“All right. I’ll talk about anything you want if you will rest and try to sleep.”
“Mexico.”
She was asleep. He could tell by the even breathing and the lack of tension in her body. David lifted his other leg onto the bed since it appeared he was going to be with her a while. He might as well be comfortable. Mrs. Cantwell was napping and, frankly, he was sure he did not care, and did not think Mia would, if the housekeeper came to the room and found them together. There was no doubt in his mind that Mrs. Cantwell had seen far more shocking sights in this house.
Mia Castellano was not going to die. He tried to believe it, and for the first time in hours he felt his fear ease, the tension leach from his neck and shoulders.
Not from smallpox, at any rate, or any other disease. Novins had been sure from the beginning that this was food poisoning. Despite his suspicions earlier, when faced with the evidence, David could hardly credit that someone had tried to harm them, kill them, to make sure that whatever contagion was among them was not spread. Fear made monsters of some people and weaklings of others.
He’d all but cried, hadn’t he, when he had come to the room with Novins to find her so weakened that her head lolled back when Novins shifted her away from the soiled sheets. She’d looked more dead than alive. The fear that gripped his heart had stunned him.
Her breathing changed, coming now in an odd gasping sound, but she slept on. He hoped that this would be the worst of Novins’s predicted “unsettling memories,” and that when she awakened she would be on the mend.
It was hard to believe that he missed the way she moved, jumped up from a chair, hurried from one side of the room to another. Mia Castellano did nothing slowly and yet managed to be as graceful as any lady he knew. He told himself he would have another chance to watch her fish, that she was going to be healthy again. He pictured the elegance with which she cast the line and played the fish that tested it.
He would love to watch her do any number of things, he thought, and wondered if she would make love with the same energy with which she did everything else. He imagined that bed would be one place where no was not her favorite word.
Her breathing grew more restless and she began to mumble words that were unintelligible at first.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, and he tried to think of what she felt the need to apologize for.
“It’s all right, Mia.” He felt her tears on his shirt.
“Papa! Papa! Please.”
That was when he realized it was a dream. He continued to hold her, at times quite firmly, as she struggled against the nightmare memory, giving him no more clue to its content than her father’s name.
At times her “Papa” was accompanied by short rapid breaths as if she were doing some kind of physical work. He tried to shift her a little so that she could breathe more easily but she grabbed his shirt and pulled herself up farther into his lap. “Help me, help me.”
He had never heard her beg before this and wished he could help her. Novins had not told him how difficult this would be for him to listen to, powerless to help or even give comfort.
She flung out her hand and banged the headboard, accidentally or on purpose, he had no idea. “Help, please help me.” Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Papa. Papa.”
David was not sure if she was shaking or if he was, but her breaths finally evened out and he thought she had fallen into a more restful sleep. He rubbed her shoulder, hoping she would sense his presence.
She stopped talking, but he could feel the tension in her as she dreamed in silence. He was no stranger to nightmares, nor was Gabriel’s wife, Lynette. She insisted that it was better not to awaken dreamers. Often they remembered nothing if allowed to continue sleeping. Waking them brought the memory to their awareness when it was the last thing any of them wanted.
David wondered if Gabriel found the experience of watching Lynette dream as maddening as he did, when the only help you could offer was waiting it out.
Then without warning, Mia threw herself at him, kissing his chest through his shirt, pressing herself against him as if she was an experienced woman with needs she could not control.
“Please, make love to me.” She moved her hand lower.
“That is enough, Mia. Wake up.” David moved his body so she could not feel his arousal.
“I hate you, William. Hate you. Dio mio, must you be a gentleman all the time?”
She stopped suddenly, as though someone had slapped her, and began to cry, not real tears and the more frightening for it. Mia collapsed to the bed and thrashed around for a few moments. When she settled, he picked her up and held her against his chest. He had no idea why he did it. Yes, he did. He wanted her to feel, even if she could not understand, that she was not alone.
Chapter Twenty
WHEN MIA WOKE a little while later, she gave David a smile that reassured him. He hoped it meant she did not recall her nightmares and, more important, that she was feeling better.
“Talk to me,” she commanded in a sleep-slurred voice. “Tell me about Mexico, Lord David.”
“First look at me,” he said.
She braced herself on her elbow and stretched as she turned to look up at him. Her breasts pressed against his ribs. He reminded himself that she was recovering, but not before he wondered if the bite mark that had so frightened her was still visible.
“I’m looking, Lord David.”
“You are definitely improving.” She was fully awake, unlike the first time she had opened her eyes. “I hear it in your voice.” Though her eyes were still not as bright as they should be. “Let’s try a different position.”
This time her lips did tilt up. He ignored his own double entendre and stood up, letting her settle back on the pillow.
“My arm is cramped. I need to move about.” He went to the door.
“Don’t leave.”
David had his back to her but could hear the alarm in her voice. “I am only going to find you some soothing tea. Listen to me; I will not leave you.”
