Love, Come to Me

by Lisa Kleypas

  “No. That was yesterday.” Damon regarded him with those cool, curious black eyes, causing Heath to feel an inexplicable surge of annoyance. “This is about the Cuban Rebellion,” Damon continued more slowly, “praising Secretary Fish for keeping the president from proclaiming the Cubans belligerents. And I thought we’d include a paragraph about the bastards who are running Spain. That should excite a certain amount of sympathy for the Cubans.”

  “Good. Good. Go with it.”

  “All right.” Damon paused before leaving, his voice becoming quiet. “Wife managed to keep you home last night?”

  “Obviously,” Heath replied hoarsely.

  “Good for her. You haven’t given yourself much of a breather lately. Don’t worry, you didn’t miss much at the AP supper. I’m capable of handling things, you know. If you’ll just loosen the reins, I can take up the slack.”

  Heath looked up as if he hadn’t heard him correctly. The brightness of fever had lent a shining heat to his eyes, making them such a startling, unholy shade of blue that Damon froze with a sharply indrawn breath.

  “God almighty.” For someone as consistently unruffled as Damon, the soft exclamation was the equivalent of another man’s shout of alarm. “You’re not well. I’ll have someone take you home in the hack.”

  “Don’t be a fool. I just need some . . . water.” Heath let his head fall to his arms, slumping on the desk.

  “He’s calling me a fool,” Damon muttered. “Wonderful.” He left the small office and returned in less than five minutes. As Heath rested his cheek on the cool surface of the desk and concentrated on regaining his strength, he would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that at least an hour had passed. “The hack’s right outside,” Damon said. “It will probably take two or three of us to get you out of here, so I’ll—”

  “I walk out alone,” Heath said, lifting his head and staring at Damon with eerily blue eyes.

  “You need help.”

  “Not . . . in front of them.”

  Damon knew that Heath was referring to the staff of the Examiner. Heath didn’t want to appear less than invincible in front of them. Damon was tempted to argue, correctly deducing that Heath’s resistance would crumble if he prolonged the debate a little longer. It would be foolhardy to let him walk out on his own. But Damon was beginning to understand the nature of a Southerner’s pride, and he had a strange admiration for the gallant foolishness of it. He also knew that Heath would forever bear a grudge towards him if he didn’t accede to this particular demand.

  “All right. You can try to make it out of here without help,” Damon said reluctantly. “But I’m walking beside you, in case you fall. And if you fall on me, you’ll do me significant damage, in which case I’ll sue you up to your ears.”

  Heath muttered something uncomplimentary about Yankees and stood up in one fluid move, grasping the edge of the desk as the room swayed around him.

  “Stubborn Reb,” Damon couldn’t keep from whispering. “What have you done to yourself?”

  Alerted by the imperious pounding of a fist on the door, Lucy rushed to the front hallway just as Sowers received the caller. “Heath!” she cried, sick with panic as she saw her husband leaning heavily against the doorframe, his face pale underneath the tan of his skin. Damon was on his other side, holding him up by an arm.

  “I’m fine,” Heath croaked.

  “He’s ill,” Damon said shortly, motioning to the butler to help him move Heath inside the house. “I’ve sent for the physician who has attended my family for years. He ought to be here in a few minutes.”

  “I just need to rest—”

  “Damned Southerners,” Damon said. “They never know when to surrender.” Though the statement was uttered in his typically cool manner, there was something almost like rough affection underlining his voice.

  It took the three of them to get Heath up to the bedroom and onto the bed, and then Sowers went downstairs to wait for the physician. Normally Lucy would have gone crimson with embarrassment at the thought of partially undressing her husband in someone else’s presence, but she stripped off his coat and pulled off his shoes without hesitation, barely aware of Damon’s watchful ebony gaze. Heath was shivering. Anxiously Lucy murmured to him and pulled the covers up to his neck, her hands smoothing repeatedly over the outline of his shoulders.

  “Mrs. Rayne?”

  She recognized Bess’s voice and replied without looking up. “Bring quilts.”

