by Lara Temple
It took her just moments to bring some blankets and a pillow from the rooms upstairs, and though he hadn’t moved from the sofa, the change was once again alarming. He was still pale under his tan, but his sharp-cut cheekbones were stained with colour, his eyes pressed shut as if in pain and the shaking was getting worse. He said something unintelligible when she raised his head to place the pillow under it, but he just lay there as she unfastened the buttons of his greatcoat and draped the blankets over him.
When she was done, she pressed the back of her hand to his burning cheek, trying not to be distracted by the contrast between the silky skin and the scrape of dark stubble. She had never seen anyone succumb so violently and so quickly. He must have been ill a day already. Anyone less stubborn would have had the sense to keep to his bed today. What was wrong with men?
‘Oh, God, my head.’ The words, hoarse and half-swallowed, dragged her out of the strange fog of fear that had begun to take hold of her. He shifted, his own hand falling from the sofa, and she picked it up in hers. It was as hot, but very dry, like paper just before it burst into flame. His eyes opened, dark and glittering, and she was caught like an animal in a predator’s glare.
His hand tightened on hers with surprising force.
‘Don’t leave!’
There was outright panic in his eyes. They were dilated, the fever darkening them to black. It was clear he was caught in some delirious thought of his own, but she answered him as if he was completely rational.
‘I won’t. I promise.’
‘Promise...’
‘I promise,’ she repeated, and he closed his eyes, but his hand clung to hers, hot and dry, twitching slightly.
Even as the words left her lips, she knew they were a mistake. The storm raging outside had come as quickly as his fever, but it did not look like it was going to lighten, which meant the fields between Hollywell and the Hall would soon be waterlogged and impassable on foot, so if she was going to bring help, she should leave soon. But the promise had a superstitious power, as if by breaking it, even for a good purpose, she would be putting him in grave risk. It would be like the night she had sat with the housekeeper’s tiny new baby, Bento, while her mother had tended to poor Marta as she lay bleeding after a difficult and far too early birth. She had been so thirsty and had left for just a moment to fill the pitcher of boiled lemon water. Her mother had told her the baby had been born much too early and would have died whether she had been there or not, but her ten-year-old mind had rejected that palliative. She had been tired and thirsty and she had left her charge and death had stolen him in her absence. She knew her mother was right, that to believe otherwise was hubris, a belief in her own power and importance, but ever since then she had been very careful not to promise anything she wasn’t certain she could fulfil.
So the moment she spoke the words she felt the old childish weight of fear and oppression. She could not leave him. If she did, she might come back and find him too still, too quiet, the heat of fever seeping out like water from a cracked vessel, unstoppable. All her logic, that she should fetch help, that she should not be here alone with him in the descending gloom of evening, was useless in the face of her fear of the consequences of going back on her word.
A flash of lightning turned the world to black and white for a second and his eyes opened.
‘Thunder...’
‘That was close. Any second now...’ The crash drowned out her words, but he shook his head.
‘My horse...outside...doesn’t like thunder.’
He struggled to rise, but she pressed him back again.
‘I’ll see to him. I will be right back.’
‘No, you can’t ride him.’
‘I won’t, I promise, just lead him to the stables. Just until you are recovered.’
His eyes closed and she had no idea if he even heard her.
She hurried over to the desk and after some rummaging found what she needed. When she was done, she rushed outside, wondering where he had left his horse, but luckily it was tied by the front door and was grazing at the weeds poking along through the edge of the gravel, completely ignoring the lashing wind and rain. She stared at the animal with some dismay. It was an enormous black gelding with a long silky mane and tail which glistened in the fading light. She took a step forward and it raised its head and turned to stare at her with a look that was distinctly menacing, as if daring her to approach.
Blast the man, trust him to bring a horse as ill-tempered as he.
‘There, boy,’ she cooed as she approached. He sidled, watching her with his head lowered and his ears tucked back. She was not deceived; this was not a submissive gesture. Still, she moved forward with a confidence that was utterly feigned and managed to tuck a note into the belt of the saddle, where it might escape the rain. Then she untied his reins, throwing them over his neck before he could react. For a moment his liquid eyes focused on her as if debating squashing her between his enormous body and the stone column, but then he merely danced sideways, becoming aware of his freedom.
‘That’s right, off you go!’
The gelding bent to nip at the weeds again and with a growl of exasperation she waved her hands in the air.
‘Shoo! Off you go!’
He trotted for a few steps and recklessly she moved towards him, her hands still waving like a demented houri.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Faster!’ she yelled at him and was supported by a crack of lightning and thunder, almost simultaneous. Finally the stallion sped into a canter down the drive, kicking up gravel.
She pushed her dripping hair out of her eyes and watched him disappear, wondering if he would ever be found, and if so, would anyone notice the paper tucked into the saddle or whether they would merely steal this clearly valuable horse. If so, Alan, if he recovered, would have her head. She half-smiled at the fury he would probably unleash on her anyway at putting his beautiful horse at risk, but that was his own fault. He never should have ventured outdoors if he felt unwell. Any sane person would have known their limits.
