“I fear I will not make the door, Emma,” he gasped.
And there would still be a distance to go, once in his room. Emma glanced toward her bed. “I will put you in my bed.”
He did not argue, and they laboriously crept to the side of her bed. He could do little to assist himself getting atop the bed, so Emma used the reserve of her strength to lift his legs and slide them up on the bed. She covered him with the blankets, wondering if she should make a fire in her fireplace, an extravagance she’d learned to forgo except on the coldest of winter nights.
She stepped away from the bed.
He tried to sit up. “Do not leave.”
“I am merely tending to the fire.” She gestured toward his door.
“Leave it, Emma. Come lie with me.”
Lie with him? The idea brought a sudden desire to run from the room. It was bad enough that he lay in her bed.
“Please, Emma. Forget the fire. It is being alone I cannot abide. Not tonight.”
In spite of herself, she thought of him awakening in his coffin, struggling to get out, calling for help with no one to hear. Her shoulders sagged and she walked back to the bed.
“Lie with me,” he pleaded.
She thought of the expense of leaving the lamp and the fireplace burning in his room. It would only take a moment to tend to them. She thought of dragging a chair over to the bedside. There was no reason she could not sit with him rather than lie next to him in her bed.
He grabbed her hand. “Please,” he whispered, his breathing accelerating, a sure sign of panic returning.
With teeth clenched, she crawled into bed, teetering on the edge so as to be as far as possible from him. He immediately scooted closer to her. Lying on his good side, he rested his weakened arm around her so that they were like two spoons in the silver drawer.
He stroked her hair, the hair she just realized she’d not put in a plait. His breath was warm on her neck.
“Thank you, Emma,” he murmured, his lips so close she feared she would feel them touch her bare skin.
In no time his breathing lost its labored effort and became even. She felt the rise and fall of his chest against her back and the heat of his skin through the thin layers of nightclothes. His arm rested heavy across her, his fingers entangled in her hair. Emma was afraid to move.
Inside her a tumult of emotion roared.
Three years ago she had felt the same heat, the same breath, the same fingers in her hair. But this time there was no gratitude, no heady infatuation, no hope.
It was a long time before Emma slept.
Chapter FIVE
Spence woke in Emma’s room, the morning sunlight greeting him, but she had gone. He was glad of the light, even though it did not entirely banish the dream of being in the coffin, about to be buried alive.
The terrifying darkness had been real, after all, although his fevered brain had not realized it. He now remembered pressing his hands against the rough wood of what must have been the coffin lid, he remembered gasping for air and feeling that there would never be enough. He remembered the pain in his shoulder, radiating down his arm. And he remembered the smell of his own sweat and blood.
His head throbbed and his breathing accelerated. As when he’d been small, he wanted to call for help. Call for Emma.
He opened his mouth, only to shut it again.
Emma had not been happy and flourishing at Kellworth as he’d thought, even though that image had sustained him on many a sleepless night in the Peninsula. He was not precisely certain what caused her unhappiness, but he knew he owed her his life.
Spence forced himself to sit up, hanging on to the carved mahogany bedpost of the bed that long ago had been his mother’s. He paused to catch his breath from the effort. This weakness of body and emotion was nonsensical. He was a soldier, for deuce’s sake. The things he’d witnessed—the things he’d done—were equally horrific. He had not turned into a quivering dish of jelly then, had he?
But then he’d not been alone. Blake and Wolfe were always nearby and the Ternion had managed to survive.
He had survived this ordeal, too, had he not? He would refuse, simply refuse, to give in to weakness. Spence forced himself to slide off the bed and stand, still grasping the bedpost. He finally let go and took a tentative step. His legs held him. Encouraged by such success, he started across the room, heading for the connecting door. He shuffled carefully, guarding against the dizziness that frequently came over him, focusing his eyes on the floor at his feet, fearing to look around lest he lose his balance and fall flat on his face. Once down, he would not have strength enough to rise.
