The Scoundrel’s Seduction Page 18

  “You’re back,” she murmured, her blue eyes shining with a silvery sheen as she gazed at him.

  “I am.” He lowered himself to the edge of the bed and studied her. Her chemise had dried, and he’d helped her into it before she’d seen the doctor. She lay under the sheet but refused to have more on top of her. “I’m going to give you a cool bath.”

  She raised a brow, managing to look cynical despite her obvious pain and exhaustion. “Oh? Is that so?”

  Her voice was lower than usual, with a harsh rasp to it, and he knew that every word she spoke was painful to her.

  “It is,” he said mildly. “Doctor’s orders. But first I want you to drink this tea.”

  She eyed it unenthusiastically. He helped her sit up, and then he patiently forced her to drink the entire cupful, despite numerous pauses and several complaints. When the cup was finally empty, he set it beside the basin. Then he reached for the sponge, which he dipped in the water before squeezing out the excess.

  She made a scoffing noise as she eyed the sponge. “You are going to bathe me,” she said. “With that.”

  “Yes. We’ll start here.” Speaking mildly, he moved the sheet aside and untied the neckline of her chemise before tugging it open, keeping her breast covered but exposing an expanse of creamy skin. Ever so gently, he swiped the sponge over the hot, pale skin of her shoulder, then down her arm.

  She shivered.

  “Too cold?”

  “Ah … no. It feels … very nice.”

  He glanced at her to see her bright eyes steady on his face. His heart kicked against his ribs, and he looked away again to focus on his task.

  He worked in silence for long moments, gliding the sponge over her heated body, feeling her gaze on him.

  The sponge quickly grew warm, and he dipped it in the cool water once again. As he squeezed the water out of it, she blinked at him, her lush eyelashes fluttering as if she was attempting to focus.

  “How do you feel?” he murmured.

  “Very terrible, mostly,” she said. “But … better. It is very soothing, your touch.”

  He wanted to take her focus off how terrible she felt. Off her fever and her pain. He could soothe her body with the cool water and the sponge … and perhaps he could soothe her mind, too.

  With the truth.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Élise’s head had never throbbed so violently in her life. Every part of her skin burned with heat, and a deep ache resided in every one of her muscles.

  But when Sam swiped the cool sponge over her, it was sweet relief. She felt like arching in to his touch and purring like a kitten. She probably would have, if she’d had the energy. As it was, she allowed her lids to sink and simply appreciated his soothing touch.

  He moved away to rinse the sponge again. “I’m going to pull your chemise down so I can bathe your chest.”

  She didn’t say a word, focusing on ignoring the bright flash of self-consciousness. She knew the man had taken off her clothes while she was unconscious—he’d had to, of course, if he didn’t intend for her to freeze to death. He’d slept beside her last night in the nude, presumably to warm her.

  It wasn’t that she was ashamed of her body. It was just that she wasn’t accustomed to others looking at it or touching it. Especially men. The only man who’d ever seen her naked was her husband, and he hadn’t looked at her or touched her in a very long time.

  It was strange and odd, but so comforting and so pleasant. In any case, she was too ill to argue.

  She managed a brooding sigh, and against her will, she stiffened as he tugged the chemise down to her hips.

  He gave a soft laugh. “You’ve never struck me as shy.”

  “I am not,” she huffed.

  “No.” His voice was husky, and his gaze locked on her torso. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “I fear I would make a poor bed partner right now, my Sam.”

  “Never.”

  She pulled in a deep breath and winced. Even breathing hurt.

  He saw it, because his eyes darkened and his lips pinched together. “Don’t worry. You’re too beautiful for me not to notice, but I will push those thoughts away. The important thing is to heal you. We can …” His gaze met hers. “Discuss those matters later.”

  Deep longing resonated in him—in his voice and beyond his darkened eyes. Her heartbeat seemed to stutter. “Yes,” she murmured, “later.”

  When she was better … when she was herself again … she would want him. She would want him so much she’d never want to let him go.

  “For now …” His gentle, cool stroke passed between her breasts. “There are some things I want you to know.”

  “What things are those?” She gave in to the heaviness of her lids and closed her eyes. His touch was soothing, but his voice made her feel safe. After a life that had never offered much in the way of safety, she craved the safety he offered.

  “I don’t want there to be secrets between us anymore.”

  She tried to remain perfectly still, but she knew he sensed her stiffening again.

  “I know you weren’t in league with Dunthorpe. I believe you.”

  She sighed, a part of her relaxing in relief. Another part of her remained tense and on edge, anticipating what he might say next.

  “This morning,” he said quietly, “before the doctor came, you told me you’d been planning to go to the Duke of Trent in London to ask him for help.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “The Duke of Trent is my brother.”

  Her eyes flew open, and a hoarse sound of surprise flew from her mouth before she could stop it. “What?”

  He was looking down at her, his face serious, the sponge gripped in his fist, for the moment not in use.

  “Yes. I am the duke’s illegitimate half brother.”

  She remembered all he’d told her about his family, about how close he was to his siblings, about how they treated him as if he were a full brother to them.

  The Duke of Trent’s brother.

  She blinked up at him in astonishment.

