by Laura Landon
Mack Wallace nodded. “More than likely.”
Millie swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Mr. Livingston stopped them. He fought with them so we could get away.”
“That was his job, Miss Shaw. He did what he had to do.”
“But he might have…” Millie couldn’t finish her sentence.
“Roarke is young and strong. If anyone can survive this, he can.”
“But you don’t think he will, do you?”
Mr. Wallace hesitated more than a few seconds. “That decision is out of our hands, Miss Shaw. Only God knows if he’ll live or not. Now, go inside and lie down for a while. It’s been a difficult day. You need to rest.”
Millie went into her room and closed the door behind her. She washed and put on her robe, then lay down on the bed. But she couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t think of anything except whether Roarke Livingston was still alive, or whether he was dead.
If he was dead, Millie wondered if she’d made a mistake by not telling him that he had a son.
. . . . .
Millie didn’t think she’d be able to sleep, but she must have for at least a few hours. When she opened her eyes, it was no longer daylight.
She rose and slipped on a dress, then left her room. She had to know how he was. Had to know if he was still alive. Or if he was dead.
Surely someone would have come to tell her if he’d died. But then, why would they?
She made her way down the hall to the room where they’d taken him. The door was closed, but a faint light shone beneath the door. She turned the knob and opened the door.
The doctor was gone, as was Mack Wallace, and Hugh Baxter. Jack Conway sat in a chair beside the bed. When he heard her enter, he looked over his shoulder and focused on her.
“May I come in?” she whispered.
“Of course.” He rose from his chair and motioned for her to sit.
Millie walked to the bed, but didn’t sit. She needed to see him. Needed to see for herself that he hadn’t died.
“He’s still alive,” Jack Conway said, “although more than once I had to check because I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.”
“Will he make it?” Millie asked, waiting for a slight movement that would indicate Roarke Livingston was still breathing.
“The doctor isn’t hopeful. He said if he survives the night it will be a miracle. Personally, I think the fact that he survived what the doctor did to stop the bleeding was a miracle.”
“Was he unconscious through it?”
Roarke’s friend breathed a heavy sigh. “I wish he had been, but no. He woke up when the first needle went through his flesh.”
Millie dampened a cloth in the basin of water beside the bed and dabbed Roarke’s face. Pain was etched in his features. Even in sleep, his mouth was drawn tight.
A heavy weight settled inside her chest.
“Please, sit down, Miss Shaw.”
“I…” Millie shook her head. “I shouldn’t be here. I should go back.”
“I think Roarke would want you to be here.”
Millie placed the damp cloth on the bedside table and sat. Jack Conway brought over another chair and sat beside her.
“He cares for you, you know.”
Millie shook her head. “No.”
“And you care for him.”
Millie shook her head with more firmness. “No, I don’t… He doesn’t…”
“It’s all right. Anyone in the same room with you for more than a few seconds can see you have feelings for each other. Even though you and Roarke fight admitting it more than any two people I’ve ever seen. Even Betsy, my wife, and I didn’t fight the attraction we had for each other as desperately as you two seem to.”
When she didn’t say anything, he continued.
“I asked Roarke when we first came here if he knew you. He said no, that he’d never met you before. The question then became, if you’d never met, why did you react so negatively toward him on your first meeting?”
A niggling unease stirred inside her. She should have hidden her dislike for him better when he and the Bedford investigators first arrived. But seeing him had been such a shock. Coming face to face with a man she’d hated for more than four years was too big of a surprise for her to hide. She hadn’t been able to conceal her true feelings.
But she couldn’t tell Jack Conway that. She couldn’t tell him anything. Instead, she stared at the man on the bed and tried to convince herself that it didn’t matter to her one way or another whether he lived or died. But that was such a lie. She knew with certainty that a small part of her heart would die if he didn’t live.
“What do you know about him?” she asked.
“Not much,” Jack answered. “I know he had a brother. He’s mentioned him once or twice. But I’ve never seen him. In fact, I’m not sure he’s still alive. I don’t think he has any other siblings. If he does, he never talks about them.”
Roarke’s friend rose from his chair and walked to the other side of the bed. “I know his parents died when he was quite young, and he and his brother grew up on the streets in London. He applied for a position with Mack Wallace’s group of investigators,” Jack stopped to think, “a little more than five years ago. He’s the youngest of the investigators, and one of the best.”
Jack lifted the cover from Roarke’s chest and checked the bandages on his chest and his side. They were soaked with blood and Millie knew they’d have to be changed soon.
He replaced the cover and looked at her. “Is that what you wanted to know?”
She breathed a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure what I wanted to know. Perhaps I’m simply trying to figure out what kind of man would risk his life to protect us. Or why he told us to run while he stayed behind, knowing he was outnumbered and there was no chance he would escape unharmed.”
But what Millie really wanted to know was, why did Roarke Livingston show such bravery to protect them, when five years ago he’d ruined Rosie, then abandoned her before the child was even born. Had he cared for her so little?
