The Seduction (34 page)

What if he died? She went cold at the thought, realizing how possible it was. People died from fevers. It happened all the time.

"No!" she cried, everything in her rebelling against that idea. "You're not going to die." Drenching the napkin in water, she dabbed his cheeks with it. "You're not going to die," she repeated with a choked sob. "You're not. I won't let you."

She could feel herself coming apart, and she knew she could not allow it. Giving in to tears and getting hysterical would do Trevor no good at all.

Think, she told herself, taking deep breaths to steady her nerves. When she was a little girl and she'd had a very high fever, they had put her in a cool vinegar bath to bring her temperature down. She might not have any vinegar, but she had plenty of water.

Margaret grabbed Trevor by his feet and dragged him toward the stream. She stumbled several times in the dark, but finally made it. After pulling off her boots and her stockings, she removed his shirt and his boots. Then she pulled Trevor into the shallow water at the edge.

In the cool water she felt his temperature begin to drop, and her panic began to subside. After a few minutes, she took him out of the stream and sank down into the soft grass on the riverbank. She arranged the blanket around them both and pressed her body close to his. There was nothing she could do now but wait and pray that his fever would break.

It did not, but he fell into a quieter sleep. Exhausted, she fell asleep beside him.

The clattering of wheels wakened her. She sat up, blinking her eyes against the bright morning sunlight, and saw a wagon coming along the road. She jumped to her feet and ran toward it, shouting and waving her arms to get the driver's attention.

The man, clearly a farmer, pulled the team of sturdy brown horses to a stop. He looked down at her for a moment, then frowned in puzzlement and asked a question.

Margaret beckoned to him to come down, but he seemed to have no inclination to do so. She wished that years ago she'd listened to the governess who had told her Italian would be important to her someday. She reached up and grabbed his arm, pulling him as she pointed toward the stream. "Oh, please," she said, "you've got to help me."

The man finally seemed to understand there was some urgency involved and climbed down from the wagon. He followed her across the meadow to where Trevor lay unconscious and shivering in the blanket.

"Napoli," she said, gesturing to herself and the man at her feet, then pointing to the road. He gave her a blank stare in reply, and she wondered desperately how she could make him understand. Inspired, she reached into the sack at her feet and pulled out Trevor's portfolio. From it, she removed the letter he'd been writing to Edward and Cornelia. She pointed to the address. "We need to get to Napoli."

She felt like an idiot, speaking in English when the man did not seem to understand the language, and she realized the letter would do her no good, for the man obviously could not read.

She saw the farmer looking at Trevor with obvious apprehension, and she realized it wasn't that he didn't understand what she wanted, but he was reluctant to take a sick man anywhere. Perhaps he needed more of an incentive than Christian charity. "Lire," she said, rubbing her fingers together in a gesture she hoped he understood. "Much lire if you'll take us to Napoli."

Some gestures were universal, and he seemed to get the idea. Nodding, he picked up Trevor and carried him to the wagon. Margaret grabbed their things and followed.

With her help, the farmer lifted him into the back of the wagon, then resumed his seat. Margaret climbed in beside Trevor with a sigh of relief. The farmer snapped the reins, and the wagon lurched forward, heading down the road that branched to the left.

Trevor was still unconscious, and he was shivering violently with another attack of chills. She pulled the blanket up around his body to keep him as warm as
possible. She cradled his head in her lap, raking her fingers gently through his hair.

"Everything's going to be all right," she told him. "You've been taking care of me long enough. Now it's my turn to take care of you."

Margaret did not realize until she felt the wagon jerk to a stop that she'd been sleeping. Coming awake with a start, she glanced up to find that the farmer had pulled off the road and into a grove of trees. The sun was directly overhead, and she knew she'd slept away most of the morning. Trevor was asleep, and he was still suffering from acute chills and fever. He lay on his side, his body curled against her and his head in her lap.

She glanced at the farmer inquiringly, and he seemed to understand, for he reached down beside him and lifted a metal lunch pail, then climbed down from the wagon. She nodded to show she understood and gently eased herself out from beneath Trevor, who did not awaken. The farmer held out his hand to help her down.

Margaret reached out to take his hand, but when she met his eyes, she hesitated for no definable reason and pulled her hand back.

He was staring at her in a very odd way, and what she saw in his expression caused prickles of fear along her spine. It was a look she had never seen in a man's face before, but instinctively she sensed danger.

He reached out to grab her hand and she jumped back, nearly stumbling over Trevor's feet. The farmer did not seem surprised by this, nor was he deterred. He climbed into the wagon after her. Margaret went cold with fear, realizing with a sick feeling of dread what his intentions were.

"No." She shook her head and took another step back. The back of her knees hit the wagon seat behind her, and she was trapped. He was breathing hard and smiling at her in a way that made her skin crawl. "No," she said more forcefully, but he paid no heed to her denials. When he reached for her, she turned to climb out of the wagon to get away, but he grabbed her arm.

