02 - Borrowed Dreams

by May McGoldrick

  “I want to believe that, too,” the dowager responded quietly. “But we have to give him time. We cannot push him into things that he is not ready for. He is coming along, it appears, but I do not want to set him back even a day.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Lyon threw his napkin on the tray, hiding what he hadn’t eaten of his breakfast. “What torture have you devised for me today, Madame de Sade?”

  “Something very painful.”

  He noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes when Millicent leaned over him to pick up the tray. She was beginning to look paler and more drawn every day. “Excellent. When do we start?”

  “Don’t be impatient. Soon enough.” She handed the tray to John to take out. “A few hours of uninterrupted sleep seem to have done you some good.”

  “You again spent the night here in this room, did you not?”

  “I did.”

  “Why? I told you I have no need of a watcher, especially when I am knocked unconscious by the dark magic the witch is using to subdue me. I should ask her to use the same thing on you.” He caught her wrist when she bent to pick up a cup and saucer that had been left on the table next to his chair. Her gaze flew to his in surprise. “You don’t look very well.”

  “Thank you. But my health is fine.”

  day.”

  “You look pale.”

  “I was born with this look, and there is not much I can do to change it.”

  “What I meant to say is that you look tired.” She tried to pull herself free, but he tightened his hold. “We cannot allow you to become sick.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then I would be left with no one to torment.”

  Gibbs cleared his throat at the door.

  “Do not think it or say it,” Lyon growled at his manservant. He let go of his wife’s hand. As Gibbs went wordlessly to the hearth and began poking at the fire, Millicent went about quickly tidying up the room. Lyon watched her carefully. She had lost weight, too. Even her dress was hanging off her.

  “The scheduled torture for today is to expose you to the ghastly out-of-doors. Sunshine, winter air.” She took a woolen blanket from a chest in the corner. “We have selected a delightfully protected spot within the walls of the gardens and—”

  “I am not going outside, nor I am going downstairs today.”

  She whirled on him, hands on her hips. “Why? I know you are too stubborn to admit it, but you have been enjoying—”

  “Because you are getting ill.”

  “I am not.”

  “You will if you don’t get a few good hours of sleep yourself—and in a real bed.” He didn’t give her a chance to voice a protest. “I’ll tell you what I shall do. If you promise to retire to your bedroom this instant and settle into your bed for a few hours, I will pursue whatever bloody routine you have managed to plan out for me.”

  “It is only half past ten on a very beautiful morning. I promise to go to bed tonight.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You go now.”

  “There are other things that I need to see to today. The new stonemason will be—”

  “Gibbs.”

  “Aye, m’lord?”

  “Tell the man we shall pay him his day’s wages and then send him away until tomorrow.” Lyon turned back to her. “Anything else can wait or be handled by others.”

  She stood for a moment, looking at him. She must have been genuinely tired, he thought, for no argument rose to her lips. At that instant, his physical shortcomings once again stabbed at him. What he wouldn’t give to be able to walk Millicent to her bedroom right now, to be able to care for her a little as she had been caring for him.

  *****

  Violet’s heart climbed into her throat at the sight of Ned talking to Mr. Gibbs by the door to the servants’ hall.

  He was holding his hat in one hand. He had made an attempt to comb his blond hair and bind it at his neck. His woolen coat was open and his broad chest was visible beneath it. She saw two of the scullery maids giggle and cast flirtatious looks his way as they passed him heading to the kitchen. In spite of herself, Vi felt her claws emerge.

  While the Scotsman continued to talk, Ned’s eyes scanned the room and paused when he saw her. Vi held her breath, waiting for his reaction. She had cried her heart out last Saturday on her way back from St. Albans. She had promised herself that she would not go alone to Knebworth Village as long as he was still working there. She did not want to see him or be left alone with him for a minute. She had learned an ugly lesson, and she knew she was fortunate to have a respectable job and a bed to sleep in after such a huge mistake. But now, with that engaging smile appearing at the corners of his mouth, with those eyes seeing only her, Violet nearly forgot her name, never mind the promises she had made to herself.

