The Scoundrel’s Seduction Page 17

  When Masterson had finally closed the door behind him, Sam turned to the drenched, unconscious woman he’d laid atop the bedcovers.

  He’d already removed her cloak, so he started on her feet, peeling off the leather boots that had molded to her skin. She didn’t budge as he removed the trousers, the coat, and the shirt. All were completely soaked through. He left them in a sodden heap on the floor.

  He’d have to strip her completely bare in order to warm her up.

  She was a practical woman. When she returned to consciousness, she’d understand why he’d done this.

  He went to work on her stays, then her chemise.

  And then she was naked. He tried not to look, to keep a businesslike calm about him, but she was perfect. Beautiful. Absolutely exquisite. As he’d known she would be.

  Quickly and efficiently, he toweled her dry, then covered her with blankets. A few moments later, she began to shake. These weren’t feminine little shivers, but full-blown spasms of her body that looked so painful they made his heart contract.

  He took a few moments to prowl around the cottage, searching for something that might heat her, might warm her, but the fire was cold—and too far from the bedchamber to make any difference anyhow—and he couldn’t find so much as another blanket, unless he meant to steal the one off Masterson’s bed. He snatched it off. He’d deal with Masterson later.

  He returned to her. He laid Masterson’s blanket over her and stood watching her for a moment, cringing at those awful spasms. Helplessness clawed at him.

  And then it came to him. He knew what he must do. He threw off his own clothes—even his smallclothes, because the rain had somehow found its way beneath everything and made them damp, too.

  Fully naked, he climbed into bed beside her and covered them both with the blankets. He drew her clammy, shivering body against him. God, but she was a shock of cold against his skin.

  He closed his eyes and bent his head against her wet hair, holding her firmly against him, touching her with as much of his own skin as he could manage. His cock hardened almost instantly, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it, throwing all his focus instead onto Élise, on bringing warmth and color back into her lovely fair skin.

  * * *

  Élise was hot. She was burning. It felt like someone had thrown her into a giant oven and shut the door. Her skin was on fire.

  She couldn’t stand it anymore. With a huge force of will, she kicked, trying to relieve the oppressive weight that rested over her body. A dull pain throbbed in her knee, but it was nothing compared to the pain in her head.

  She heard a low grunt of disapproval; then she felt arms wrap around her.

  Someone’s skin pressed against her own. It was an odd feeling. She had been touched, skin to skin like this, infrequently in her life.

  Her eyes flew open as she heard the words, “Here now. You don’t want to be cold again.”

  Who was that? Sam? But she had escaped from him! She had gone to Preston …

  Her thoughts fizzled away as she struggled to rise, blinking in the darkness to try to gain her bearings. How was it that she was on a bed? She remembered the mail coach becoming stuck in the mudbank, and she remembered walking … and feeling terrible …

  Oh … her head ached. Her body ached. She still felt terrible. And terribly hot.

  “Hot …” she pushed out through her dry, cracking throat.

  Strong arms helped her to sit. A light flickered—a candle, and she saw Sam’s shadowy profile. He’d been lying beside her.

  “Comment … How … did you?” Dieu, it felt like she needed to learn how to speak again. And every word she uttered hurt.

  “Shh.” He twisted away to reach for something from the small table beside the bed. “You’ve been ill. Here, have some water.”

  He pressed a cup to her lips. She took a sip of the cool liquid, and it felt good against her lips and tongue, but swallowing it was torture.

  She’d been ill? She was so confused. She rubbed her temple. “What … happened?”

  “I found you in a heap on the side of the road about half a mile north of Preston.”

  “Ugh,” she groaned. Had she fainted? She must have. She had never arrived at Preston, because she had fainted, and Sam had found her first.

  What would have happened if he hadn’t found her?

  She couldn’t think too hard about that. It made her already aching head pound.

  She leaned back weakly against the headboard. “What time is it?”

  “Almost dawn. Here,” Sam ordered. “More water.”

