little, to soothe the ache of bone and muscle.
Someone sponged his face with blessedly cool water, and he knew from the jasmine scent that it must be Lady Jocelyn. He tried to turn away, to tell her that she shouldn't be here, but her clear voice told him firmly not to be a lackwit. A strong-minded woman, his wife. Wife? Impossible. Sadly, impossible.
Then black depression seized him and sucked him into endless dark. Perhaps it was night, or perhaps the sun had died. He fixed his gaze on a candle, sure that if he blinked there would never be light again.
Dawn came, tangible evidence that time was indeed passing. He had survived this long, he could continue to endure.
His mind conjured feverish visions of the burning interior plains of Spain, glittering cruelly brown, then breaking into hard yellow shards under the impact of monster raindrops. They washed away in a flash flood of jangling pieces, leaving the green, beloved hills of Hereford, the hills he hadn't seen in twenty years.
He had been twelve, still bearing the marks of a beating from one of his brothers, when the carrier's wagon had come for him and Mother and Sally. Though he had loved Westholme as much as he had hated his brothers, he refused to look back in case anyone watching would think it weakness.
He rolled from the bed and staggered toward the window, knowing that outside he would see Westholme, but Hugh Morgan caught hold of him. Though he struggled desperately, sure that salvation was near at hand if only he could reach it, he was no match for the young Welshman's gentle strength.
He was lying down again. If only he could sleep. . . .
Chapter 11
F
or two and a half days, the pain radiating from Major Lancaster filled the whole house. Jocelyn's nerves frayed under the strain. Though David had asked her to stay away, she sat with him often, since he seemed unaware of her presence. Hugh Morgan undertook the bulk of the nursing chores, but Jocelyn and Sally and Rhys took turns, too, so that the chief attendant could have a break from the demands of the sickroom. Though she offered to hire another nurse, the footman had refused, saying that he could do what needed to be done.
How long would such torment go on? She'd asked Kinlock, who had no clear answer. It depended on how strong a grip the addiction had on David's constitution. At worst, perhaps five or six days. With luck, less time would be required.
It was a relief to go out to a small dinner party that Jocelyn had promised faithfully to attend. (“My dear Lady Jocelyn, it will be all of my husband's dire relations. I simply must have someone to lend some charm!”) She wondered ruefully if her hostess had received as much charm as she hoped for. Jocelyn's shimmering green taffeta dress was probably livelier than the woman inside it.
Still, it was good to get out. During the course of the evening, she managed sometimes not to think of her suffering major for as much as thirty seconds at a time.
It was after one in the morning when she let herself in her front door, waving away the carriage that had waited until she was safe inside. She'd told her servants not to stay up for her. As always, she'd had an argument on her hands. From butler to abigail, the staff appeared to think her incapable of turning a key in a lock or undressing herself.
It never occurred to any of them that sometimes she might prefer to be alone.
As she paused at the foot of the stairs, her absent gaze fell on the door to the salon, reminding her of the nasty little scene that had taken place there earlier in the day. It had been another clash with her sister-in-law. Sally had urged that her brother be given laudanum, to keep his mind from snapping or his heart from giving out under the strain.
Jocelyn understood Sally's concern; indeed, she shared it. But the other woman hadn't been present when David had smashed the bottle of laudanum to keep it away. She hadn't heard the desperation in his voice.
Rather than trying to explain something so profoundly private, Jocelyn had coolly pointed out that David was an adult and his decisions should be respected. Sally again accused her of hoping David would die, her words spitting out like hornets. Only when Richard sided with Jocelyn had Sally retreated, her eyes dark with the fear behind her fury.
Jocelyn found she was gripping the newel post so hard that her fingers were imprinted with carved acanthus leaves. With an effort, she released the post and started up the two long flights of stairs.
Strange how quiet the house was at this hour, the dark three-story high foyer lit only by landing lamps. It was almost possible to believe she lived here alone rather than sharing her roof with ten other people. Eleven, counting her newly acquired husband.
She reached the bedroom floor and walked the length of the gallery to her room. She was almost there when she saw a shadow, a darker shape in the night, moving ahead of her. She froze, her heartbeat quickening as she wondered if a burglar had broken in.