"No!" she cried, clinging to the wagon seat. "Let go of me!"

The farmer wrapped his arms around her, yanking her backward with enough force to loosen her grip. She struggled, but he had her arms trapped beneath his own. She kicked him, her heels banging his shins, but his grip on her only tightened, and her struggles were futile.

She could feel him hauling her backward toward the edge of the wagon, but then she heard a shout of rage, followed by a yelp of pain. The man stumbled, and she was suddenly free. She turned around to see Trevor rise up on his knees, his knife in his hand.

"Mine!" The word was almost a snarl, and had all the savagery of a wild animal. His arm came up and he shoved her behind him, then leaned over the farmer, who lay flat on his back. Grabbing a handful of the farmer's shirt, he hauled the man upward with a strength Margaret wouldn't have thought possible given his weakened condition. He was shivering violently and seemed out of his senses, yet he was conscious of the man's intentions.

Trevor lifted the knife, and she could see how it shook in his hand as he pricked the other man's throat with the sharp point, drawing blood. He spoke in Italian, and she saw the man's face break out in a sweat. He began to shake.

Trevor hauled him toward the edge of the wagon and shouted at her to take the reins. Margaret scrambled up into the driver's seat and grabbed the reins just as Trevor pushed the man out of the wagon. "
Ya
!" she shouted, and the horses started forward.

Behind her, she could hear the farmer shouting at them in enraged Italian. She glanced back and saw that he was making no attempt to follow. Trevor, the knife in his hand, was still kneeling by the edge of the wagon to prevent such a possibility. But the moment they were a safe distance away, he collapsed, unconscious.

"They should have arrived three days ago." Cornelia lifted her teacup and glanced over its rim at her husband, whose face was concealed by the previous Monday's edition of the
London Times.
"Edward, are you listening to me?"

"Of course I am." He lowered the paper to look at her. "Trevor told me they might not be precisely on time. He said that if they were several days late, we should not worry."

Cornelia set her cup down and rose. She walked to the window, but her mind was too distracted to appreciate the beautiful view of Vesuvius. "I don't see how we can do anything but worry."

She began to pace the carpet of the drawing room. "I never should have agreed to this. I must have been out of my mind."

"I can see we are going to have to talk about this again," he said ruefully, setting aside his paper. "You agreed to it because Trevor and I left you no choice."

"A fact which still bothers me. Why on earth did
you agree to help him with such an outrageous plan? What were you thinking?"

Edward was silent for a moment, then he said, "When Trevor and I were at Cambridge together, I watched how the local girls fell all over themselves trying to get his attention. The funny thing was, he didn't really care. He's always treated women with a sort of affectionate indulgence, but nothing more. He's never gone out of his way to get a woman in his life, and if he took a fancy to a girl who didn't fancy him—which wasn't often, by the way—he just shrugged it off and said there were plenty of other women to choose from. I don't think he's ever been in love in his life."

"Well, that just proves my point."

Edward shook his head. "That afternoon in Rome when Margaret refused to see him, I suggested that he find himself another heiress, and he said no. He wanted Margaret, and he said he would do whatever it took to win her. I've never seen him react that way to a woman before. I think Trevor is actually falling in love with her, though hell would freeze over before he would admit it to anyone, even himself."

Cornelia was skeptical. "Perhaps he does care for her," she conceded, "but I cannot say that I approve of his methods of courtship."

Edward laughed, the indulgent reaction of one man to the wicked escapades of another, and the sound infuriated Cornelia. Her husband seemed to realize she was not amused. His laugh ended in a little cough, and he said, "Perhaps Trevor does not have the most orthodox way of winning a wife, but can you honestly tell me that more customary methods would work with Margaret? How many other men have tried that and failed?"

Many, but Cornelia was loathe to admit it just now. "That is not the point."

Her husband shrugged and reached for a crumpet from the tea tray. "Perhaps not, but everything will work out. Trevor's a clever chap, and he'll manage everything just fine. You know that as well as I do."

Cornelia, distressed, resumed her pacing. "I know nothing of the kind."

Ever since she had agreed to Lord Ashton's plans, she had regretted it, although at the time, he had made it sound the only possible course of action. Even now she did not know quite how he had persuaded her to go along with it, but he had a way of making even the most insane ideas seem reasonable.

It did not seem so reasonable now. For nearly two weeks, she had been living with the anxiety of her decision, and it was beginning to take a severe toll on her nerves. If anyone discovered the truth, Margaret would be ruined. Even if Ashton did succeed in marrying her, they would not be received by anyone in society, despite his title and position. And if Henry were ever to find out. . . Cornelia shuddered to think what her uncle would do. He may have wanted the match, but he could hardly approve of Ashton's methods.