  Again, the cup pressed against her lips. Again, she sipped at it, and again it scraped over her throat. She winced.

  “Hurts, huh?”

  “Oui.” She didn’t have the energy to say the English word.

  “You were chilled to the bone when I brought you here,” he told her. “Once I got you warmed up, you developed a fever. Masterson will summon a doctor in the morning.”

  She didn’t know who Masterson was, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

  She closed her eyes and nearly nodded off, but …

  He was being awfully kind. Wasn’t he supposed to be angry with her?

  All of a sudden, urgency pulsed through her. She didn’t know why exactly, and she didn’t have the mental capacity to consider the logic of it—but she didn’t think she was ever going to reach London and the Duke of Trent. And someone needed to be told. Francis would need to be stopped.

  She needed to tell Sam. Now.

  “Je dois te dire …” She shook her head. English. Though she knew he spoke French, they always spoke English together. “I must tell you something,” she murmured.

  “Later.”

  “Non … maintenant. Now.”

  Lines of disapproval were carved around his eyes, and brackets of annoyance deepened around his mouth. Her gaze flickered over the bulging muscles that etched his bare shoulders. But the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt seemed utterly insignificant compared to what she needed to tell him.

  “It’s his brother,” she whispered.

  Sam shook his head, uncomprehending.

  “His younger brother, Francis. He will inherit now that Dunthorpe is dead.”

  “Yes,” Sam said, still not understanding. “He was Dunthorpe’s heir, so he’s the new viscount. By all accounts, Dunthorpe intended to will everything to him.”

  “Yes, that is all true, but there is more.” She gripped his arm, desperate to tell him everything. “Dunthorpe did not care about the monarchy. He did not care about England. All he cared about was his own financial gain, and he used whatever means he deemed appropriate to obtain his goal.”

  “Right. I know all this, Élise.” Though Sam’s voice held strained patience, he shifted on the bed, and his brows knitted, hinting that patience was about to come to an end.

  She tried to glare at him, though it took almost more energy than she possessed. “I am attempting to tell you my most valuable secret, my Sam, so growing impatient with me is not at all brilliant.”

  He blew out a breath. “Tell me, then. What does Dunthorpe’s brother have to do with this?”

  “He is—was—Dunthorpe’s chief lieutenant. He has been for the past six years. Once Dunthorpe informed him that I would never bear children and that he would be the recipient of everything upon his death, Francis grew obsessed. Just as obsessed as Dunthorpe himself was.”

  Finally, understanding dawned. “He knew about the plot to assassinate the Regent?”

  “He must have. He knew everything. They were very close and very secretive. They planned everything together. He was Dunthorpe’s protégé.”

  “I see.”

  “There was another man, too. Someone you must be wary of. His name is Edmund Gherkin. He is the opposite of Francis, who is emotional and inconsistent. Gherkin is intelligent. He is cold and calculating, and I do not believe I have ever seen a hint of emotion from him.”

  “I know who he is,” Sam
said. “Dunthorpe’s solicitor.”

  “Yes.”

  Exhaustion had been creeping through her body throughout the conversation, and now it weighted her down. She felt her shoulders slump as she leaned more heavily against the headboard. Sam’s lips tightened. “This isn’t a good time for you. You need to rest. We’ll talk more later.”

  “But Dunthorpe—”

  “I understand, Élise, and I am glad you told me this. We’ll take the appropriate action.”

  “Good,” she murmured. “Just … don’t let him find you again … They will try to kill you. I don’t want them to …”

  “Here now.” His arms, gentle but firm and so very strong, went around her. “Let me lay you back down.”

  He helped her onto her back and settled in beside her. Then he pulled her into his arms. He was … she was … naked. An electric jolt shot through her, her body going stiff.

  “Your … my … our clothes!”

  “Shh. It’s all right,” he murmured.

  And, forgetting why being naked with Sam might be of any concern, she melted into the comfort of his arms and drifted off to sleep again.

  * * *

  “It’s the influenza,” the doctor told Sam in a low, serious voice.

