Ladies of Deception 03 - Betraying the Highwayman

by Ginny Hartman

  “There's nothing the doctor can do besides bleed me.”

  Elenore cringed, her stomach rolling at the thought of a doctor cutting his skin so deep that his blood and all of its impurities could purge from his body. Bloodletting was a common enough practice but not one she wanted to be party too. “But if it would help—“she trailed off weakly.

  “It won't,” he spoke vehemently. “They tried it on one of my good friends when he became ill, and all it did was drain even more of his precious life out of his ravaged and weak body. No, I will not allow them to do that to me.”

  “I just don't know what other options we have.”

  Devon surprised her by taking her hand in one of his own. “Pray for me Sister Genevieve. Ask your God to spare me. I'm positive he will listen to you.”

  Elenore was taken aback by his request. She had rarely uttered a prayer in her entire life besides the simple prayers of thanksgiving her family always offered over their food before a meal. But looking at his eager, hopeful eyes boring into her own, she knew she wouldn't deny him anything.

  “Of course I'll pray for you. Let's just hope it is enough.” She said a silent prayer in her heart, pleading as she had never done before that Devon's fever would break and his health would return. The thought of someone so strong and viral being brought so low made her heart break. Devon, she thought, was a fighter. He was not somebody who should succumb to mere weakness of the flesh.

  After a few moments of silence, Elenore rose from the chair, her back aching from sleeping for hours in a sitting position. As she turned to the nightstand, Devon called out frantically, “Don't leave me. Please stay.”

  Elenore turned and bestowed a kind smile on him. “Of course I'll stay. I was just getting a fresh rag for your head.”

  Devon nodded and smiled weakly in return, grateful that he wouldn't be left to suffer alone. There was something comforting about Sister Genevieve, and he knew, that as long as she was with him, everything would be alright.

  Once the fresh rag was in place, she returned to sitting in the chair. “I'm going to have to leave in awhile to go check on your father. It wouldn't do for me not to show up to see to his needs. He would not be amused. I'll have to take care of him before I'll be able to slip back and attend to you. Try to go to sleep. Your body needs rest to recover.”

  Devon nodded his agreement, too weak to object to anything she said. Within minutes, he was once more asleep, though by his constant tossing and turning she could tell it was a fitful slumber.

  ***

  Elenore did not allow herself to go back to sleep, though her body was exhausted. She continued to minister to Devon, spending long hours staring at his handsome face and praying with an urgency she had never experienced before. She was reminded of the time both of her parents fell ill, of the days she spent caring for them, and she wished she would have thought to pray for their welfare. Maybe it would have made a difference.

  Loneliness consumed her, as it always did at the thought of her parents, but she tried to push it aside as she concentrated on Devon. She knew it was getting to be close to the time when Lord Brattondale would wake, and if she wasn't there prepared to feed him his breakfast, he would be furious. She finished placing the cool rags once more on Devon, before rising from her chair.

  As she was turning to tiptoe out of the room, she heard Devon call out softly, “Mother, don't leave me.”

  She turned to look at him, his face was wrinkled in pain but his eyes remained closed. Her heart broke at the thought of him calling for his mother. She knew that he had been just a little boy when his mother had passed and that he must be dreaming of her. She stepped back towards the bed and placed her palm on his cheek, feeling his strong jaw beneath her hand.

  He reached for her hand, grasping it. “Mother, is that you?”

  Elenore chuckled softly. “Shh Devon, I'm not your mother, but I'll take care of you.” She leaned over and placed a soft kiss to his forehead in a gesture of comfort. Though the act itself may have seemed motherly, she didn't feel familial feelings at all, as her pulse pounded in her ears and her stomach did a funny flip.