  “What about hot bricks wrapped in flannel—”

  “Yes. Yes, but hurry,” Lucy said, biting her lip. The maid left the room and flew downstairs, and Heath turned his cheek into the palm of Lucy’s hand, closing his eyes and falling asleep with dreadful ease. She felt like weeping. His skin was burning. How could he possibly be shaking with cold? She glanced at Damon; her hazel eyes were dark with guilt and misery. “He’s been working too hard,” she whispered. “I should have stopped him.”

  “You couldn’t have,” Damon said quietly. “We all tried. But there’s a demon riding on his back—there has been for a long time. You couldn’t have stopped him.”

  Startled, Lucy gave him a searching stare. What did he mean? Had Heath confided something to Damon that he had not told her? Or was Damon merely guessing at some undisclosed reason for Heath’s relentless labor? She was never to find out the answer, because the physician arrived before Damon could reply.

  No matter how kindly and trustworthy they might appear, doctors always frightened Lucy. Their very presence was an indication that something was seriously wrong. They always seemed to be needlessly callous, and in Lucy’s mind, the fact that they had looked so often on the face of pain and death set them apart from ordinary people. Dr. Evans, the man Damon had sent for, was more bearable than most. He had an appropriately grandfatherly manner, and he seemed to understand Lucy’s fears, assuring her that there was nothing wrong with Heath except a fever and exhaustion. Tonics and undisturbed rest were prescribed, and then the elderly doctor left with encouraging promptness. Lucy walked with him to the front door and saw him out.

  “How is he?” came Damon’s voice from behind her, and she turned to find that he had been waiting in the parlor.

  “Much better than I had feared,” she replied slowly. “He just needs rest. I can’t tell you how relieved I am, and how grateful to you for—”

  “It was nothing.”

  Lucy was undeceived by his indifferent tone of voice. Damon might try to hide his feelings, but she had witnessed his concern as they had brought Heath upstairs, and she had been aware of his gentleness with her. “I am grateful,” she repeated, wanting to say more but fearing the possibility of embarrassing him.

  “I must be getting back to the paper.”

  “Could I offer you something to eat or drink before you leave?” she asked, realizing that he had missed his lunch hour. “Some tea?”

  “Thank you, but no. There are many things I have to do.”

  “That sounds like something my husband would say.”

  Her remark drew a smile out of Damon. “His fondness for overwork must be contagious.”

  She chuckled ruefully. “Then be careful. We don’t want you to be ill, too.”

  “No.” The dark smile in his eyes turned bittersweet as he looked down at her. “Please tell your husband something for me, Mrs. Rayne. Tell him not to worry about the Examiner. I’ll keep everything in order for him.”

  “I know that he trusts you to take care of everything.”

  “And you?” Damon’s expression hardened with self-mockery as soon as the question had left his lips. Lucy wasn’t certain why he had asked, and she had the feeling that he wasn’t certain, either.

  “I also trust you,” she said softly. “Excuse me. I must go up to Heath. Sowers will see you out.”

  Curious and confused, Lucy went upstairs without looking back at him. Her instincts told her that she had nothing to fear from Damon Redmond, but he treated her with such careful politeness, as if he we
re afraid she might discover a jealously guarded secret. He did not seem to want her gratitude, yet he had been here today like an unobtrusive shadow, taking care of everything and staying until he was certain that he was no longer needed.

  She slept lightly that night, sensitive to Heath’s every movement, waking several times to coax him to swallow more tonic, and tucking the quilts more tightly around him as he shivered with cold. Weary from anxiety and lack of sleep, she allowed herself to take a short nap as morning drew near. She woke up to the horrifying discovery that the sheets were clammy and drenched with perspiration, and that Heath’s hair was wet from the roots to the ends. Her gown clung to her damply, infused with the coolness of early morning.

  “Heath?” She pulled the covers up around him, trying to keep him warm until the bedding could be changed. His head moved on the pillow, and his thick lashes lifted to reveal a bright, slitted gaze.

  “No, don’t,” he muttered, making an effort to push away the blankets. “Hot . . . it’s hot . . .”