  “I am eighteen months older than him, and we were raised together. When we were grown, he bought me my commission, and I went into the army. I married Marianne and brought her to Malta; then I married Charlotte in Portugal. After she and our son died …” He stopped and turned away. She watched him as he soaked the sponge and then squeezed it out, her heart twisting. She couldn’t see his face, but she did see the defeat in his posture.

  He turned back around, wet sponge in hand, and spoke in a low voice. “After she died, I was wounded in battle. The wound didn’t heal properly, and I was sent home to England to recover. When that ordeal was over, I sold my commission. I was recruited to join a secret agency by a colonel I’d served under.”

  “Your spy agency?” she whispered.

  “We aren’t spies, in that we do not attempt to learn enemy secrets. We work to protect the interests of the king and the monarchy. Shortly after the Revolution in France, certain key political figures secretly created the Agency. Very few people know of its existence.”

  The odd fact that she was one of them now did not escape her. Why was he telling her all this? She’d attempted to escape from him! Her actions were certainly not the usual way to earn someone’s trust …

  “There is a network of agents that extends to everywhere in the world where Britain wields influence. Our sole purpose is to preserve the integrity of the monarchy and to quell any attempts at treason.”

  “Such as Dunthorpe’s,” she murmured.

  “Such as Dunthorpe’s.” He stroked the cool sponge down her side.

  “You were ordered to kill him because he was a threat to the monarchy.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you await your orders regarding me.”

  He studied her for a long moment, then, gazing at her evenly, he said, “Yes.”

  What if his superiors decided she should suffer the same fat
e as Dunthorpe?

  Their gazes held for a long moment. Then he looked away. Her thoughts must have been written all over her face.

  Would he do it? Would he take out a gun and shoot her as he had her husband? She couldn’t bring herself to believe that he would. And yet … He was a soldier. A warrior and an agent of the British government. He followed orders; he did not disobey them.

  This was the man who made her feel safe. What an illusion. He’d kidnapped her, pursued her, and he could be ordered at any moment to kill her.

  She’d always fought to survive, to endure, through her parents’ execution, the Terror, poverty, and ultimately Dunthorpe. But if Sam could do this … if he could murder her in the name of his country …

  She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t even afraid. She felt defeated. She felt … so very tired.

  But she wanted to know more. She wanted to know everything about him, to understand him. He was in a mood to share the truth with her. When she woke up, when her fever went away, would he feel the same? Would he feel the same when he was ordered to eliminate her?

  “Your mother … she is the Dowager Duchess of Trent, then?” she murmured, her eyes closed. She shuddered as he nudged the sheet over her thigh and the sponge stroked down the length of her leg, avoiding the bandage wrapped around her knee.

  “Yes.”

  “She is the one who disappeared last year, isn’t she?”

  Sam released a long sigh. “Yes.”

  “Then … she … you were born before she married the Duke of Trent?”

  He nodded. “The duke tolerated me in his house. It was a condition he agreed to in order for her to marry him.”

  “She wouldn’t have married him unless he accepted you into his home? She must have loved you very much.”

  “Yes,” Sam said simply.

  “And then the new duke was born …”

  “Trent was born, and Luke followed two years later. Then Mark and Theo, and finally Esme, whom you’ve met. I was twelve years old when Esme was born.”

  “Lady Esme,” she murmured, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. “I knew she was a lady. I know these things, you see. I am ever so clever.”

  “You are, Élise,” she heard him say as if from miles away. “The cleverest and most beautiful woman I have ever …”

  * * *

  From the subtle relaxation of her shoulders and the slight change in the tempo of her labored breaths, Sam could tell the moment she slipped into slumber. He continued his ministrations, turning his focus to her lovely body.

  He was an ass for lusting after her when she was so ill. But he was a red-blooded male. And she was … she was perfection.

  Perfection that was still burning hot. As soon as he swiped the sponge over her skin, the water seemed to evaporate away. He was shocked steam didn’t billow in the sponge’s path.

  Two bright spots of color flared on her cheeks, but otherwise, she was too pale.

  He took an unsteady breath. Worry wound like a rampant, uncontrollable weed through him.

  He checked her skinned knee, then covered her leg and breasts with her chemise and the sheet. He continued bathing her body, just trying to infuse her skin with the coolness the sponge attempted to deliver.

  It didn’t work. Nor did she wake. By the time Masterson returned to the house, Sam was pacing the room, feeling like pulling his hair out with helpless frustration.

  She wasn’t getting better. She was growing worse. Her skin was hotter and drier than ever. Her breaths grew more and more uneven. She whimpered occasionally in her sleep, but she didn’t wake.

  He despised this intense feeling of helplessness. He’d experienced it once before, when Charlotte was in childbed—and that hadn’t turned out the way anyone had hoped.

  Sometimes happiness appeared to hover within reach, as it had in the cottage at Lake Windermere with Élise, but it always, always slipped away when he grasped for it.

  He had learned to stop trying. It was easier that way. But with Élise, happiness seemed to have reached for him, and he hadn’t had the strength to shut it away.

  And now he was on the verge of losing it yet again.