  He reached up, both eyes still closed, and felt for her face with both hands, pulling her down till her lips met his. She felt his hot breath fan over her lips before he made contact. He pressed his lips to hers so gently that at first she thought she had imagined the contact. His hands fell limply to his side, as his breathing became even and slow. Elenore couldn't seem to pull away. She kept her face next to his, her eyes remaining closed, as she memorized the feel of his silky lips beneath her own. She knew he had no idea what had just occurred between them, but she had been fully coherent and alert, and every nerve in her body was tingling with awareness. Though she knew she should pull away, she couldn't bring herself to separate from him.

  It felt so good to feel needed, to feel loved. Not that Lord Bridgerton loved her, but both times he had kissed her, she felt loved, cherished, alive. With reluctance, she pulled herself from his presence knowing that she had to get to Lord Brattondale's chambers, before she did something foolish, like throw herself into his arms and beg him to love her. It had been so long since she had felt loved, she wasn't sure she knew what it felt like anymore.

  She rushed from his room, carelessly forgetting to check her path, before exiting his room and nearly colliding with Charlotte.

  “Pardon me, sister.” Charlotte apologized profusely as she brushed a stray wisp of hair from her face.

  “No apologies necessary. I should have been more attentive to where I was going.”

  Charlotte smiled politely before glancing at the door Elenore had just come through. Looking back at her, her face was a mask of confusion. “What were you doing in Lord Bridgerton's bedchamber?”

  Elenore had no ready response to give her. Instead she laughed nervously before attempting a pathetic explanation. “I was on my way to see the master, and my head was in the clouds. I entered the wrong room, an honest mistake. I'm just heading to Lord Brattondale's chambers now, if you'll excuse me.”

  Charlotte looked at her skeptically, but instead of making any more excuses, Elenore slipped down the hall, anxious to get out of the girls presence. She hoped that Charlotte wouldn't see any reason to enter Devon's room. For surely she'd be shocked to find him there. She needn't worry it might happen though, for Charlotte was following behind her like a puppy at her heels.

  Elenore slowed her pace and turned to face the girl. “Can I help you with something?”

  “I meant to tell you that the master has gone.”

  “Has gone?” Elenore asked, confused.

  “Yes, he left early this morning and asked me to inform you of his departure. He won't be back until late this eve or possibly tomorrow, so you will have the day off.”

  Elenore's heart sunk. “Are you sure that he has already left?” she asked, not wanting to believe it.

  “Oh yes, I saw him leave with my own eyes.”

  Elenore turned and fled down the hall towards Lord Brattondale's chambers, anxious to see for herself that he truly wasn't there. She found herself uttering a silent prayer that he would be there, that she would somehow catch him and be able to stop him from leaving, feeling like she had to try for Devon's sake. She found it ironic that she had said more prayers in the last few hours than she had in her entire life. Playing the part of a nun must be affecting her spirituality, she rationalized.

  The minute she flung Lord Brattondale's door open she knew he wasn't inside. The room was dark and the bed had already been made up. She groaned in frustration before turning to leave, almost bumping once more into Charlotte as she realized the girl had followed her.

  “He's gone,” she muttered.

  “Of course he is. I already told you that.”

  “But of course. Now pardon me, I must get back to...” she almost let it slip that she needed to get back to Devon. “...my room. I think I will rest for a bit.”

  She scurried past Charlotte, anxious to
be out of the girl’s presence. There was something unnerving about the way her eyes followed her every movement. Elenore slowly made her way back to her own room, pausing long enough to wave at Charlotte before shutting the door and pushing her back up against the thick wood. She glanced at her bed invitingly. She was so tired, but she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep when Devon still needed her, and it felt so good to be needed.

  She paused to analyze that thought for a moment, confused by why it felt so good to be near Devon and to help him. Lord Brattondale clearly needed her, but caring for him didn't feel the same as caring for his son. Maybe it was because Lord Brat hardly ever seemed grateful, or maybe it was because touching Devon wasn't nearly as repulsive as touching his father. In fact, while she found every excuse to avoid physical contact with the earl, with Devon, it was completely opposite. She found she used any excuse she could find to touch him, to be near him. She found she was growing rather attached to the man.

