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She set the tray across his lap and stepped away, eyeing him with scrutiny. He took an exaggerated bite, a pointed gesture to show that he was being a good patient and doing her bidding.
She rolled her eyes. “You are a nuisance,” she muttered. She nearly laughed at how similar she sounded to the cantankerous Mrs. Reilly in that moment.
“Thank you,” he replied as he dunked the bread into the broth. “Is that why you are angry with me?”
“No,” she admitted. She headed over to the safety of her chair in the corner. Perhaps with the space of the room between them she could keep her confrontation from exploding into an all-out row. He continued to eat in silence but she could tell from his rapt attention that he was waiting. She whispered a small curse and decided to be out with it. “Why did you not send my letter?” she demanded.
His eyebrows raised in tandem, surprise written across his marred features.
“I did,” he answered with a matter-of-fact tone. He took another bite, wholly un-phased by her accusation.
“You couldn’t have,” she argued. “I would have gotten a reply but I have not. I know for certain that…” she had almost said my father… “that it was not received.”
“I sent it,” he shrugged. Again, she had the thought that he was either incredibly honest or a remarkable liar. “Beyond that it had passed out of my control.”
“I would have had a reply,” she repeated as if that explanation were irrefutable. Her tone was perhaps harsher than she had intended but her anger had bubbled to the surface. Her father would have acted if he had gotten her letter. He would not have waited this long. Had that letter been sent, she would have been rescued by now.
“Is that really the reason you have been angry with me?” he bristled. “That damned letter? Lud, here I was trying to recall when I had somehow offended you or worried that our interactions had gotten you in trouble.” His temper clouded over, but he kept it in check, everything about Lord Robert was always in check she realized. “Should not I be the one that is cross about the blasted letter? I know almost nothing about you save what you do in this house and the one time that I might have been able to learn something real about your life, you shut me out. You’ve only ever given me vague stories and hinted interests. I feel as if I know who you are, but I don’t know anything about you.” He ran a scarred hand over his face. “I should be insulted that after everything you could not even find it within yourself to trust me. When I had given you no indication otherwise.”
All at once Caroline realized that he was still very hurt that she had withheld her trust and that he could have no way to comprehend why. For all he had known, they had formed a close sort of alliance, a friendship, but even then, she had declared him unworthy. He was, she realized, used to women declaring him so.
“You are mad at me because you think that I failed to send it?” he set the empty bowl aside and pushed the tray from his lap. “You needed my seal, and I gave you use of it,” use of me, the words hung between them. “I gave you what you asked, and I asked nothing in return.”
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that he was truly that good. But if she did, then that would mean that she had mistreated him horribly, that she had withheld her trust, not once, but twice.
She had had her reasons. She still had her reasons.
The thought that she could have been the hand that dealt even more blows to the man who seemed to be unable to escape life’s rampage terrified her. She refused to believe him, refused to believe that she could have been so wrong. So, instead of regret, she allowed her anger, her self-preservation, to rise in its place.
“It would have been easy enough for you to say that you would post it and then toss it in the fire as soon as I had left the room,” she hissed. She needed to keep her voice down. Someone would come running if either of them yelled. “No one would know and you could easily say that it had been done.”
“Of course, I could have,” he put both hands to his temples as if his head were aching from the accusations that she had flung upon him. “I could have, but I did not. You asked me to trust you and I did.” Again, the implication of his unspoken words hung between them. He had trusted. She had not.
“Well, I do not trust anyone. I cannot trust anyone. Not even you,” she snapped, throwing her hands into the air and barely able to keep her voice from rising. Her lash stung; she could see it in his eyes. Her accusation had implied as much but saying the words aloud was much worse. She wanted to trust him. More than anything she wanted to trust him, but every time she felt that she did a niggling voice in her mind questioned if she should. It was better to err on the side of caution.
They sat in stony silence, the argument hanging heavy in the air as if the foul mood were a tangible thing. When Matthew appeared with fresh wood for the fire, he offered to take the dinner tray down to the kitchens and so Caroline had not even that excuse to leave the room.
The duke shuffled through his letters but even though his eyes stared at the pages Caroline did not think that he read. He was furious, but he knew better than to press the argument. After she was released, she might be able to make him see the sense of it but only then when he could hear her full tale, why secrecy was intrinsic to her survival. Her knowledge would bring to light many of the misdealings in his household and so perhaps in time they might have a conversation to that end. Beyond that, she could not say.
He had finally given up on reading and rolled to his side so that his back was to her. He must have drifted off because for some time she could hear nothing beyond the steadiness of his breath.
When it grew labored and full of rasp, she abandoned her perch. He had not woken but she could see that his pallor had returned and the hair at his temple had grown damp. The fever had returned tenfold. Caroline hurried forward and put her hands upon either side of his face. His skin was damp and clammy.
“Your Grace,” she gave him a gentle shake. “Your Grace wake up.”
He did not respond.
She tried again, shaking him harder this time. “Lord Robert,” she said with urgency now. “Wake up. Lord Robert, come now! You must wake! Robert!”
She had said his name with such force that he startled but it did cause him to wake so she did not feel remorse. He was fortunate too because she had been very near to slapping him. Still, she ought not have spoken so informally but she thought he might overlook the slip. From the glaze of his eyes, she thought he was not even like to remember it. She breathed a sigh of relief and gingerly brushed his overlong locks away from his eyes. The dark tones made a stark contrast to the pallor that had lightened his skin to a near ghostly white. Even the crème tones of the bedding looked more vibrant than he.
“It is time for the tonic,” she said, more to talk herself through her actions than to inform him of the requirement. She gathered the vial from the nearby table and pulled its stopper before pressing the offering to his lips. The fact that he did not voice any resistance as she poured the liquid into his mouth was cause for grave concern. He was so weak. For a man that exuded overbearing strength and power in his usual state Caroline could hardly bear to see how difficult it was for him to even swallow or open his eyes. His breath came in rattling gasps and his limbs were overcome by tremors.
He was lying in the center of the bed so Caroline had had to crawl up beside him to wash the sweat from his brow. She knelt there, pressing the cloth against him, and murmured mindless comforts. She told him that he was going to be fine, that he was strong and had survived much worse. She promised that she was beside him and that she would take care of him. Her words meant nothing to his unhearing ears, but she hoped only that the tone of her voice might reach him. He was awake and yet he was not. She coaxed a few mouthfuls of water down his throat before he was overcome by another fit of coughing. Caroline hauled him into a seated position with all the strength that she could muster. He was so much larger than she and so weak that he had not the strength to do it himself. It was then that she realized that his nightshirt was soaked clean through, clinging to his well-defined muscles and revealing the true majesty of his form. It might have captured her interest if she had not been so worried for his life. The doctor had said it was only a slight ailment. That it would pass with nothing more than rest. Hadn’t he told her that there was no cause for concern? Well, he had been wrong. Caroline was terrified, and the physician was too far away to be called. A glance out the window at the onslaught of snow that had begun to fall with a vengeance told her that another would take hours to be fetched. She tamped down on all distracting thoughts and instead focused only on pressing the cool cloth against the back of his neck as his body was wracked with fits and starts. She would have to get Matthew to bring fresh nightclothes and change him, she added that to her list of tasks. Perhaps bath and dry clothes would do the trick. Not until he was settled though, she decided. He was far too ill to be manhandled by the reedy servant at the moment.
“Deep breaths,” she coached as he finally began to settle. “There you are. One more.”
The duke had been leaning forward with his head hung low as she crouched protectively at his side. He blinked hard, squeezing the lids as if fighting for clarity of sight and thought.