  The door cracked open, and Masterson’s face appeared in the narrow space. His brown eyes took in the situation in the bedchamber. “She sleeping?” he asked in a low voice.

  Sam, who’d drawn to an abrupt halt in the center of the room, nodded.

  Masterson cocked his head. “Come outside,” he said. “I need to speak with you.”

  Sam glanced at Élise to find she hadn’t moved. He followed Masterson into the corridor.

  The older man turned to him, concern etched in his brow. “Just had a very interesting carriage pass through my gate.”

  Every sense in Sam’s body flared into alertness. “Did you?”

  “Aye. It was Dunthorpe’s carriage.”

  Sam narrowed his eyes. “Carrying the new viscount?”

  “Aye.”

  Sam frowned. “What business does he claim to have in the north?”

  “That’s just the thing, right? Dunthorpe had few ties to the north and seldom traveled in this direction. I did ask, but the coachman was tight-lipped and said it was a matter of private business.”

  Sam’s frown deepened until he could feel the pull between his brows. It was as Élise had told him. Dunthorpe’s brother was his associate—most likely his second in command and now in charge.

  “Dunthorpe’s after us.”

  “Looks that way.” Masterson gave him a crooked grin. “Little does he know he was within a hundred yards of you and now headed, no doubt, toward an empty cottage.”

  “And still no word from the Agency?”

  “None.”

  The Agency was usually decisive on such matters. The fact that it was taking so long with this one gave Sam a twisting feeling in his stomach.

  “So what are you going to do?” Masterson asked him.

  “I need to send Adams a message. Can you ensure it’s delivered?”

  “Of course.” Masterson led Sam into his tiny parlor, where he gave Sam a sheet of paper, ink, and a pen.

  Sam wrote a long letter to Adams, telling of all he’d learned since he’d come north, including the information he’d received from Élise regarding the new Viscount Dunthorpe and Edmund Gherkin.

  He rushed through the end, informing Adams frankly of his belief in Lady Dunthorpe’s innocence, then asking for his orders to be sent directly to Masterson, since he and Lady Dunthorpe were going to be at undisclosed locations for an indeterminate amount of time.

  It was the first time in his association with the Agency that his superiors wouldn’t know his exact location. Given what they were considering ordering him to do, however, it was for the best.

  He finally sealed the letter and gave it to Masterson, who left right away to have one of his people in Preston take the message to headquarters in London.

  Sam stopped by the kitchen to fetch a bowl of broth for Élise, and when he walked into the bedchamber, he knew right away that something had changed.

  Élise sounded terrible. Her breaths emerged in pained pants. The temperature of her body had heated the air throughout the entire room.

  Sam threw open the window and breathed in the blast of cool air, then turned to look at her.

  She was so pale. The earlier spots of color on her cheeks had drained away completely. Her eyes were closed, but her thin arms were above the sheet, and her hands gripped fistfuls of the sheet on either side of her body.

  He lowered himself on the edge of the bed. “Élise, love, are you awake?”

  “Sam?” Her voice emerged weak and thready, but her eyes didn’t open.

  “I’m here.” He smoothed his hand over her brow, brushing away the strands of hair stuck to her skin, and almost drew away at the temperature. His heart kicked in his chest. She was so damn hot.

  “Thyme …”

  “It’s just after eight …”

  “Non … no! Thyme …
the herb. Tea. Good for fevers. And licorice root. Tea.”

  Her mumbles became incoherent, and panic rose within him.

  She was too hot. She was delirious, and she still hadn’t opened her eyes.

  He sat rigid for a moment, attempting to get his pounding heartbeat under control. Then he stood and dipped a towel in a new basin of clean water. He wiped her brow in a useless attempt to cool it, then folded it and placed it across her chest.

  She’s going to die. She’s going to die, and there’s nothing you can do.

  He took a steadying breath. He wasn’t going to give up. Not yet. She was still here, still beautiful, her chest rising and falling as she fought for every breath.

  She was a fighter, and he would help her fight.

  “Élise,” he said gently, “what do you need?”

  “I’m … cold,” she rasped out. “So … cold.”

  He blinked at her. What did she mean, she was cold? Her skin scorched his hands wherever he touched her.

  Her body lied to her. Yet as she lay there, she began to shiver and shudder beneath the sheet.

  He strode out of the room and found that Masterson did have a bit of thyme, though he couldn’t find any licorice root. He made a strong tea of it and hurried back to Élise. She hadn’t moved a muscle since he’d left her. It would probably be hopeless trying to get the liquid into her.

  And yet …

  “Élise, I made you some thyme tea. I need you to drink.”

  She made a small noise, and he almost smiled, realizing that was a scoff of disbelief. He could hear her regular, non-sick voice saying, “Oh, my Sam, how ridiculous you are!”

  Tenderly, he propped her up with the pillows. He took a spoonful of tea and held it to her lips. Her eyes flickered, opened, and then, as if she found it too difficult to keep them open, they slid shut again. But her lips parted and she took the spoonful of tea. It seemed like forever before he saw her slender throat move as she swallowed.

  It took her the better part of an hour before she’d had half a cup, and she turned her head, pressing her lips together and refusing any more.