She did not answer him and when he looked back at her, her face was turned away, as though she were staring out the window. Only the curtains were drawn and he could hear her sniffles.
“If you are feeling unwell again—” he began, but she interrupted.
“No, but I can’t stop crying and I do not know why.”
“All right,” he said, meaning the opposite. He came around to the other side of the bed, between the bed and the window, and stooped down to look into her face.
“Stay,” she said softly. “Tell me about Mexico.”
His relief was out of all proportion. Her peremptory command should have annoyed him; instead, it convinced him that Mia Castellano was on her way to recovery. He laughed, his relief so great that he could not contain it.
“What is so funny?” Her voice brimmed with suspicion.
“I think I must be laughing for the same reason you are crying. Relief.”
She nodded and both of them did their best to control the excess of sensibility. Finally David cleared his throat.
“I am going to send Mrs. Cantwell to you. She will help you change and bring clean linen so you do not take a chill. Then I will bring you some chamomile tea. Olivia insists that, after her chicken soup, it is the best cure-all there is.”
“Mrs. Cantwell is busy. I can take care of myself.” She tried to prove it by throwing back the covers and standing up. Instead she proved she was as weak as a newborn. David caught her and held her against him.
“You have to test everything for yourself. You never trust anyone to know better. That will only find trouble, Mia.”
“I’m sorry.” She snuggled a little closer. “Well, not that sorry.” He all but tossed her back on the bed.
“Stop that. You have been a valiant soldier.” He suspected that under normal circumstances she would never have told anyone she was ill. “Do not ruin it by behaving like a spoiled courtesan.” David moved away from the bed and h
er hurt expression. “I am going to send Mrs. Cantwell to you. She has no other patients and we all want you well as soon as possible.”
He meant that in the kindest way, but she turned her head away from him and he was sure she was crying again. It was the illness, he told himself. And his poor choice of words. If he apologized he was sure he would only make things worse.
“THERE YOU ARE. Clean clothes and fresh linen make all the difference, don’t they, dearie?”
Mia nodded. She did feel better. Cleaning her teeth and rinsing her mouth may have been all she really needed, because now she was completely exhausted all over again. “What time is it? How long have I been ill?”
“It’s been almost twelve hours, my dear.”
“Twelve hours! Is that all? I feel as though I have been in this bed forever.”
“It is close to midnight of the day you first took sick.”
Mia shook her head. Mrs. Cantwell would have no reason to lie. She yawned and settled back onto the pillows.
“No, miss. No sleep yet. You must have some tea, a little something to start your body working again. It’s right here. Lord David brought it while you were changing. Wasn’t that kind of him? This house is topsy-turvy when a gentleman is doing a servant’s work. One or two spoonfuls and you can sleep as long as you want.”
Mrs. Cantwell supported Mia’s head with her arm as if she were a baby and spooned some of the weak tea into her mouth. Mia swallowed and felt the warmth all the way down her throat. Another two spoonfuls were all she could manage.
“Sleep now. When you wake up I will give you some chicken broth and toast.”
The thought made her want to gag, but she nodded and turned her head into the pillow. Her stomach muscles ached from the way they had been abused, but that was the only discomfort she felt. If she had been through hell before, she now had a glimpse of heaven. Not paradise, but comfort and quiet and this one moment of peace.
She was very aware that Lord David had not come back and talked to her as he promised. There was nothing surprising about that, she assured herself. Mia had learned that men often said one thing and did another.
She fell asleep, convinced that if she could recover from this illness alone, she could face anything and win.
“I TOLD YOU that I wanted to talk with her before she went to sleep again.” David could not believe the housekeeper had not called him.
“I’m sorry, my lord.” Mrs. Cantwell’s voice held no regret. “Now that life is almost back to normal, now that we know we are not subject to some contagion, I think it would be highly inappropriate for you to be in Miss Castellano’s bedroom for any reason.”
“Mrs. Cantwell, I appreciate your sensibilities, especially when I consider what goes on in this house, but as long as there are only three of us here, then no one will know unless we tell them. Miss Castellano is still recovering and I know how important it is to her that she not be alone when she is in distress.”
“As you wish, my lord, but she is asleep now.”
“And when she wakes up the first thing she will think is that I did not come back as I said I would.” At her continued expression of disapproval he added, “I will leave the door open.”
Mrs. Cantwell shrugged.
“I promised her, and I keep my promises.” Damn times four, this woman was not his mother, his tutor, or his first lieutenant. He could do as he wanted. David left the kitchen without trying to justify his actions any further.
Mia’s room was dark, the moon too old to have risen yet; besides, the curtains were drawn. He left the door open as he said he would and pulled the chair some distance away from the bed. He could see she was sleeping more naturally now. What a relief.
The clock in the front hall chimed four before she woke up. He had lit a second candle so that when she turned her head she would be able to see him sitting nearby. She stared at him but did not say anything.
“Good day to you, Mia.”
“What time is it?”
“Close to sunrise.”
She showed no emotion or anything more than vague interest.