  Mr. Gibbs looked over his shoulder, following the direction of Ned’s gaze, and Violet hurriedly moved on through the room. No one had made any announcement, but everyone at Melbury Hall knew that the Highlander was to be the next steward. And this suited just about everyone, including Vi. Mr. Gibbs was strict, but he had a sense of humor. He was also obviously sweet on Mrs. Page, a feeling that the housekeeper appeared to share. That in itself was a good sign that he was going to stay.

  ****

  Millicent rolled over in the bed and stared at the half-light that surrounded her. For a few moments she was totally confused. The day, the hour, even how she had ended up in bed were a mystery to her. And then she remembered: She had come to her room before noon to rest for a couple of hours.

  Whoever had lit the fire had obviously done it hours ago, for the embers on the hearth held only a faint reddish glow. She climbed out of bed, and the feel of the cold floor beneath her bare feet awakened her completely. Lighting a taper from the embers, she looked at the clock on the mantel. It was almost twelve. Midnight. But how could that be?

  Millicent stood in the darkness, listening. The house was quiet. It appeared that everyone was asleep. A sudden thought made her reach for her wrap. Had anyone changed the dressing on the burn on Lyon’s arm this afternoon?

  As she washed her face and rinsed out her mouth, she glanced at her reflection in the looking glass. With her tousled hair hanging loose around her shoulders, she looked terrifying enough to frighten a ghost. She ran a hand impatiently through the mess and headed for the door.

  The corridor was dark. She would just take a quick peek inside Lyon’s room to make certain he was asleep. Passing Ohenewaa’s door, she recalled promising the older woman the night before that she would stop to see her today for some ointments she was preparing for Lyon. Millicent could not believe she had wasted an entire day in bed.

  She didn’t knock. Quietly pushing the door open, she slipped inside Lyon’s room. By the light of the dying fire, he looked to be asleep. She closed the door behind her and padded silently across the floor.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  She was startled to hear his voice and find his eyes open. He was watching her.

  “Too well. I cannot believe how long I slept. I had specifically asked Mrs. Page to send someone to awaken me by early afternoon.”

  “I ordered Mrs. Page not to allow a single person to disturb you.”

  “I see then that I was outranked.” She smiled at him and looked down at his arm. “Thank you. I didn’t realize how tired I was until I crawled between those sheets. Did anyone change the dressing on your arm this afternoon?”

  “No, I wouldn’t let them near me.”

  “I see.” Millicent retrieved some clean dressings and the bottle of ointment Ohenewaa had placed on the bedside table last night. She sat carefully on the bed beside him. “So this means I have not worn out my usefulness.”

  “There is little chance of that.”

  Perhaps it was the words or maybe the way he said them, but Millicent felt a subtle warmth wash through her. She gently lifted his arm from under the blankets and laid it on her lap. His nightshirt had a wide sleeve. She started i
nspecting the wound.

  “Does it still hurt?”

  “Nothing to speak of.”

  Her feet were bare and cold, so she tucked them under her. The serenity of being here, of doing this for him, filled her with a feeling she had never experienced. Perhaps it was the privacy of the two of them as they were, while the quiet of the night surrounded them. Millicent couldn’t explain it, but she felt happy and content. The blisters on his arm looked clean, despite a couple of them having burst. She gently applied some more of the ointment and started wrapping it again. “I expected you to be asleep.”

  “I tried, but I couldn’t. The witch brought her potions in earlier tonight.” He motioned with his good hand toward the window. Millicent saw the half dozen bottles crowding the tabletop.

  “Did she give you any instructions?”

  “Of course. Don’t eat them or inhale them. Only apply them. They are all the same thing. A new jar for each night, she said.”

  “Did you have someone apply them for you tonight?”