  “I know it is,” she said gently, placing her hand on his forehead. His skin seemed to radiate the heat of a coal. “Be still . . . please be still. For me.” He said something indistinct and closed his eyes, turning his face away from her.

  Fortunately Bess, having once been married, was not squeamish about personal matters. She had an invaluable combination of efficiency and pragmatism. Lucy was grateful for her help in seeing to Heath’s comfort and changing the sheets to clean, dry ones. “The doctor said this would only last a day or two,” she said to the maid as they walked with armloads of fresh linen into the room.

  “That’s good,” Bess replied, looking doubtfully at the still figure on the bed. Heath’s earlier restlessness had vanished with startling speed. Now he slept as if he had been knocked unconscious.

  “Did you ever have to nurse your husband through something like this?” Lucy asked, pale and upset, and somehow terribly calm.

  “Yes, Mrs. Rayne.”

  “I suppose the fever is always this bad on the second day?”

  “Not always.” As their eyes met, Lucy read the truth on the maid’s face, that Heath’s fever was worse than any Bess had seen before.

  “I . . . I think we’ll try to tempt him with a little soup later on. One with a very clear broth,” Lucy said slowly, ignoring the inner voice that suggested the doctor had been wrong and Heath was seriously ill. No, he would be sick for a day or two, and then he would start to get better.

  But the next day the fever had not abated. It was worse than before, and Heath was no longer coherent. Caught in an unceasing delirium, he was drenched with sweat one moment, shaking with chills the next, and Lucy endlessly repeated the cycle of sponging him down, changing the sheets and giving him medicine. She sent for Dr. Evans again, who stayed much longer this time than the first. He wore a grave expression as he led Lucy away from the bedside and spoke to her quietly.

  “If it doesn’t break soon, we’ll have to pack him in ice. It’s dangerous for his temperature to be this high.”

  They draped the mattress with vulcanized waterproof cloth, and packed snow and ice around him. But nothing they tried could break the fever.

  Lucy sat alone with Heath in a darkened room, staring at a stranger whose mind wandered aimlessly in a delirium, whose lips formed names she did not recognize, who spoke with a touch of madness in his voice. This man who suffered and shivered so violently was not Heath, her golden-haired, laughing-eyed husband. Only during small fractions of time was he recognizable to her, and those moments were painfully few and far between. She spoke to him and he did not hear her. He asked questions but did not seem to understand the answers. He seemed to have gone back to a time when he had not known her, and it hurt to realize that he never uttered her name.

  Damon had sent over one of the women in the Redmonds’ employ to help Lucy nurse Heath. Lucy rarely left the bedside, however: she was unwilling to leave him long in the company of a stranger. She had to be bullied into eating and sleeping, but how could she sleep knowing that hour by hour her husband was slipping away from her?

  Often he seemed to think that he was back at the prison camp on Governor’s Island during the war. The first time it happened, Lucy was in the middle of wringing out a cloth for his forehead. She looked down and saw him staring at her, his eyes glazed. Her heart jumped, because it seemed that he recognized her.

  “Water,” he whispered. She slipped a trembling hand behind his head, bringing a cup to his lips. Heath drank thirstily and made a sound of disgust, choking as if she had given him poison. “We deserve more than . . . this filth,” he gasped. “No matter what side . . . we’re not . . . animals.” Dazedly she took the cup away and backed away from the hatred in his voice. Heath shuddered uncontrollably. “No blankets . . . can’t you see . . . these m-men are dying. Cold-assed Yankee . . . you t-take the best of our food, and . . . sell it to line your own pockets . . . leave us only f-fat and gristle . . .”

  He thought she was a Union prison guard.

  “Paper . . . ,” he breathed. “Paper.”

  “What about the paper?” she asked, thinking that he meant the Examiner.

  “More. Rations for it. I’ll . . . bargain.”

  He was asking for paper to write on. To keep the record he had written during the war. As he continued to rant, Lucy started to sob openly. “Heath,” she said, tears streaming down her face, “it’s me . . . it’s Lucy. I love you. Don’t you see me? Don’t you know me?”