“Why are you here?”
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “So you would not be alone when you woke up. I promised.”
She gave a slight nod. He allowed the silence. It was a long one.
“I feel so much better.”
“You are going to live a hundred years to torment as many men as you can find.”
“Has anyone else died?”
There was that unexpected generosity again. “No, we are all safe and, except for the groom, everyone is well.”
“Even Janina?”
“Yes. Basil came back from the inn to tell us that Romero is there and will accompany your maid here so that we can all go to Pennford together.”
She closed her eyes and pressed her hands together. “Thank God. Oh, thank you, thank you, God.”
He stood up. She did not stop him.
“Mrs. Cantwell seemed to think that it was not proper for me to stay with you. I will leave if you agree.”
“Nonsense.” She sounded bored. “Though I imagine you are tired.”
He knew he should be tired. But at this moment elation banished fatigue. Mia was on the mend; his world was brighter, and it had nothing to do with the first light of day. David almost blurted out the truth. That his world would be incredibly dreary without her.
Thank the good Lord he had enough sense to keep his mouth shut and not give her that weapon.
“Mia.” David pulled the chair closer, sat, and touched the hand that lay outside the covers. It felt cool, any fever well and truly gone. “Mrs. Cantwell left some chicken broth for you, and some toast that may still be edible.”
“Perhaps she can bring me the toast but I do not want anything else yet.”
“Mrs. Cantwell is abed, but I will bring it to you.” When she did not answer he tried a different tack. “You have to eat.”
“No.”
He could grow to love that word. He leaned even closer, took her hand, and kissed it. Her surprise was embarrassingly genuine. “I am going to bring the toast and you will eat it.”
She laughed.
Perfect. It was a pathetic breathy sound but he was happy to be able to predict her so well.
“I will spit it out before I swallow it.”
“I can almost believe you would. As a matter of fact I can see it.” He came even closer, lifted her in his arms. She tried to wiggle out of his hold. “You see, you are too weak to escape. So I will hold you against me and push a small bit down your throat. You will start to gag, but the thought of being sick again will be so repugnant that you will swallow and I will win.”
“That is not a fair contest,” she said, with a coquettish smile. “I almost died. You are supposed to be nice to me.”
“I am being nice. If I was my usual callous self I would insist that we leave for Pennford today and not wait until you are strong enough.”
“Oh.” She was silent a moment. “Well, then bring the toast. What are you waiting for?” she added, as if she were not the one who had resisted the idea of food.
He ran down to the kitchen, afraid she would change her mind if he did not hurry. The toast was still edible, and he brought some more of the chamomile tea.
She had worked herself into a sitting position and had a pillow on her lap to hold the tray. She took a sip of tea and nibbled the toast, and even nodded when he asked if she would like a little peach jam on it. She managed half of the toast and jelly and the whole cup of tea, then laid her head back. “I am tired already,” she admitted with reluctance.
“Go to sleep. It is the best way to heal, to give your insides a chance to right themselves again.”
“We are free? There is no smallpox? No other disease?”
He took the tray and put it on the chair behind him. “It was food poisoning.”
She blinked her surprise.
“From the sweets Romero sent with Janina.”
“No!”
He could see her real distress.
“Accidental, purely accidental. There were some sweetmeats in the mix that were rancid. The honey masked the taste. At least that is the best explanation Mr. Novins has.”
“Romero’s mother will be so upset.”
“I understand she is, and that’s the reason she was more than willing to let her son come to escort Janina.”
Mia nodded, as though that seemed like a fair penance. “Where is Mr. Novins? Why has he not been to see me?”
“He was called to the next village to deliver a babe and has yet to return.”
“Of course. How selfish of me. Mr. Novins will have quite a number of calls to make now that his own self-imposed quarantine is over.”
“That is not something you have to fret about. You have to eat and regain your strength so that we can be at Pennford when Elena’s baby comes.”
That gave her pause, but only for a moment. “I will eat, but each time I do, you will have to tell me something of Mexico.”
“I will tell you about Mexico only if you tell me about your father and your life in Italy.”
“All right,” she agreed readily. “Start now and I will eat more of the toast.”
Her instant response made him realize that there would be happy as well as sad tales. Unlike those of his years in Mexico.
His head began to pound and David wondered if he was about to take his turn in a sickbed.
“The toast first.” He returned the tray to her lap and refilled her teacup.
“You talk while I eat.”
“This is like bargaining with a merchant.”
“Isn’t it fun?” She took a bite of the toast and waited.
“No more than a bit of geography this time, as you are already half asleep.”
“I’m waiting,” she said around her bite of toast.
“Not Mexico. I was shipwrecked on Isla Mexicado.”
She swallowed and shook her head. “I never heard of it.” She wrinkled her brow, looking suspicious. She did not believe him.
“Not many people have. But it did exist. It is gone now.”
“This sounds like a fairy tale you are devising for the sickroom.”
Mary Blayney - [Pennistan 04] Page 16