Page 30 of Truly, Madly, Daring

Emmeline was vaguely aware of a commotion, of Wrexham’s furious voice issuing orders, but she was far too tired to discover what the trouble was, and instead closed her eyes.

Wrexham sat beside Emmeline’s bed and cursed himself for the hundredth time. She had been asleep for hours, obviously exhausted. Damn him for a heartless brute. She’d been his wife for barely a day and already she was sick with fatigue after the strain he’d put upon her. A megrim, the doctor had told him, a fact that had struck Wrexham hard as he’d known well enough she suffered from the affliction. She’d told him herself just hours previously.

He ought to have known something was wrong when she became so quiet, but he had assumed…. Well, in truth he had wondered if she was regretting her decision and had been too anxious to hear something to confirm his fears to enquire. Damned coward. And this was the result. But why, why had she said nothing?

The fire in the hearth crackled and snapped, and Wrexham was glad he’d had it built up before sending the servants away. The room was warm now and his feet had stopped feeling like blocks of ice. Emmeline had collapsed in the middle of a freezing rainstorm which had soaked them all to the skin. A maid had taken her clothes and his boots away to dry and promised to return them good as new. Wrexham had not allowed Humboldt to fuss over him and take the rest of his wet things, however. A sense of deserving the discomfort for having treated his wife so badly making him refuse.

He sat up as the sound of bedcovers rustling reached him and he heard a sigh.

“Emmeline?”

“Wrexham?

“Are you well, pet?” he asked, prepared to hear her rail at him for being an utter bastard.

There was a brief silence. “I think so, yes, but… where are we?” she asked, sounding fragile and confused, which only made him more furious with himself. Emmeline was never fragile, and only ever sounded entirely sure of herself.

“We’re in Scunthorpe, the best inn I could find close to the railway.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Did I—?”

“You fainted,” he said, realising too late it had sounded like an accusation.

“I never faint,” she said, sounding indignant at the idea.

“Well, you’ve never been dragged from one end of the country and back again by an unfeeling brute either, I’d wager.”

She sighed. “Don’t be silly. It wasn’t your fault in the least, and I’m perfectly well now. Though a little thirsty.”

“There’s water beside the bed, and I’m not being silly.” He heard water pouring into a glass and rustling as she sat back against the pillows. Scowling, he knew he must apologise. He’d been trying to do so, but he was so damned angry with himself and everything else it was hard to find the right words. He took a breath and tried again. “I apologise, Emmeline. It was entirely my fault.”

“No,” she said evenly, and he had the distinct impression she was vexed with him now. “It wasn’t, and you look as though you ought to have been sleeping too. You’re obviously exhausted and… is that coat wet? It looks dreadfully crumpled.”

His temper lit. “I don’t give a damn about the blasted coat! I’m perfectly well, and why else are you here if not for me?” he demanded in frustration, dragging a hand through his hair.

“And now you’ve messed your hair up,” she said reprovingly.

“Never mind my bloody hair!” he snapped, unable to help himself. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me you were ill? Did you think I wouldn’t care? Did you think I wouldn’t ensure your comfort?”

There was an impatient sigh which was so much more in character his anxiety ratcheted down a notch. “No, Wrexham. I knew if I told you we would halt our journey and you would find the most comfortable inn you could and a doctor to attend me, and would insist I rest for as long as I needed. Which is exactly what you have done. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“But you were sick, in pain, and I didn’t know. I ought to have asked, I know I ought to have. I knew you were quiet but… but I thought. Well, never mind what I thought, but you cannot keep me in the dark like that. I spend a deal too much time there as it is.”

“I’m sorry, Wrexham, but I am very aware of how urgent it is we reach Cawston Hall before Lord Cecil catches up with us. I did not want to risk slowing us down.”

Wrexham digested this. “I understand that, pet, and I thank you for it, but Emmeline, you need to understand. There are many things I cannot do for myself, and I’m going to make a poor excuse for a husband, but I can ensure that you have everything you need. Please. Please, don’t take that away from me.”

“Wrexham,” she said softly, something that sounded horribly like pity in her voice. He stood abruptly, turning away from her and walking to what he hoped was the window. A low, hard object hit him hard in the shin and he stumbled, reaching out and finding nothing but air. He staggered sideways and crashed into more furniture, as something toppled and smashed. The scent of a flowery yet chemical liquid spilling reached his nose, and he instantly recognised the smell of laudanum. The bottle the doctor had left for Emmeline.

“Damnation!” he roared, frustration and anger and regret churning inside him.

“Wrexham!” She was there suddenly, before him, sliding her hands into his. “Rex, it’s all right,” she said, sounding so damn sympathetic he wanted to scream or to weep and he wasn’t certain which way it was going to go.

“Don’t pity me!” he snarled, snatching his hands away.

“I don’t pity you, you impossible man!” Wrexham jolted as she smacked his chest, not with any real heat, but the irritation behind the gesture was obvious enough.

Before he could think of an adequate retort, she took his hand and placed it upon her breast, holding it there, which shut him up very effectively. Her maid must have helped her undress, for he remembered the feel of her nightgown and the soft body beneath it. For a moment he couldn’t think, let alone speak, stunned by the feel of her full, round flesh beneath his palm, the hard little pebble of her nipple as it grew taut beneath his touch.