Back in the library she relaxed slightly. He was still breathing and still on the sofa, but each breath seemed to be an act of will, dredged up out of a great depth. She placed her hand on his forehead and he mumbled something, twisting away. She couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded rude. She was tempted to respond by telling him what she had done with his precious brute of a horse, but that would probably drag him out of his stupor and make him do something foolish, so she merely sat down by his side and took his hand. The clouds were so thick they had turned afternoon into evening, leaching the colour from the room. This was her fault. She must have been mad to conceive of such a scheme. The day her father had caught her trying to board the ship to England he had told her running away never solved anything. He should have added it only complicated matters.
‘You’re a stubborn, stubborn fool,’ she said aloud, as much to herself as to him, and his hand twitched, closing painfully around hers. She waited for it to ease again and rubbed it gently. Someone would find his horse and perhaps even the note. She just had to ensure he was comfortable and safe until then.
She didn’t try to detach her hand again, just sat there and looked. Would it be the same no matter how many times she saw him? This sense of amazement and revelation? The way her body shifted from a medium of mundane existence to an entity with its own demands. Worst of all was the sense of rightness, of coming home.
Absurd.
Undeniable.
Even at his worst, he was so painfully handsome she wondered why she hadn’t realised it the moment he strode into the Hollywell library. Yes, she had noticed he was handsome, but not that it would be hard to look away. Harder not to reach out and touch.
She curled her fingers into her palm.
Be sensible. Remember his anger at the inn. Remember your own anger and contempt for what he symbolises. No, for what he is.
Don’t put any distance between him and his actions, that way weakness lies. That way you start forgiving and explaining away and feeling things that shouldn’t be allowed, like sympathy and concern and a ridiculous conviction that you know him.
But she felt it anyway, a spreading of him into her, a knowledge of him. It might be utterly false, but it was so strong she couldn’t turn it into a lie until it was proved so. Conclusively. She needed him to mend so he could become himself again, between that rakish charm and resentful anger. Maybe then she could defend herself better because now she had no defence against these feelings except fear.
She eased her hand away, resisting the temptation to touch his face, and stood up. His arm swept out and bumped into her skirts and caught at them feebly. She stood looking down at him for a moment and sat down again, untangling his hand from the muslin skirt with its embroidered flowers and tucking it between hers again. The fire was strong enough for the moment. She would tend to it in a little while.
* * *
She looked at the comfortable bed awaiting her and sighed. After two hours it was unlikely rescue would arrive before the morrow and she had best take what she needed to spend the night in the library. In between bathing his forehead with a damp cloth to calm his fevered mutterings, she had prepared herself tea on the hob over the library fireplace and brought a basket of bread and cheese from the stores Mr Prosper’s housekeeper had stocked in the pantry. She rolled up another blanket and pillow, her toothbrush and tooth powder, and resigned herself to a very uncomfortable night on the floor.
Halfway down the corridor to the stairway, she stopped abruptly.
That was definitely a thud, not thunder. For a moment she remained frozen, her heart beating hard and fast, wishing she had taken one of her father’s pistols with her. The second thud was followed by a faint groan and alarm raced over her skin, sharp and stinging, raising goose pimples as it went. But even as her body went into a shocked crouch, her mind moved forward. Something thudding and groaning in a house whose only other occupant was a very ill and very stubborn man most likely had nothing to do with the supernatural.
She dropped the bedclothes and ran.
He had made it halfway to the front door. Kneeling on the floor and in the gleam of her candle, he looked like a medieval supplicant before an altar. His caped greatcoat was spread around him like a cloak, his dark head bowed, his weight braced on one arm.
‘You fool. What on earth are you doing?’
‘Keynsham,’ he muttered, clearly trying to get back on his feet, but he stopped when she placed her hand on his forehead. He was burning.
‘Keynsham? Really? In a storm and on foot?’ she asked, fear pouring acid into her voice. ‘You want to be stubborn? Then stand up. Now.’
He finally turned to her, his eyes near black, his pupils dilated.
‘You...’
His voice was slurred and she couldn’t tell if there was annoyance or distaste there.
‘Yes, me. You want Hollywell House from me, right?’
His eyelids flickered closed and she pinched his arm and he nodded.
‘You...’
‘Well, if you want it, I want you to stand up. If you don’t, I will crack a candlestick on your stubborn head and drag you back to the library by your heels.’
‘Vixen.’
That was clearer. She turned so that she could slide her arm around his back and brace his weight against her shoulder.
‘Up with you.’
She managed to get him on his legs but would have fallen if she hadn’t braced her own arm against the wall.
‘Sorry...’ he mumbled. ‘Ill...’
Her heart was thudding so hard she thought it might break something inside her. She felt the kind of fear she had once felt when a green water boa had slithered out of the swampy bushes in Brazil less than a yard away from her, enormous, shiny, heading towards her with an intentness in its tiny glinting eyes that still came back to her in dreams almost twenty years later. It was elemental, demanding action. She had never felt this scared about the possibility of someone dying.