  He gave her an incredulous look. “The…whatever it is…is to be rubbed onto my skin. Just the idea of Gibbs or Will or John spreading the stuff on me is revolting. Besides, I think Ohenewaa is a fake anyway.”

  “Why should you think that?”

  “What kind of physician refuses to say what is wrong with you and whether she can heal you or not? The woman spent hours inspecting every mole on my body and still says nothing.”

  Millicent rose from the bed and walked over to the bottles of ointments. “She was not inspecting moles, and you know it. And even if it was only for one night, you had some uninterrupted rest.”

  She picked up one of the bottles and smelled it. There was something familiar and earthy about the scent. It was like something she might have smelled in the woods.

  “Did she tell you anything else?”

  “Are you actually going to use it?”

  She carried one of the bottles back to him. “You don’t have to look so horrified. I am going to try some on this same arm.” Before he could object, she resumed her previous position on the bed and started rolling the nightshirt up as far as it could go.

  She dipped her fingers in the bottle. It was oily but not unpleasant.

  “It feels cold.” She started rubbing it gently on his arm, above and below the burn. Beneath her touch, as she continued to spread the ointment, she could feel his skin begin to warm. “But it changes quickly. Do you feel it?”

  He didn’t respond. She carefully worked it into the skin, up to the shoulder.

  Millicent looked into his face. “I'm using only my fingertips, but I feel the heat of it seeping into my hands, moving up my arms and through my body.” To prove her point, she dipped her fingers into the jar again, but this time instead of his arm, she rubbed it on the narrow span of his chest showing through the open collar of the nightshirt. The muscles flexed and moved beneath her touch. “Do you feel it now?”

  “I do.”

  Leaning against him, she dipped her hand into the jar again, but as she was going to return it to his arm, Lyon’s left hand reached across and took hold of her wrist.

  “I want to feel it here,” he said, bringing her fingers back to his chest.

  Between the dancing shadows of the room and the beard covering his features, she could see little of his expression. His hand remained on top of hers, though, guiding as she rubbed his chest in wider circles. His skin continued to warm beneath her touch, but Millicent’s body began to burn. This was more than the fleeting sensuality of touching his body. There was an intimacy and a silent awareness between them. Feeling him react to the gentle caress of her fingers thrilled her.

  “Why not close your eyes and let this have its effect?”

  “I prefer to watch you.”

  Their gazes locked. Millicent didn’t know what was happening to her, but she found herself being drawn uncontrollably to him. She leaned on his chest, her fingers working a slow path up his neck. The memory of the kiss they had shared before filled her mind. Wordlessly, she brushed her lips against his--once, softly, gently, and then again. His lips were warm, inviting. Summoning her courage, she let her mouth linger a bit longer. Her tongue hesitantly teased the seam of his lips.

  His good hand slipped around the back of her head. Millicent felt his mouth open up beneath hers, drawing her in. Enthralled with her position of control and by the curiosity of the heat that was spreading through her, limb by limb, she deepened the kiss. Their tongues danced and mated.

  A hungry groan escaped Lyon’s lips, and his fingers delved and fisted in her hair. She answered and matched his urgency with hers. She moved on top of him. Her hands held his face, she threaded her fingers through his hair, and she was lost in the play of their lips and tongues and the power of a kiss that continued on and on.

  Though she had been married for five years, she had never been kissed or ever kissed anyone like this. Millicent realized that the joy of this one act exceeded by far the horrid sexual encounters she had experienced with Wentworth.

  Her head angled to deepen the kiss, and Lyon’s passion surged. She reveled in his taste and scent, and her body moved restlessly on him, unconsciously seeking a better fit. Suddenly his arm tightened around her, and he groaned in frustration. Breathless and mortified, she tore her mouth away.

  “I am so sorry.” She tried to scramble off him, but his grip only tightened more. “What have I done? Lyon, I am so sorry.”

  “Wait! Don’t go.” His breathing was as uneven as hers.