No, the unsteady figure belonged to the man who'd been at the center of her thoughts for these last endless days. Major Lancaster was weaving uncertainly, one hand sliding along the railing that ran around the gallery to protect people from the lethal drop to the foyer far below.
She stared, amazed that he could make his way so far alone. Probably an exhausted Hugh Morgan had fallen asleep during his long vigil, and the major had wandered off without waking him. Blast it, the footman should have called someone to relieve him. Devotion was all very well, but good judgment mattered, too.
Kidskin slippers muffled by the carpet runner, she walked toward him. “Major Lancaster, you really must go back to bed.”
He swung around at the sound of his name. His gaze was blank, as if he was sleepwalking. She sighed, her hope that he was through the opium withdrawal fading. “Come along now,” she said, her voice low but firm, as if he was a wayward child. “You must go back to bed.”
“Who . . . who is there?” His head moved back and forth as he tried to locate her in the shadows with his unfocused vision.
“Jocelyn.”
Reassured by her voice, he moved toward her, but his lurching steps sent him crashing into the railing that guarded the gallery. She gasped in horror as his unbalanced upper body swayed outward over the deadly marble floor far below.
Terrified, she darted across the dozen feet separating them and wrapped her arms around him, using her momentum to shove him away from the treacherous railing. He gasped and stumbled backward at the unexpected impact, and the two of them reeled across the gallery and into the wall. As he wavered on the verge of falling, she tightened her grip, taking advantage of the fact that he was pinned between her and the wall.
He was so thin his ribs could be counted through the blue dressing gown and she could feel his heart beating, but his body felt surprisingly solid. And tall. His height hadn't been apparent when he was lying down. He was easily six feet, and with an impressive breadth of shoulder.
As she caught her breath, his arms circled her strongly and he murmured with pleased surprise, “Jeanette!”
“Not
Jean . . .” She looked up to correct his misapprehension, and his lips descended on hers.
She gave a strangled squeak of surprise at the sheer uninhibited sensuality of the embrace. Their tongues touched, wickedly erotic, and one large warm hand slid caressingly down her bare arm. She felt . . . ravished. Cherished.
Desired.
Her knees weakened and she clung to him, the wall supporting them both. From sheer curiosity, she'd occasionally allowed suitors to steal a kiss, and been pleased to discover that she felt little response. Waltzing with Candover was far more provocative than anyone else's kisses. Until now, when the heated intensity of a soldier's mouth burned away past and future, leaving only the searing present.
Was this how her mother had felt when lust engulfed her, turning her into a harlot with no thought for anything but her own selfish needs?
The thought revolted her, jerking her back to an awareness of her situation. She was tempted to pull away and let the blasted man collapse onto the floor, but settled for turning her head and saying in her most aristocratic voice, “Major Lancaster. Control yourself!”
His arms loosened and he blinked down at her, as if waking from sleep. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed as he registered the fact that they were pressed body to body. “I . . . I'm sorry. I appear to have . . . have behaved very badly.”
“So you did.”
With a small choke of laughter, he said, “And I'm also sorry that I didn't appreciate my misdeed when I was misdoing it.”
He really had the most appalling sense of humor, but it was hard to be severe with a man when one's arms were wrapped around him. She settled for saying tartly, “Why are you wandering around at this hour? And in a house full of servants, why is this little drama taking place in complete solitude?”
His brow wrinkled as he gave her questions serious thought. “Perhaps everyone is in bed? It must be very late.”
She sighed with relief. The clarity of his mind indicated that the drug withdrawal was over, and he had survived. “A profound observation, Major. So pleased you are back in the land of the living.”
But what now? She could yell until someone woke and came to help put the major in bed, but she wasn't sure how much longer she could support his substantial weight, and his room was at the far end of the gallery. The door to her own chamber was only a few feet away. “If I help, do you think you can make it to the next room?”
He carefully levered himself away from the wall. After an alarming sway, he caught his balance. “I believe so.”