He had no wish to feel any more helpless than he did at this moment. Especially that feverish loss of control over what was real and what was not.
Emma’s scent surrounded him. It comforted him in an odd way, as if she were still lending her slender shoulder as she had done the previous night. A stubbornly male part of him wanted to show her he could make the journey to his brother’s old room by himself.
From his first glimpse of her three years ago, Emma had always sparked something primitively masculine inside him. Once when the Kellworth gamekeeper had been teaching his brother and him to hunt, they’d come upon a family of deer grazing at the edge of the park. Scenting them, the tall, proud stag wrapped his neck around the little fawn for a moment before the three ran back into the wood. Spence had been glad Gandy forbade them to shoot. “There not be the numbers of red deer as years past,” Gandy had said.
When Spence first spied Emma, he’d felt like the stag, with the instant instinct to protect her and whisk her away. And that was precisely what he’d done.
He gave a dry laugh. Were not the tables turned on him now, though? She was strong and he so weak it felt as if the door were a league away.
Where was Gandy now? Spence wondered as he inched along. The gamekeeper must be well into his seventies. Was he still at Kellworth or retired to a cottage somewhere?
Over the years Spence had largely succeeded in blocking out thoughts of Kellworth. With it, however, he’d also blocked out all those who’d once peopled his world. Like Gandy. Kellworth should have been Stephen’s. Spence would have been content to have the rest of the world. Fate had decreed otherwise, however, and had given him Kellworth as well.
Not Fate. Spence’s own tearing pace and cow-handed driving had done the trick.
He reached the door and collapsed against the jamb, breathing hard. Stephen’s old bedchamber looked too much the way it had when Stephen was alive. His personal effects had been removed, but Spence still could not shake the feeling that any minute Stephen would discover him and chase him out.
The hall door to the bedchamber opened and the stocky, dim-witted footman who’d been attending him walked in, searching the room for him with a wrinkled brow until finding him holding on to the doorjamb for dear life.
“There you are, m’lord,” the footman—Tolley, was it?—said, breaking into a cheerful smile. “M’lady said I should look in on you. Said you’d be in m’lady’s room.”
“Then why did you enter this room?” Spence asked.
This must have been a puzzling question, because Tolley frowned and took a moment to think on it. “Dunno, m’lord.” He broke out into an affable smile again. “Is there any service I can perform for you, sir?”
Spence’s need for assistance was so obvious, he did not know whether to laugh or to shout at the man. He did neither. “Assist me to the bed, if you please.”
“Very good, sir.” The young footman lumbered over to him and nearly lifted him off his feet. They made it to the bed in a few long-legged strides, where Tolley easily hoisted him up.
“Thank you, Tolley.”
The footman stood at the side of the bed. “Lady Kellworth said I was to ask you if you wanted some breakfast, if you were awake, that is, but seeing as you are awake . . .”
Spence had a giant thirst, but no real appetite for food, but perhaps Emma would bring the foo
d as she’d done when he’d been feverish. He rubbed his chin, scratchy with beard.
“Shave me first, I think.” If his wife did indeed enter the room, he wanted to look presentable. Bad enough he felt like a cat’s chewed plaything; he did not have to look the part.
When breakfast came, Blake and Wolfe brought it.
“Here you are, my fine fellow,” Blake said, carrying the tray to the bed. “The finest in gruel and chamomile tea.”
“Chamomile tea?” Spence’s thirst pined for something more stout, like a big tankard of ale.
“The formidable Mrs. Cobbett insisted you must have this.” Blake set the bed tray over Spence’s lap. He grinned. “And how is our favorite corpse today?”
“Kind of you to remind me.” Spence grimaced. “My head feels as if it is full of wool, I’m weak as a kitten, and my shoulder hurts like the devil. Other than that I feel splendid.”
“Glad to hear it!” Blake laughed.