  The sound of her crying reached his ears, and he quieted for several seconds, confused, turning restlessly. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t cry.”

  “I can’t help it—”

  “Please, Raine. I’ll do anything for you. Don’t go. Raine . . . you know how I need you. Don’t do it . . .”

  Lucy blanched, feeling as if she had been kicked in the stomach. Raine again. The pain in Heath’s voice cut deeply into her heart. She fumbled for a dry rag and mopped her face, pressing the cloth into the corners of her eyes to absorb her tears.

  “Mama, I’m seventeen . . . ,” he muttered softly. “I’m a man now. I know what you think . . . Mama . . . but I love her.” Suddenly there was the dry ghost of his laugh. “She’s so beautiful. You can’t argue against that . . . can you . . .”

  Lucy’s back ached as she bent over him and spread a wet cloth over his hot forehead.

  “Raine . . .” He swiped off the cloth and gripped her wrist. “Damn you. You don’t love him . . . oh, God . . .” His fingers tightened until she flinched and twisted her wrist away, rubbing it to ease the ache. Heath’s whole body jumped, and he cried out, his hand lifting slowly to his temple. “I didn’t come here to hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

  Dear God, Lucy thought dazedly, help me to bear this.

  “Mrs. Rayne, Mr. Redmond is here to see you.”

  Lucy paused in the middle of splashing her face with water and reached for a towel. The nurse Damon had sent over had just taken over the vigil at Heath’s side.

  “I should change my dress,” Lucy murmured, looking down at herself. She was sticky and tired, and she could feel the straggles of hair that clung to her neck and face.

  “He said that he only intends to pay a quick call,” Bess said. “About the newspaper.”

  “Then I suppose there’s no time to change. Find a comb for me, quickly.”

  Numbly Lucy made an effort to tidy her hair and make herself more presentable; then, she walked downstairs to the parlor. Damon stood up as soon as she entered the room. He was dressed in a crisp, dark suit, and he was polished and well-groomed. Lucy felt a strange sense of comfort in the mere sight of him. He was so sane and levelheaded that his presence seemed to diminish the nightmarish aura that hung over the house. His face registered no shock or dismay at her appearance, only calmness.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  She nodded jerkily.

  “Is there any change?” he asked quietly.

  “No
. No change.”

  “You need someone from your family to be with you. Should I send for someone?”

  “There’s no one but my father. And he wouldn’t be able to help. He would only . . . feel uncomfortable, and I . . . don’t want to see him right now.” Lucy wondered if she should have phrased her refusal differently. Maybe it was a sin that she did not want her father with her, and in that case she shouldn’t have admitted to Damon how she felt. She thought of Lucas, so content and absorbed in the business of running his general store, his silver-white head bent over his bookkeeping. Her father had never liked to deal with deep emotions, whether they were his or anyone else’s. He had never known what to do when she cried. He had always liked the practical part of parenting the best, giving advice to her and occasionally lecturing, giving her pennies and letting her fish around in the candy jar when she had behaved well. He wouldn’t know how to help her in a situation like this.

  She cleared her throat awkwardly. “Bess mentioned something about the newspaper.”

  “Yes. There was an article about the State Bureau of Labor that Heath had brought home to look over. Would you have an idea of where he might have put it?”

  “It would be in his desk. If you’ll wait here, I’ll see if I can find it.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  The sight of Heath’s desk in the library, with its neat stacks of paper, deftly slitted envelopes and haphazardly stacked reference books, caused Lucy to smile wistfully. The last time she had seen him sitting there, she had gone in to scold him for staying up so late, and he had interrupted her lecture by pulling her onto his lap and quieting her with a thorough kiss. She would give anything for one of his kisses right now. What wouldn’t she do, for him to look at her and call her by name, knowing who she was?

  Opening and shutting drawers, she looked for the article, glad of the small task and the opportunity it gave her to think about something besides her frustration and weariness. In the second drawer on the right side was a stack of tiny envelopes, tied with a string and wedged in the back corner. The top one was addressed to Heath in a curling feminine script.