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CHAPTER27
Pain. All William could decipher was the pain radiating from his chest and moving down his side. He slipped in and out of groggy, broken sleep, again and again to the fiery torment that welcomed him. There was softness, too, in the gentleness of Pippa’s voice and the cool towel on his forehead. But the pain was insurmountable, and he wished it would end.
Soft singing slipped through his discomfort, soothing his mind and body. William latched onto it like it carried the freedom from his burdens and allowed the sweet melody to carry him from his pain.
Darkness crept in, and he was gone again.
* * *
Pippa sat on the chair at the head of William’s bed and dipped a cloth into the cool water before laying it on his forehead again. His skin was hot to the touch, sweat beading and mixing with the cool water and rolling down his temples. “If you would wake up, William, then I could get more soup into your stomach.”
He didn’t oblige her.
Pippa watched him struggle through a fever all day and well into the following night. She bathed his forehead and sang softly to him whenever they were left alone. She didn’t have the most pleasant voice, but when she sang quietly enough, it could be deemed soothing. Or so she hoped.
“Pip?”
Her soft hymn came to a halting stop. Mabel stood in the doorway, Mac a giant shadow behind her. “Yes?”
“Will you come with us?” Mabel asked. “We need to talk.”
Those four words—we need to talk—never boded well. Either Pippa was in trouble or Mabel intended to ask a favor of her. “Of course.”
She dragged the cloth over William’s warm forehead one last time, her gaze raking over his solemn, rested features. He was just as handsome in his sleep, his dark lashes fanning over tanned cheeks. She really would like to kiss those cheeks. If only he wasn’t unconscious.
Pippa left William behind, her heart sitting squarely in his motionless hands. Mabel stood in the corridor, her mouth pinched in concern. She led the way toward her own bedchamber and closed the door after they’d each filed inside. “This is the only place we can be assured of privacy, though I cannot guarantee that my children will not barge through that door with little hesitation.”
“You mean without any hesitation at all, I believe,” Mac corrected, crossing toward the chairs before the fireplace and indicating for the women to be seated.
This felt formal, uncomfortable. “Are you vexed with me?” Pippa asked. “I feel as though I must prepare for a scolding.”
Mabel shook her head. “You’re far too old for a scolding. Though I do think you ought to avoid Mr. Blakemore’s bedroom unless you are chaperoned.”
“What sort of rumors would arise from me dabbing his forehead with a wet cloth?”
“I am less concerned with the nursing, Pip, and far more worried about the relationship between you and Mr. Blakemore.” Mabel sucked in a breath and released it slowly. “What exactly is that man to you?”
Relationship. The word was pregnant with meaning but impossible for Pippa to define. He’d kissed her—or had she kissed him?—but that bit of information would only worry Mabel further. Pippa knew she wanted William in her life, that the terror that swept through her when she found him injured was not akin to anything she’d ever felt before.
“I care for him,” she finally said. “I believe he cares for me as well.”
“Do you not think it is too soon to know that?”
“No.” Pippa gripped her hands together on her lap. Mabel loved her and only wanted what was best for her, but she’d somehow forgotten how it felt to fall in love. “I know my own mind.”
“That is indisputable,” Mac muttered. He narrowed his gaze. “The man was most assuredly breaking the law. Does that not worry you?”
“He doesn’t wish to, not anymore. But he couldn’t leave his brother without assistance. He has been forced to balance his family loyalty with his own private reservations, and I do not envy him that.”
“Nor do I,” Mac agreed. “Have you considered your father’s stance on the matter?”
“According to Gram, Father has enjoyed his share of smuggled wine, so I am not entirely sure he would have strong opinions in this case.”
Mac grinned, looking to Mabel, and she nodded confirmation. “It is a difficult thing to judge when our parents grew up enjoying the fruits of smuggling themselves. They wouldn’t have been able to afford tea or sugar otherwise.”
“Or wine,” Pippa added.
“Regardless,” Mabel said, “you cannot be alone with the man, not until you are husband and wife.”