Spence’s hand shook while he poured a little cream from a pitcher into his gruel. He tasted a spoonful and his appetite came back, only he could not make his arm move fast enough for his stomach. When he reached for the teapot, Blake got there first and poured him a cup.
Wolfe pushed two chairs to the side of the bed. “We have sent for Arjun to bring us clothing and other necessities. He should arrive tomorrow.”
Arjun was Wolfe’s faithful valet, a mysterious Indian man of indeterminate age, who braved every discomfort of the Peninsula with his young master, remaining even through Waterloo. He must have been left behind in London when Blake and Wolfe made their dash to Kellworth.
“Very good. I will be glad to don real clothes and forgo these.” Spence pulled at the nightshirt.
Blake grinned. “You look remarkably like my grandfather. All you lack is a nightcap.”
Spence shot back a sarcastic look. He probably had appeared ridiculous to Emma as well.
Better not think on that too much. “Tell me, how do things go on for you here? Other than not having even a change of clothing.”
Wolfe huffed. Blake nudged him, and gave a very stern look. Spence waved his spoon at them. “What does all this mean?”
His friends traded glances.
Spence looked from one to the other. “I’m losing patience, gentlemen.”
Wolfe leaned forward. “Something is wrong here, Spence. There are signs of neglect everywhere. Most of the rooms are closed up, unused.”
Wolfe’s doom and gloom again, Spence figured. “There is only one family member in residence. I doubt she requires many rooms.”
“I’ve walked around the outside as well. The ragstone needs repair in several places. It must be letting in the damp.” Wolfe shook his head. “It looks as if not a penny has been spent on the place in years.”
Spence’s head began to pound. He took a shaky sip of tea. “That is nonsense. I’ve arranged a considerable sum for the running of the estate and all the manager has to do is ask if he requires more.” Last Spence knew Mr. Larkin was still managing the estate, a trustworthy man, the son of the previous manager and a fixture throughout Spence’s childhood.
Blake examined Spence closely. “Let us postpone this discussion for a bit.”
Spence waved a dismissive, but tremulous, hand. “What does Lady Kellworth say of this?”
Wolfe’s lips thinned before he spoke. “She will say nothing about it.”
Ever smiling, Blake broke in. “I am certain there is a very logical explanation. You may tend to the matter when you regain your strength, Spence.” He peered at Wolfe. “This is not the time.”
Spence frowned. He had arranged matters so carefully. His man of business in London had carte blanche to release funds if either Mr. Larkin or Emma made the request. True, Spence had never closely examined the quarterly reports his man provided, but he’d glanced at them. Nothing ever seemed amiss.
Lifting the spoonful of gruel suddenly required too much effort. He foolishly tried to lift the tray to remove it, but pain shot through his arm. Blake quickly whisked the tray away and put it on a side table.
“Do not trouble yourself over this,” Blake insisted.
“It is his estate, man,” Wolfe cried. “He needs to know.”
“But not now,” Blake said in a firm voice, but he still wore his smile. “He does not have the strength.”
Blake had the right of it, of course. Spence felt like their voices echoed from far away and it was a struggle to keep his eyes open, but he’d be damned if he let his friends think he needed to be coddled like some bony invalid.
He used his good arm to help straighten up in the bed. “Send for Mr. Larkin—the estate manager—if you would be so good. I will speak to him today.”
Wolfe nodded, his expression smug. Blake tossed Spence a wary look. They left the room a moment later, bearing the breakfast tray. The door had no more than closed before Spence fell into an exhausted sleep.
When Spence woke, still propped up on the pillows, it was to the sound of loud voices outside his room.
He heard Wolfe’s voice raised. “I tell you, Lady Kellworth, it was he who requested it. You cannot countermand an order by your husband.”
“I have already done so.” Emma’s response was at equal volume. “He is far too ill to discuss estate matters with Mr. Larkin.”
“I believe that is for Spence to decide,” shot back Wolfe.
Blake, ever the conciliator, interjected, “Leave it, man.”
