Page 37 of Vanquishing the Viscount

She rubbed a hand vigorously over his back, chafing the heat back into his flesh, trying to make her touch feel as unlike a lover’s caress as she could.

It made no difference to the escalating pull of desire within her. He just shifted closer, fitting himself into every bend and curve of her body, until an audit of their limbs could hardly differentiate where his ended and her own began. For all his superior height and athlete’s body, he seemed to fit her like a glove.

Oh, how beautiful it would be to be held like this—loved, cherished, wanted—for real. The urge to snuggle down in his arms and enjoy being crushed against his tempting body nearly overwhelmed her.

He was shivering less now, and his limbs moved appreciatively over hers, accompanied by a low growling sound from deep in his chest.

It was time to escape.

She removed his arm where it cradled her waist, and wriggled backward to the edge of the bed. He mumbled a complaint and tried to stop her, but she set her jaw and pushed him gently but firmly away.

His eyes flashed open, and he looked straight at her, as if he saw her perfectly normally, not through the mist of delirium. “You are so beautiful,” he said.

Ignoring the invitation in his gaze, she shuffled off the bed and landed in an ungainly fashion on her knees. Keeping well out of his reach, she said, “This moment never happened. It’s just a dream, part of the delirium caused by the ague, enhanced by the laudanum and Peruvian bark you’ve taken.”

She swallowed again and got to her feet, summoning up her most commanding voice. “I’m going to give you a hot brick for extra warmth, then you’ll sleep. When you wake again, call out, and someone will come.”

“I want only you. You’re my ministering angel, my blessed guardian angel.”

She looked down at herself with a frown. She couldn’t imagine anyone looking less like an angel than she did right now. Her gown was crumpled, her hair half down and all in a tangle, and her eyes must look bruised from lack of sleep.

His vision must be affected by his illness.

Still, it was the most flattering thing the viscount had ever said to her. In fact, apart from Charles Keane’s meaningless flirting, it was the nicest thing any man had ever said to her, and she’d always treasure the words.

With a sigh, she turned away and knelt by the hearth to retrieve the warm brick and wrap it in a towel. She tucked it into the bed at his feet, and said, “You’ll feel better for a while now. There are always gaps between the paroxysms of fever and cold. I’ll make up some more feverfew tisane in the morning. Good night.”

He settled back against his pillows, turned his head toward her, and answered, “Thank you. And good night my darling, my beloved Belinda, good night.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

With the return of daylight came a return of the fever. James tipped off his blankets but couldn’t work out how to get out of his shirt. He’d have to ring for someone—but who would come? Was he at the inn, or somewhere else?

Shafts of bright sunlight sliced through the gaps in the shutters, giving enough light for him to confirm that he wasn’t in his own bed. He lay in an ancient truckle bed, with a wooden bench pushed up against it and a tester thrown across both pieces of furniture, so the sleeping space was broad enough for two.

A lamp burning low illuminated linen-fold paneling wrought in oak and much holed by boring insects. One wall of the room was draped with a faded tapestry showing a hunting scene, and for a moment he wondered if he’d been transported back in time.

By God, but he had a raging thirst. He looked round for the bell pull, realized there wasn’t one, and called out.

A middle-aged woman entered, wearing—to his relief—the clothing of a present-day servant, rather than an Elizabethan one. She lowered her eyes and made him an elaborate curtsy as she inquired, “Shall I call for Miss Emma, sir?”

“Miss Emma?”

“Indeed, your lordship, the young lady as has been looking after you. She’ll have your medicine ready, sir, and I can get you some breakfast now if you want it.”

He ran a hand across his brow. Why couldn’t he remember? Why did it feel as though his whole world had skidded to a halt, like a horse refusing a jump?

Suddenly the vision of a beautiful, compassionate face flooded his mind, and everything steadied as the memories flooded back. “Emma. Ah yes. Miss Hibbert.”

“Miss d’Ibert, if it pleases your lordship,” the servant corrected.

Of course. “Send her in, would you? And I’d like a fresh pitcher of water, if you please.”

The woman curtsied her way out, then spoke to someone just outside the door. “I think his lordship might be feeling a bit better, but he complains of being thirsty. Shall I fetch him more drinking water?”

“Do that, please, Sarah,” said a familiar voice.

Emma’s voice. Thank heaven. At least he wasn’t among strangers.