  Millicent was too embarrassed to look into his face. She had practically attacked him. Tears of confusion rushed into her eyes. She remembered so vividly how helplessly she had lain beneath Wentworth’s body, time and time again, while he had his way with her. And now she had become the monster, a predator.

  “Get beneath these blankets.”

  With her heart in her throat, she looked at him in confusion. Lyon’s hand moved from her back, and he gently wiped off the wetness on her face.

  “You are shivering. Get beneath the blankets with me and stay.”

  It would be so much easier to run away, to hide in her own bedchamber. But she could not run. This was different. The brutality and the sadness of her past forced her to open her eyes and face these unfamiliar sensations. She wanted better, and she was not running away. She was not going to be frightened.

  Without another word, Millicent slipped between the sheets and nestled against his warm body. Taking her hand, he pressed it against his heart.

  *****

  The black child’s heart was pounding hard. Jasper Hyde could see the vein at his temple pulsing relentlessly. On his face and neck and throat, there were more than a dozen dark pimples. The boy had passed a wretched night of fever and pain. Hyde had been told everything, but he could see for himself what was afflicting the slave. It was smallpox.

  “Take him to the forecastle. Keep him away from the rest,” Hyde said to the ship’s master, who stood ready to pass on the order. “I want a general inspection of the slaves. The crew needs to be made aware, too. I want to know if there are any more cases.”

  He was pacing the quarterdeck when the answer came. It was a single case, but it could imperil the entire ship. He could lose his entire cargo of slaves. He called to the ship’s master.

  “Kill the boy. And the two who were nearest to him. Over the side with them all.”

  Jasper Hyde awoke with a gasp. His body was burning. Sweat dripped from his face, and he pulled off his periwig. Afternoon sunlight poured into the room from the large windows of his study. He must have fallen asleep in his chair after the late breakfast.

  Suddenly panicking, he touched his chest, his neck, his face, checking for the rashes. None. He didn’t have smallpox. There was nothing wrong with him.

  As if to contradict his thought, a burning pain sliced through his heart. He grabbed his chest and leaned his head backlike the twist of a knife, the heat of a poker. He pressed his chest, try
ing to rid himself of the pain.

  “Damn you, Ohenewaa,” he cursed, trying to breathe.

  The witch was everywhere, digging her withered hands into him and steadily tearing the life out of him, out of his fortune. The news had reached him this morning: A slave ship Hyde had invested over twenty thousand pounds in less than three months ago had been deliberately run aground on a beach near Accra on the coast of Africa. The slaves had mutinied and taken over the ship, murdering the captain and crew. Two hundred seventeen slaves had disappeared back into the bush. The ship was lost, all gone, and due entirely to the curses of a filthy black witch.

  Hyde barked at the door when he heard the knock. The pain in his chest was easing, but he didn’t dare move when Harry’s face appeared.

  “Mr. Boarham is here to see you, sir.”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  Harry’s eyes motioned to someone standing behind him. “The surgeon who bled Dr. Dombey before his death. You sent for him.”

  Hyde realized his hand was shaking when he removed it from his chest. “Send him in.”

  Boarham entered the chamber cautiously, and Hyde watched the man’s eyes darting from side to side, taking in the whole room. Whether he was assessing the value of every item in sight or making sure that a trap was not waiting for him, Hyde had no way of telling. The man had kept his hat, a greasy tri-cornered affair too small for his head, and it was propped on top of an old bagwig he was wearing. His face was badly pocked, and for a small-shouldered man Boarham had a suspiciously large belly. Hyde decided he probably carried his entire fortune in a satchel beneath his coarse woolen coat and matching waistcoat.

  Boarham approached and doffed the hat with a nervous bow.

  “Yer servant, sir. Ye’re needin’ to be bled, sir?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve the finest leeches in London, sir. And I’ve served the finest. Even the Lord Mayor’s butler’s cousin, sir.”

  “No.” Hyde answered sharply. “You were with Dr. Dombey when he died, weren’t you?”