Millie leaned back in her chair. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit with him for a while. I know you’ve been here since they brought him back,” she said. “You have to be tired and need to rest for a while. I’ll come for you if he takes a turn for the worse.”
Jack Conway nodded, then walked to the door. “Let’s hope he doesn’t take a turn. If he does, that will mean he’s dead.”
CHAPTER 8
Jack left the room and she was alone with Roarke. She slid her chair as close to the bed as possible and looked down on his hardly recognizable face. With trembling fingers, she reached for his hand, and wove her small fingers through his. She hoped he’d know she was there and squeeze her fingers in response, but he didn’t. He didn’t move.
More than once during the next few hours, she had to check to make sure he was still breathing. And several times she placed her hand to his brow and his cheek to check for fever. He was warm, but not hot. That was a good sign.
She thought the fact that he slept was a good sign, too. The longer he slept, the more his body could heal before he woke and had to battle the pain.
Three hours later, Jack Conway returned. Millie helped him change the bandages on Roarke’s arm, side, and across his middle, then tried to force some liquids down him. The liquid contained laudanum the doctor had left, along with instructions to get as much of the mixture down him as they could because he’d need it for the pain. But he refused.
When she’d helped as much as she could, she left. But first she made Jack promise to come for her if anything changed.
Perhaps she’d sleep. More than likely she wouldn’t. So she decided to check on the children. She’d neglected them all day and needed to make sure they were all right. She walked to the nursery and opened the door.
Janie was sleeping in an oversized chair in the corner. She stirred the second Millie entered the room.
“Is that you, Millie?”
; “Yes. Why don’t you go to bed for a while. I’m not tired. I’ll sit with the children while you get some rest.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
Janie stood. “How is Mr. Livingston?”
Millie shrugged. “He’s still alive.”
“I’ll say a prayer for him.”
“Thanks, Janie. That’s all we can do right now.”
Janie left, and went to the small sitting room between the play room and the room where Beth and little Carter slept. There was a cot there that either she or Janie used when the children slept.
Millie watched her leave, then walked to a connecting room to the right where Henry slept.
The heir to the Strothum earldom slept soundly in his bed. She was relieved that he didn’t realize the men who’d attacked them had probably been after him. Knowing that someone wanted to harm him wouldn’t have been something she wanted him to have to live with.
When she was sure he was sleeping soundly, she left the room and stepped into another small room off the back of the play room. To the room where Robbie slept.
She let her gaze rest on the small figure curled up on the bed and smiled. He’d tossed his covers from his body as he did most nights. She walked to the bed and brushed a strand of dark hair from his forehead, then pulled his blankets up under his chin.
The furniture in his room consisted of a bed, a bedside table, and one straight-back chair. It had but one window, but tonight there was a full moon and it cast a bright enough light that she could make out Robbie’s features as clearly as if a candle were glowing.
Over the years, she’d watched him change. She’d prayed that one day she’d see hints of his mother in him. But she didn’t. Robbie’s hair wasn’t wheat-colored like Rosie’s, but dark brown—like his father’s. With a hint of waves—like his father’s.
His eyes weren’t blue like the sky on a sunny day, but dark brown—like his father’s eyes.
He wasn’t small of stature, but tall for his age, with a muscular build—exactly like his father’s.
She studied his face. He had his father’s narrow nose, and his strong jaw, and sturdy chin. He also had his father’s high cheek bones and dark complexion.
Millie studied him a little longer and wondered how it could be that Roarke Livingston didn’t see the resemblance. But she was glad he didn’t. The second he suspected Robbie’s heritage, she’d have no choice but to take Robbie as far away as she could.
She wouldn’t let Roarke Livingston have him—regardless of the fact that Robbie was his son.
Millie tucked the covers around Robbie, then left his room. She returned to the main room and sat in the chair Janie had vacated, then closed her eyes in hopes she’d doze for a few minutes. But she didn’t. Her mind was too filled with thoughts of Roarke Livingston. Of how badly he’d been injured, and how frightened she was that he might not survive. Of how much she’d come to care for him. Then she called herself every kind of fool.
Wasn’t what he’d done to Rosie proof enough that he couldn’t be trusted? Wasn’t the fact that he’d used her sister, then abandoned her reason enough to hate him? But she couldn’t feel any animosity toward him. She was drawn to him as if someone else controlled what her heart should feel.
She tried to evaluate her emotions without success. Tried to tell herself that caring for him was futile. It was dangerous. But that, too, was impossible. She’d come to care for him, and nothing she could say to herself changed how she felt.
A few hours later, Janie returned and ordered Millie to go. Millie didn’t argue, but left the nursery and walked to her room, thinking that maybe she’d be able to sleep now. She was exhausted.
She reached for the handle on her bedroom door, but stopped when she heard a sound. She was sure she heard a noise from down the hall. From the room where they’d taken Roarke Livingston.
Millie walked toward the sound. Her footsteps moved swiftly, her breathing quickened. Her heart pounded inside her breast.
The words weren’t Roarke’s, but Jack’s. He was issuing sharp commands for Roarke to lie still. For Roarke to stop moving so he wouldn’t undo what the doctor had done.