Emma went on hotly, “If you cannot respect my wishes in this matter, I will bar you from his room!”
This was his little fawn, the one who needed the strong arm of his protection? Spence had seen French cuirassiers cower when faced with an enraged Wolfe.
“Now see here—” Wolfe began.
Emma stopped him. “I am quite serious, sir. I am going to visit my husband alone and I will thank you not to hover around the door when I do.”
“Come on,” Blake insisted.
The door opened and Spence caught a glimpse of Blake dragging Wolfe away; that is, until his vision filled with Emma, striding toward him like one of the Furies of Greek legend.
When she caught him watching her, she checked her advance. “You are awake.”
“Indeed.”
Her hazel eyes glittered in a face flushed pink, as if she had been out of doors, or perhaps merely flushed with anger. Wolfe regularly brought high color to women’s cheeks, most often due to anger. Emma’s hair was tamed into a knot on top of her head. Almost tamed, to be more accurate. Sunlight from the window dusted gold on the tendrils that escaped, framing her face and caressing the long nape of her neck. He remembered how he had wrapped her curls in his fingers the night before, as if holding on to a safe tether.
He caught his breath. “Your voices woke me.”
She averted her gaze with an angry expression. “I see.” She quickly recovered and met his eye with a challenge. Quite un-fawnlike.
“Would you care to explain why you prevented Wolfe from carrying out my request to see Mr. Larkin?” he spoke quietly, still daunted by her unexpected strength.
She stepped closer to the bed, the distracting clean scent of a spring day accompanying her. “You are not sufficiently recovered.”
He deflected the issue of his health. “Wolfe says that the estate is in disrepair.”
She brought the subject back. “He ought not to have taxed you with such matters while you are ill.”
He took a breath, ready to issue a stern order as he had done so many times to the soldiers in his company. He set off a coughing spasm. Each cough felt as if someone poked fingers into his shoulder wound.
Emma poured him a glass of water and thrust it under his nose. He seized the glass with a shaking hand and brought it to his mouth.
Deuce! He was furious with himself. Angry that he could not even muster the strength to issue a curt order. And even angrier that this woman witnessed his weakness.
Hand still trembling, he tried to put th
e glass back on the table. She took it from him, her fingers brushing his.
She gave him a stern look filled with suppressed emotion. “After three years, you cannot complain about waiting a few more days. You can see Mr. Larkin and anyone else you please after you are a little more recovered.”
Something was amiss. Whatever it was pulled on that part of his conscience he’d so carefully buried under a mountain of rationalization. Her delaying the discussion only made it tug harder, but his whole body ached from the coughing fit, and his head felt heavy. Even this brief allusion to estate problems made him yearn to close his eyes and return to oblivion.
“Is it so very bad, Emma?” he asked, his voice a mere whisper.
She straightened her spine. “I suspect you will think it of no consequence at all.”
That response puzzled him even more.
Spence tried to think logically, but the lure to sleep clouded his brain. There must be some compromise. He always found a compromise when conflict seemed insurmountable. His arrangements for the estate were a compromise, a way to leave him free to pursue the adventure he craved. His marriage to Emma had been a compromise for them both, he’d thought. Now he was not so certain.
“You never told me, Emma, how you go on here.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That, too, will seem of little consequence if you wait two or three days.”
He frowned. She merely sparked more questions, but his little fawn held the reins firmly in her graceful fingers. He detested this feeling of powerlessness. On the other hand, it would be a great relief to not be required to think.
Still he could not entirely release the matter. “I would like for Blake and Wolfe to speak with Mr. Larkin.” He paused in uncertainty. “It is still Mr. Larkin, is it not?”
“It is.”
He went on, “. . . to Mr. Larkin and anyone else they please. Will you see to it, Emma?”
Her green eyes flashed. “It is not necessary. I give you my word I will tell you all when you are stronger.”
“Tell me something now,” he pleaded. “I may go mad with imagining if you do not.”
The Marriage Bargain Page 6