  She forced herself to wait a bit longer to make sure that Charlotte was gone, before she retreated back to Devon's room. She tried to convince herself that her eagerness to get back to him was strictly prompted by concern for his welfare and not any desire she had to see him again, to touch him. She tried to think of America and the adventure that awaited for her in the land of promise, but her usual excitement at the prospect was crushed when she thought about leaving Devon behind, though the thought of being reunited with distant relatives held its own appeal. She shook her head vigorously, trying to dispel the impossible thoughts she was harboring for the earl's son. She had no right to desire him romantically, when there was no way she could ever pursue him.

  Putting her hand on the doorknob, she slowly turned the handle and checked to make sure the hall was clear, before she hurried off to Devon's room, grateful that the earl's absence allowed her to spend the day with him, but anxious as to what his absence could mean for Devon.

  Chapter 17

  Elenore went straight to Devon's side as she entered his room, after carefully locking the door behind her. It wouldn't do for anyone to find them there. She peeled the drying rag from his forehead and turned to dip it in the cool water in the basin, when she was startled by the sound of his voice.

  “You came back.”

  Elenore turned wide eyes on him. She hadn't realized he was awake. “I did. I didn't realize you were aware that I had left.”

  “I felt your absence almost immediately.” His words warmed her blood and her cheeks.

  “Well, I'm here now. How are you feeling?”

  “Tired,” he said with a crooked smile. “And like I could use a stiff drink.”

  “If I promise to get you a drink, do you promise me you'll try to go back to sleep? I'm afraid you're still warm with fever and must try to do all you can to fight it off.”

  “I'll do anything you say.”

  “Such a good patient,” she said with a hint of amusement. He gifted her with a dazzling smile, and her stomach did the funny flip thing once more. She wasn't sure it was good for her health to spend much time in his presence, but he was like a magnet drawing her in, and she was loath to fight the pull.

  He told her where she could find some liquor, and she returned holding a snifter of scotch. She extended it to him, but instead of allowing him to take it, she held it to his mouth for him to drink so he barely had to lift his head from the pillow. He swallowed it all in one gulp, then cringed as if it had burned, and for all Elenore knew, maybe it did, she had never before partaken of spirits. She walked the glass back and put it away before returning to his side once more.

  “Now, you promised you'd go to sleep. Once you wake up, it is probably a good idea for me to check on your wound for infection and replace the bandages.”

  “I appreciate everything you're doing for me. I really do,” Devon said, his rich brown eyes boring into her.

  Elenore looked away, hoping he couldn't tell by her face how much his words meant to her. With the realization that she was starting to care for him, she knew she'd have to be extra careful not to give anything away by her expressions.

  She tried to busy herself but there wasn't much else she could do, so she sat in the chair, folding her arms in her lap. She tried to ignore the way he was looking at her by saying, “You promised to go to sleep, remember?”

  “Yes, but what are you going to do while I sleep? You must be exhausted.”

  “That's true. I am. I'll try to get some rest as well, but I promise I'll stay close in case you need anything.” She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, hoping it would stop him from speaking further.

  “You can't possibly find it comfortable to sleep in that chair.”

  “I managed it earlier, so I imagine I'll be just fine. Now go to sleep as you promised.”

  Devon closed his eyes and did as he was told, though he didn't fall asleep immediately. Instead, thoughts of the kind and caring Sister Genevieve swirled through his mind until he finally drifted off to sleep, only to have his dreams haunted by her as well.

  ***

  Devon tossed and turned in bed, feeling unusually warm for the first time since his fever had set in. He reached for the covers, throwing them off in an attempt to cool himself. Beads of sweat seemed to cover his entire body, as he realized that his fever must finally be breaking. He wanted to share the good news with Sister Genevieve and looked over to the chair she was occupying, only to see that she was still fast asleep, her head drooping down and to the right, in an awkward attempt to sleep as comfortable as possible in the chair.