The only sound she heard from Roarke was the low, keening moans of a man in pain. The cries of torment and agony.
Millie ran the last few steps and raced into the room.
Jack Conway covered Roarke’s body with his own, holding him down as best he could.
“What can I do?” Millie asked as she raced to his side.
“Talk to him. Try to calm him.”
Millie grabbed Roarke’s hand and held it to her breast. She knelt at his bedside and leaned close. “Roarke, it’s me, Millie. Don’t move. Please lie still.”
Roarke pulled his hand, nearly freeing it from her grasp. She grasped it tighter. “No. Try not to move. Please.”
His head thrashed from side to side and another agonizing moan echoed in the quiet room. “I know you’re in pain, but it will ease soon. Just lie still and everything will be better.”
“No!” he hollered. “Run, Millie! Run!”
“It’s all right, Roarke. I’m safe. The children are safe. We got away. You fought the men long enough for us to escape. It’s all over now.”
He thrashed more violently. “Dear, God. The pain!”
“I know,” Millie said, trying to hold him down. “The doctor left you something for the pain. You have to drink it.” Millie raced to the bedside stand and grabbed the laudanum-laced liquid. Jack raised Roarke’s head and Millie held the glass to his lips. “Here, drink this.”
Thankfully, he took several swallows.
Millie leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “The pain will ease soon. The medicine will help. Just try to lie still.”
Millie pressed her lips to his cheek and kissed him. “Sleep now, Roarke,” she whispered. She kissed him again, then placed her palm to his cheek.
“Stay with me,” he said in a ragged voice.
“I will. I won’t leave you.”
He breathed a shuddering sigh, then slept.
Jack Conway eased his body off Roarke’s and waited to make sure Roarke would stay quiet. Several minutes later Jack collapsed into the chair beside the bed and breathed a heavy sigh. “I think the worst is over. Thank you, Miss Shaw. I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”
Millie remained at Roarke’s bedside. His hand was still nestled in hers, and he didn’t show signs of releasing her.
“He’ll rest now,” Jack said, although his voice didn’t carry the same confidence as his words. “You can go back to bed now. I’ll be fine until morning. One of the other brigadesmen will be here then.”
Millie shook her head. “I need to stay.”
“But—”
“I promised him I would.”
Jack didn’t argue further, but looked at her with an expression that told her that her words revealed more than she intended.
Millie sat on the edge of the bed and clasped Roarke’s hand in hers. She didn’t let go, in part because he gripped her hand with a strength that wouldn’t let her leave his side. But mostly because she didn’t want to.
. . . . .
“Are you…here, Millie?”
Millie heard Roarke’s voice, but it took her a moment to wake up enough to realize that she hadn’t imagined it. She opened her eyes and looked at his still body on the bed. His eyes were closed, and he seemed as lifeless as he’d been every time she’d checked on him all night. Perhaps she had imagined it.
“Are you there?” he asked again.
Millie rose and leaned over him. “Yes, I’m here.”
“I hoped you…would be.”
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
His positive response brought a rush of relief. It had been two days, and this was the first time he’d been alert enough to speak. The first time he’d voluntarily taken water.
Millie tipp
ed a glass to his lips. He didn’t drink much, but at least he took a swallow or two of the cool liquid.
“How long have I…slept.”
“Two days and then some.”
“Thank you…for staying here with me.”
“Your friends have been here, too. Jack’s hardly left you. He’s sleeping in the next room now. Would you like me to get him?”
“No, I want to talk to you first.”
“I’m not sure you should.” She took a damp cloth and wiped away the huge beads of perspiration that covered his forehead. “You’ve exerted yourself enough for now.”
He grabbed her hand when she started to step away from him and pulled her back.
“This is…important. In case something happens to me.”
“Nothing is going to happen to you. You’re going to be fine. Master Henry and Robbie will never forgive you if you aren’t.”
His head sank deeper into the pillow and she thought she detected a slight smile. “And you?”
“Of course I won’t forgive you. I will always carry the guilt of your death because you stayed behind to protect me.”
“Sit. Please.”
His fatigue was evident. She knew she had to let him say what he wanted to so he could rest. She sat beside him on the bed. “Very well. What do you want?”
“I want you to know that I’m sorry. Very…sorry. I don’t know what I…did…to cause you to…dislike me so, but…I’m sorry. I wish I wouldn’t have…done it.”
Before she could stop them, tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She thought of Rosie and of her son. Roarke’s son. “So do I,” she whispered. “But it’s too late now. It’s done, and nothing can undo it.”
“Just know that…I’m…sorry.”
“I know,” she whispered as she rose from beside him and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“But I’m not sorry that I kissed you,” he said. “I’ll never regret that.”
The breath caught in her throat. She remembered the kiss they’d shared and her cheeks warmed. “I’m not sorry, either,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure admitting that she’d enjoyed his kiss was the wisest thing to do, but it was too late now.
She pulled the covers beneath his chin, then sat down in her chair to keep watch.