  Sam glanced over at the small form on the bed. She remained motionless, for though she was awake and lucid, she was almost too weak to move.

  He grasped the doctor by the elbow and led him out. When they were in the passageway, he closed the door behind them, then turned to face the man fully.

  “What are her chances?”

  The doctor blinked at him owlishly through his spectacles.

  Sam leaned forward, grinding his teeth before repeating, “What … are her chances?”

  The doctor puffed out his cheeks, then released a breath. “The next day will tell. The wound on her knee isn’t significant thus far, but it will become so if it festers. I have wrapped it tightly, so you needn’t bother with it any further. You need to reduce her fever as much as possible. Keep her cool.”

  “Being cold was what did this to her,” Sam said.

  “That may be, but if you encourage warmth now, it will raise her fever ever higher.”

  “Fine. How do I reduce her fever?”

  “Cool water on her fevered skin. Sponge baths are best, repeated as necessary whenever the skin is hot and dry to the touch.”

  Sam nodded. “What else?”

  “Cool drinks. Barley water is preferred.”

  “And?”

  “I would highly recommend bleeding her.”

  “No.” Sam had been bled when his gunshot wound had festered. Not only had it been the worst experience of his life, it had made him so weak he’d fallen into a coma for a day.

  “Blistering is a possibility—”

  “No.” He remembered soldiers being blistered—that looked just a touch less horrid than being bled.

  “A dose of prussic acid might alleviate—”

  “Absolutely not.” He’d seen a man killed by prussic acid once. The stuff was poison.

  The doctor sighed.

  “What else?”

  “Just keep her cool, Mr. Hawkins. Lukewarm broth might help, but no heavy foods.”

  Sam’s lips twisted. He could hardly get her to take tiny sips of water. Heavy foods were not going to be a problem.

  “That’s all?”

  “And simply wait it out. As I said, the next twenty-four hours will be telling.”

  Sam gritted his teeth. “How will I know if she is getting worse?”

  “Her temperature will rise. She is clearly exhausted, but she has her wits about her now. If she grows worse, she will become delirious. You will know things have become dire if she is seized by convulsions. If that happens, then death invariably will follow.”

  Sam froze. Red anger crept into the edges of his vision. Hearing death discussed so flippantly referring to Élise … No, he wouldn’t tolerate it.

  He gave the man a brusque, dismissive nod, then turned away and slipped back into the bedchamber. The doctor could find his own way out.

  He closed the door on the doctor and sat on the edge of the bed. Élise looked so small, so frail and harmless lying there. But she was a woman who brimmed with life, who virtually vibrated with it. He wasn’t going to allow that life to be snuffed out.

  She gazed up at him, her eyes preternaturally bright. “What did he say?” she rasped out.

  He didn’t want to scare her, but he wouldn’t lie to her, either. Their days of lying to each other were over.

  “Influenza,” he said softly.

  “Ah.” She didn’t seem overly perturbed by this news.

  “The good news is that the doctor said the fever should be gone in a day or two.”

  “Good,” she said, a note of wistfulness in her voice. “But he is a fool. He wrapped my knee too tightly. You must remove the bandages.”

  He frowned at her, and she looked at him, exhausted but lucid. “Remember the wound I dressed for you in the carriage, my Sam?” she asked softly.

  “Yes.” He’d almost forgotten about it, it had healed so well.

  “I know how to dress a wound. That man was a fool. If you keep this dressing on me, it will fester.”

  His lips pressed tightly together, he removed the damned bandage; then, as she gave him careful instructions that seemed to take every last drop of energy she possessed, he redressed it.

  Finally, he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and rose. “Rest. I need to go fetch some things for you and talk to Masterson. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  She turned her lips to his palm and pressed a kiss there. Her eyelids flickered shut, and he removed his hand, though as he did so, he allowed his fingertips to slide over the softness of her cheek. Soft but so hot his fingertips felt scalded.