  He reached up and grabbed the rag, which was now dry, from his forehead. He used it to blot his face, neck, and chest. He was relieved to know that his body was getting better and that, hopefully soon, he would be strong enough to get back to the things in his life that required his attention. He grew antsy, when he thought of all the things he had missed while being laid-up in bed with the fever. He wasn't even sure what day it was or how long he had been confined to his room. He was reminded once more of his gratitude for Sister Genevieve and all she had done to aid him in his recovery. He knew, if it hadn't been for her, he very well could be dead right now.

  He glanced at her once more. Her lips were slightly parted, as she breathed in and out, and her thick lashes were fluttering slightly against her pale cheeks, as she dreamed. He wondered what an angel like her dreamed of, and he wished somehow that her dreams were filled with him, as his were of her. He had spent so much time sleeping, since his botched attempt at highway robbery, and without fail, his dreams always revolved around her. His favorite dream was the one where she had confessed to him that she no longer wished to be a nun, that she had decided to give up her life of piety, forgoing her vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience in exchange for a life by his side. She had professed her love to him, and the dream had ended with her placing a tender kiss to his lips. The memory of that dream still seemed so vivid, the feel of her lips so real. What he wouldn't give to feel her sweet lips against his once more.

  He hadn't even realized that he was smiling, but whenever he thought of Sister Genevieve, he couldn't seem to help himself. He lay sweating in bed, watching her as she slept. He wished somehow, he could convince her to change her mind about going to America, and give up her life as a nun so he could have a chance to court her properly, to see if they would truly suit each other, though something inside him suggested that they'd get along quite nicely. She was unlike any other girl he knew. She was selfless and kind, yet animated and lively, and not afraid to speak her mind. Though sometimes her opinions bordered on ill-mannered, he found her quite refreshing.

  Devon mustered up all of his strength to throw his legs over the side of the bed. He stood and stretched, feeling the muscles in his body protesting at the movement. He felt stiff and sore, but it sure felt good to not be lying down any longer. He looked down on Sister Genevieve, before reaching one hand down and running the back of his knuckles slowly and gently across her skin. He shuddered at the co
ntact and had to briefly pull his hand back so as not to disturb her with his body's involuntary movement. Her skin was the smoothest, softest skin he had ever felt and the only skin he could ever recall touching that made his insides tighten and his blood surge in anticipation.

  Her breath caught, as she shifted in the chair, failing to find a more comfortable position. Without thinking, Devon reached down and scooped her into his arms, holding her warm body tightly to his chest. He turned and walked to the opposite side of the bed from where he had been sleeping, knowing it would be drenched in perspiration. He pulled the corner of the covers back and gently laid her on the plush, down mattress, watching as she snuggled into one of his pillows. He desperately and pathetically wished in that moment that he was that pillow. He knew she must have been exhausted because she didn't wake once, not even when he tucked the blankets around her thin body and again allowed himself the pleasure of touching her face. He smiled again, as he watched her sleep, before returning to his side of the bed and prostrating himself on the mattress once more.

  Looking up at the thick, velvet curtains that hung from his bed, his body ached with a fierce desire to close the gap separating him from Sister Genevieve and to take her into his arms. He made the mistake of glancing over at her sleeping form, and his blood heated with the knowledge that she was in his bed, mere inches away from where he was laying. He longed to turn towards her, to pull her body into his, holding her tightly against him. He remembered, with an odd mixture of agony and desire, how she had felt pressed up against his body the first day he had brought her to Westbrooke Hall atop Calvin, and he very nearly groaned out loud. His jaw clenched tightly, and every nerve in his body ached with the desire to reach for her, to touch her, but he knew that he couldn't and that he wouldn't. He had already violated her trust once before, when he had kissed her in the stables, and he knew he would be a fool to compromise her again. Besides, he was a gentleman, and it just wasn't done.

  Clenching his fists into tight balls, he looked once more above him, glancing away from where the temptress was sleeping, completely unaware of his inner turmoil. He willed himself to return to sleep, the only place he could go where he could rightfully touch her as he longed to do.