Page 3 of A Daring Desire

She stood again, with purpose this time, and with a straight back marched down the stairs to hand Jefferies the letter to give to the courier.

Cat kicked at the bedcovers irritably and turned onto her back. With a heavy sigh, she opened her eyes and stared up at the darkness. She would get no sleep tonight. Try as she might, she could not help but think about Kilbane and wonder how he was faring. Where would Berrycloth have stopped for the night? Was her husband being properly cared for? Was the inn warm and the bed sheets well aired? Why was he coming home now, after all these years, and in such poor health? Questions crowded her mind and span in dizzying circles until she thought she would run mad. But one question would not be silenced any more than it could be answered.

Had he come for her?

The sudden sound of wheels upon gravel and the jingle of tack had Cat’s heart leaping to her throat. Flinging the covers back, she fumbled for her dressing gown and slippers in the dark and rushed to the window, cursing as she banged her knee on a chair in her haste. Cat tugged back the curtains to see in the dim moonlight a travelling carriage had pulled up outside the house, and there, emblazoned on the door, was her husband’s crest.

With a gasp, Cat hurried from the room, calling for her maid to wake Mrs Mortimer. She ran to the stairs. Below, the entrance hall was already a hive of activity. The night porter had lit the torches outside and roused the footmen, who were appearing, bleary-eyed and curious. Very aware she was in her dressing gown, Cat rushed outside to see a slim young man step down from the carriage. He wore spectacles and a harassed air, and he paused, his eyes widening as he saw Cat moving swiftly towards him.

“Mr Berrycloth?” she guessed, a little hesitantly.

“My Lady Kilbane,” the man exclaimed, hurrying to her.

Cat held out her hands to him and he blushed a little but took them. “My lady, I can only apologise for arriving at such an hour, but his lordship would not—”

“There’s no need to explain,” Cat said gently, squeezing his hands and unable to help looking past him to the carriage. Her heart was thundering, and her stomach twisted into a tight knot as she tried to come to terms with seeing her husband again after such a long absence. “H-How is he?” she managed.

“Very ill and surly as a bear,” Berrycloth said grimly. “I’m afraid we’re in for the devil of a time with him.”

Cat sent him a wry smile. “Well, then I am glad to know I have you to rely upon.”

“It would be my honour,” Berrycloth replied, with such sincerity Cat was touched.

“We must get him inside, into the warm,” she said, moving past Berrycloth and steeling herself as she walked to the carriage.

Swallowing hard, she took a deep breath and stepped up inside. Huddled against the side of the carriage, swathed in blankets, was Lord Kilbane. Cat stifled a gasp of shock as she looked down at him. He was unshaven and deathly pale, his breathing shallow and rapid. A fine sheen of sweat was visible over his forehead, and he was shivering hard. Stamping down the urge to weep, Cat moved to sit beside him and reached for his hand. It was icy cold as she held it between hers.

“My lord,” she said softly.

He stirred, heavy eyelids flickering as he came to, struggling to focus. Finally, his gaze seemed to settle upon hers and he let out a little breath, though whether of amusement or relief, she could not tell.

“Catherine,” he said, and closed his eyes again.

Cat bit her lip, told herself sternly that now was not the moment to fall apart, and began issuing orders. Four strong footmen hauled Kilbane out of the carriage and into the house, and Cat admitted herself shocked at how docilely he allowed them to manhandle him. She had expected cursing and swearing, but he seemed hardly to know or care what was happening to him.

“Where is his valet?” she demanded, hurrying up the stairs with Berrycloth at her heels.

“He’s been doing for himself since we left England. The last fellow wouldn’t leave his kin to come to France. Got an ailing mother who relies upon him. His lordship found him another position and never took another valet. He finds it hard to have people about he doesn’t know, so he’s not bothered replacing him. I’ve been seeing to him myself since he became ill, for he’s as weak as a kitten, as you can see for yourself.”

Cat looked at Berrycloth with interest. “You’ve been with him for some time?”

“Yes, my lady. I came straight from university. I was in rather a fix at the time and his lordship… well, he’s a funny one for collecting oddities and we seemed to rub along, so he kept me on.”

“You consider yourself an oddity, Mr Berrycloth?” she asked, her eyebrows going up.

Berrycloth just smiled at her. Cat hurried into the master bedroom, a room she had decorated with her husband in mind, and then hesitated inside the threshold. The absurdity of her situation struck her then. She was this man’s legal wife, but she was not his wife in fact. As much as she wished to tend him, to care for him, would he want that of her? Would he hate her for touching him when he was so ill and vulnerable? She did not know why he had returned here, to her, but this was his home. Perhaps he had just wanted familiar surroundings and not her at all.

“I’ll get him settled comfortably if one of your footmen would stay and help me,” Berrycloth said, his voice reassuring. “And then….”

Cat nodded, grateful to him for his tact. “I’ll have the bed warmed, and the fire built up again, though it’s been burning since I received your letter, and there are extra blankets in the chest there. I shall get hot water sent too and… and I’ll wait outside,” she replied with difficulty, torn between frustration and mortification.

Berrycloth nodded. “And a basin, if you would. He’s been complaining of nausea for the past hour.”

“Of course. I’ll see to it at once.”

Cat closed the door behind her and summoned a footman. She gave him her orders and then dithered, anxiety gnawing at her stomach. How very pale and ill he looked, and… he had called her Catherine. She never remembered him addressing her so before. Brat had always been the best she could hope for. The longed-for sound of his voice speaking her name so faintly was enough to have tears threatening again, but she swallowed them down, remembering there were things she could do. Pippin swore by a chicken broth brewed with ginger and turmeric, and this she could do with her own hands. Hurrying to the kitchen, she began searching the pantry, assembling everything she would need, hoping to kill the time whilst Berrycloth helped Kilbane to undress and get to bed. It would no doubt horrify her magnificent chef to discover she had breached the sanctity of his precious domain, but he’d just have to get over it. Once Kilbane was sleeping, she would return to cook the soup, for it would take constant attention to be certain it was just as it ought to be. In the meantime, she would brew some peppermint tea, for that might ease the congestion on his chest a little.

Having brewed the tea and added a generous spoonful of honey, she carried it upstairs and knocked gently on the door. Waiting with impatience, it was a moment before the door opened, and Mr Berrycloth allowed her in. The poor man looked worn to a thread and more harassed than ever. He had discarded his coat, for the room was very warm now, and his hair was in disarray as though he had run his hands through it in frustration.