  He went into the kitchen, where Masterson was clearing the breakfast dishes. He glanced over his shoulder when Sam walked in and reached up to put a clean plate into his dish cabinet. “What’d he say?”

  Sam put the kettle on the stove. “She has the influenza. He said the fever should go down soon. If it doesn’t …”

  He shook his head, his throat closing at the thought of the worst happening to Élise. Damned doctor had given him these dire thoughts. He could wring the bloody man’s neck.

  Because, the truth was … he cared for Élise. To see her looking so defeated and weakened by this illness made him want to punch the wall. To have it kill her …

  He squared his shoulders. “Have you got a sponge?”

  “I do.” Masterson disappeared into his pantry, returning a moment later to hand Sam a large sponge. “What for?”

  “Doctor said she’s to be given sponge baths.”

  “Ah.” Masterson turned away, but not before Sam saw a smile playing around the man’s lips.

  “Don’t even think it,” Sam growled.

  Masterson raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not thinking anything.”

  “Oh yes, you are.”

  Masterson chuckled. “Ah, Hawk, you’ve got it bad for this one.”

  Sam didn’t respond to that. What could he say?

  Sobering, Masterson took his coffee in hand and sat at the small table. “I’ve a minute before Tom leaves the gate. I need to talk to you about something.”

  With a weary sigh, Sam sat across from the man. He had a few minutes while the water heated. Still … “Make it quick.”

  “You were rather preoccupied last night—”

  “Just say it. I need to get back to her.”

  Masterson seemed to wage a valiant battle against his twitching lips. Sam glared at the man, who was evidently wise enough to manage to keep a smirk from forming on his face.

  “I know it’s a change of topic, but I’ve been thinking about the dowager duchess.”

  “What about her?”

  “Well, I told you how I remembered your brothers questioning me as they came through the tollgate. At t
he time, I’d no recollection of seeing the Dowager Duchess of Trent or the man who was with her.”

  “Steven Lowell. Yes?”

  “But something you said last night sparked a memory. You mentioned they were heading to the lakes for a romantic interlude. I do recall an older couple passing through—about a month ago. They seemed”—he coughed and gazed into his cup—“to have a powerful infatuation with each other.”

  Sam raised a brow.

  Masterson lifted his gaze and observed Sam with steady brown eyes. “If that woman was indeed the Dowager Duchess of Trent, she is a master of disguise.”

  “How’s that?”

  “No one would mistake her for a duchess, Hawk. Her hair flowed down to her waist, her feet were bare, and her dress was homespun, made of the brightest colors. She and her man were riding on a cart drawn by nags, and they were all wrapped up in each other—”

  Sam held out his hand. “All right. That’s enough.”

  Masterson shook his head. “Anyhow, the more I think about it, the more I think that woman was her. And the man must be this Steven Lowell chap.”

  Sam nodded. His mother and the gypsy must have passed through Masterson’s tollgate if they’d indeed gone north. “Did they say anything about where they might have gone?”

  “They were talking about waterfalls.”

  “Waterfalls?”

  Masterson nodded. “Aye. As I stepped up to take their toll, he was murmuring about showing her all the falls in England.”

  “Starting with those in the Lake District?” Sam asked.

  “It seems the natural starting point. My guess is if you want to find the Dowager Duchess of Trent, try the falls.”

  Sam nodded. “Might be a little far-fetched, but it narrows the area down somewhat. I will send my brothers to perform a thorough search.”

  Masterson raised his ashy brows. “Or send yourself, perhaps.”

  Sam glanced toward the bedchamber where Élise was. He really needed to get back to her.

  “Take her with you,” Masterson said, and he finally let the smirk show fully on his face. “Falls are very romantic, you know.”

  As Sam turned a scowl on the older man, Masterson took his leave, chuckling.

  Sam took the water from the stove and made Élise some tea. He poured cold water into a basin, which he took into the bedchamber along with the sponge and the tea. Élise had evidently been dozing, but she stirred when he stepped beside her.