With some awkwardness, they rearranged themselves, with his left arm draped across her shoulders, then lurched into Jocelyn's room, the major opening the door with his free hand. Soft lamplight helped guide them across the chamber. Turning him around so their backs were to the bed, Jocelyn let go and allowed gravity to take over. He collapsed onto the bed like a marionette whose strings had been cut, his legs trailing over the edge of the mattress.
She turned and saw that he was trembling from the effort expended, but he managed a twisted smile. “I appear to be in your debt once more.”
“Think nothing of it, Major.” Jocelyn lifted his legs up onto the covers and helped straighten his lanky form. Luckily, she had placed him so that his head landed near the pillow. “You have no idea how boring my life was until our paths crossed.”
She straightened, panting a little. Even half starved, the man was no lightweight.
To her dismay, he had already fallen asleep. She supposed it was not surprising after three days and nights without any real rest, but the fact that he was on her bed was a blasted nuisance.
She could wake the footmen and have him carried back to his room, but that would be a noisy, time-consuming process. Worse, the major was bound to wake up, which would be a great pity when he needed rest so badly. She winced at the thought of dealing with sleepy, apologetic, and distressed servants when all she really wanted to do was go to sleep herself.
Yet she couldn't retreat to a guest room to spend the night, because none of the other chambers were made up. The major's room was the only one kept always at the ready. She glared at his peacefully slumbering form for a moment, then yanked the pins from her hair. So what if he was in her bed? After all, they were married. More or less.
She undressed behind the screen usually used around the hip bath. It felt odd to be naked in a room with a man, even one who was dead to the world. After donning her most opaque nightgown and wrapper, she pulled a lightweight quilt from her wardrobe and spread it over her guest. Then she crawled under the other half, her back turned to him and her body as close to the edge of the bed as she could safely manage.
Fortunately, it was a very large bed.
David awoke slowly, so warm and at peace that at first he wondered if he was floating in another dream, kinder than the ones that had gone before. But no, his heart beat steadily and his lungs expanded and contracted with convincing reality.
Cautiously he wiggled his toes, wanting confirmation that all his parts were working. Though he ached all over and was exhausted from the last crazed days of drug withdrawal, there were no more agonizing muscle cramps. Best of all, not a trace of paralysis. He'd never take toe wiggling for granted again.
He lay with his eyes closed, not wanting to lose such a delicious feeling of well-being. The scents of clean linen and jasmine, his arm draped over a pillow—a pillow that breathed? His eyes shot open, and he found that he was lying face to face with a sleeping Lady Jocelyn, his arm around her.
Paralysis of another kind struck. He lay absolutely still, scarcely breathing as he tried to remember how he'd arrived in what must be Jocelyn's bedroom. It was very early morning, and the light played over her lush, loosened hair, accenting the red tones. In sleep, she looked young and vulnerable, not at all like the highly competent woman who had swept into his hospital room, and his life.
No wonder he felt so well. There was nothing like waking up with a lovely lady, even if he couldn't quite remember how he'd come to be in—no, on—her bed.
With reluctance, he removed his arm. The motion woke her, and her eyes opened. The changeable hazel color was flecked with gold, and her skin had the flawless purity of an English rose. At this range, the impact rivaled that of a cannonball.
His heartbeat accelerated as they gazed at one another. She looked like a wary songbird who would fly away if he made the wrong move, yet there was no surprise at his presence. What the devil had happened the night before?
Her voice morning husky, she said, “You're back from the abyss, aren't you?”
The abyss. How accurate a description. “Yes. God willing, I'll never have to go there again.” He made a gesture that encompassed the room. “Dare I ask how I came to be in this enviable position?”
Her eyes narrowed with amusement. “I imagine that you would dare anything, Major.”
He grinned. “Very well. What
did
happen?”
“Not much. Do you remember wandering out onto the gallery?”
Her words recalled images of lurching unsteadily, the railing cool under his hand as it guided and supported him. A woman's light, clear voice. He'd turned . . .
His stomach lurched. “Damnation, I remember hanging over the railing and thinking how very far down the floor was, but my wits were so scrambled that I didn't really care.” The memory was more upsetting than the experience had been. Falling off the gallery would have been an unforgivably stupid way to die after all he'd been through. “You dragged me back to safety, didn't you?”

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