She managed to straighten and also push back at her fear. He was just feverish. He wasn’t dying. There was no need to become all foolish and soft.
They entered the library, his long lean body hard against her side, the folds of his coat tangling in her legs and nearly tripping her. He sank down on to the sofa, breathing heavily, and she sat down with him for a moment, afraid to let him go. She could feel the tremors rise through his body, like tiny earthquakes, and she could feel him try to stop them, his muscles locking down. Even this he was fighting, she thought in frustration.
‘Lie down,’ she whispered, and a tremor shook him so hard she locked her arms around him again, afraid he might fall forward. But then it passed and she managed to ease him down.
He sank back into a shaky stupor, occasionally muttering something about someone named Rickie, and sometimes his eyes would flicker open with that same unfocused, haunted look. She began wondering if the clock on the mantelpiece was even working, it moved so slowly, but it was already close on ten o’clock at night, so it must have moved quite a great deal since her arrival. She was fully awake and achy in a way that had nothing to do with illness, and the superstitious fear was back—she had to remain on alert or something terrible would happen.
Was this what Catherine felt sitting by Nicky’s sickbed at night, afraid to sleep?
The comparison was ridiculous; this was not her child, not a child at all, but a very large and very aggravating man. Perhaps it was that he was no one’s child and someone should be sitting here worrying. If he had been her child, would it have been like this? No, she admitted. It would be different. She would not still be scalded all down her side where his body had pressed the length of hers. She would not have to keep her hands curled so as not to be tempted to touch. Her fingers ached with the need to trace the tense grooves by his mouth, to ease the frown forming two sharp lines between his black-winged brows and to test the silkiness of his black hair. And definitely not to press her lips to his. They looked hot, too; tense, just a little parted.
She surrendered to the urge to touch, her fingers seeking the vulnerable hollow by his temple, where the skin was soft, as velvety as the inside of a hibiscus leaf, following it to where it thinned over the ridge of bone. She loved his cheekbones, they were everything that was right and wrong with him. Sharp cut, uncompromising until they gave way to this softness which was always a little in the shadow. Then there were the lines on either side of his mouth, two gauges of his mood. Even when he wasn’t smiling, there was usually still a little curve in them, a curiosity or lingering warmth. But she had seen them as straight as a hanging blade when he had been angry at her.
She smoothed her fingers over one—it wasn’t like that now; it was shifting, restless. Perhaps he was dreaming. She rested her fingers lightly on his mouth. His breath was the shallow swift breath of a fever, a tangible effort that fanned over her fingertips. She sank into that simple sensation—her skin on his, his breath alternately warming and cooling the spaces between her fingers. She wasn’t brave enough to do it, but she imagined this against her own mouth, that hot firm surface moving against her lips like they had in the inn. That kiss had been a curse, a snatching of her soul and will—right now she could not imagine anyone kissing her again but him. Her lips were half-burned with the need to recapture that embrace; they felt thicker, stinging a little as if she, too, was fevered and dry.
He isn’t even doing anything, you foolish girl. He is ill and you are not only doing something improper, it is unfair to him. You wouldn’t want someone to kiss you while you slept, no matter what the silly fairy tales said about redemptive powers.
I wouldn’t mind if it was him, she replied. I would only mind if I didn’t wake.
Well, he isn’t you and he most likely would mind.
She removed her fingers, curling them in.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, and he opened his eyes, a sharp silvery grey, his pupils constricted, faraway. She kept still, waiting for him to close his eyes again as he had each time these brief moments of waking had occurred so far, but he just watched her, his pupils dilating.
‘What for?’ His voice was hardly more than a rasp of cloth on cloth, but he sounded fully rational, even curious.
She gave a little laugh. Trust him to become rational at the worst possible moment and ask the worst possible question. At least she had resisted the urge to kiss him. That might have been difficult to explain.
‘Go back to sleep.’
‘Why? Where am I?’
His eyes swept the room but returned to hers, now with another level of realisation.
‘Hollywell. I forgot. Hell.’
Each word was dragged upwards, but fading. Another of the tremors that had scared her shook him.
‘Everything hurts... Hate this.’
She so desperately wanted to reassure him, promise him he was going to be well, but he wouldn’t believe her and she was afraid the words themselves would have a runic force, twisting fate to prove her wrong. She dipped the cloth in the bowl of water and wrung it.
‘Close your eyes.’
That was a mistake. He had been fading, but her words changed the rhythm of his breathing, the struggle showing as clear as storm clouds in his eyes.
‘No. That’s how... No. Where’s Cat?’ His words were slurred, but the intensity was unmistakable.
‘Catherine isn’t ill. She is with Nicky, who has recovered enough to start making demands of everyone and everything. It’s the truth, I prom... It’s the truth, Alan. Now close your eyes and we shall see if we can lower your fever so you can return to running away.’
‘Vixen.’ But he closed his eyes and she focused on touching his face only with the damp cloth.
‘Ferret, vixen... What next? Mole? Field mouse? Slug?’
The lines on the side of his mouth curved a little, then flattened.