Barons Always Win Wagers (Forbidden Kisses Book 3)

by Catherine Mayfair

  Quickly removing her boots, coat, and scarf, he threw them into a pile. He would hang them to dry later. He touched her forearm. Although she had been outside, it burned. Running his hand through his hair, he sat back on his feet. He was no doctor; what could he possibly do?

  “Whiskey,” he said in a harrowed whisper. Many men swore by it, said that it could bring happiness when one was down and wellness when one was ill. It was all he had at the moment, so he hurried over to where he stored the liquor and poured a small amount into a glass.

  When he returned to her side, he lifted her head and brought the glass to her lips. “Please, just a sip,” he urged.

  Her lips moved ever so slightly, and then a bit of liquid disappeared.

  She raised herself up and gave a hacking cough, but it only lasted mere moments before she fell back once more. Not once did she open her eyes, however.

  He stood, walked over to the fireplace and added another log. They had enough wood to last a few more days, and by then she would be better. At least he hoped she would be, for if not, he would be forced to go for a doctor. He was not sure he was ready to explain her being in his house.

  When he returned to her side, he found her trembling and her teeth chattering. She would need not only care, but food, as well. It would be up to him to see to both.

  ***

  The sun had long since set, and Michael leaned back against the couch with worry. Emma had refused the stew he had made earlier, pushing away the spoon and shaking her head with her lips pressed shut each time he attempted to feed her.

  Then the woman had sicked up. He had not only had to undress her but wash her, as well. Fever still wracked her body, and each time he felt the heat of her skin, worry soaked further into his heart. Beside him now sat ready a chamber pot in case she emptied her stomach again. What she could possibly have left, he could not imagine.

  Emma groaned, and he returned to his kneeling position beside her. The cool rag he had placed on her forehead was already warm again, and he dipped it in a bowl of cool water, wrung out the excess, and replaced it on her forehead. She no longer shook, but he was unsure if he should cover her or allow her to remain naked. If he covered her with a blanket, would he be trapping the illness in her? Or would her body exposed to the air cause her more harm?

  He growled in frustration. He had no idea what he was doing, and that frustrated him even more. Never had he been this perplexed in all his life. Typically, he had at least an idea come to mind. Then again, never had the life of another been placed in his hands in this way.

  Taking the glass of brandy, he took a long drink. He studied Emma for a moment. Even in sickness, she was a beauty. One day she would make some fine gentleman very happy.

  For a moment, he allowed himself the pleasure of thinking of himself as that man. He would provide everything she could want in life. They would share in picnic lunches, laughing about how they had met. Her cheeks would turn that delectable crimson as they whispered about the kisses they had shared.

  Perhaps he would take her hand in his and tell her that he had once been scared. Scared of feelings in his heart that she had ignited in him. Then he would explain that the fear was now gone, for the love they shared had bested it.

  Emma coughed, breaking him from his thoughts.

  “Hot,” she rasped. “I cannot stop the fire.”

  Michael placed his glass on the floor beside him and grasped another filled with water. Lifting her head, he brought the glass to her lips. “Emma, you must drink. You are burning with fever, and this will help.” He did not know if he spoke the truth, but water was what extinguished a fire.

  When he tilted the glass, however, like before with the food, she closed her lips tight and shook her head.

  “Dammit, Emma,” he growled, “Do you want to die?” He sighed with relief as her lips parted. The water trickled into her mouth, and she swallowed. “Good, just a little.”

  She coughed again, and he placed her head back on the pillow.

  Then her eyes went wide. “Lord Oswald,” she gasped. “He is coming, and he will hurt me!”

  Her body began to quake, and Michael reached out to place a hand on her shoulder, which calmed her once again.

  She looked up at him with glassy eyes, a beseeching look on her features. “Who will save me?”

  “Your hero will,” Michael whispered. “He will be a man who is worthy of such a title, one who will let no harm come to you.” He closed his eyes. He would never cry, but it took all his will to hold back his emotions. “That can never be me.”

  Emma let out a cry, as if she was in pain, and her head swiveled one way and then the other. “He is hurt and his wounds are deep like mine!”

  Michael took her hand in his. “He will be safe, as will you,” he whispered, though he did not know of whom she spoke. He had heard of fever dreams before but had never witnessed them. All he could do was hope his words would soothe her. “Imagine a doctor there to heal the both of you.”

  “No!” she said, her head again thrashing back and forth. “The wound is in our hearts not our bodies! Michael suffers so, and I do not know how to help him.”

  As if bitten by a snake, he recoiled, and his stomach knotted with fear and worry. Emma was a woman of great beauty but, he realized, also a woman of incredible insight. Her words pierced his heart, revealing the wounds inside. How had she known?

  He waited to see if she would say more, but she settled once again, her breathing returning to the steady movement of sleep. Placing the blanket over her, he sat back once more with his glass of brandy. How had she known?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Emma was dreaming that Lord Oswald appeared, wanting to take her away with him. She had cried out for her hero, for he would be able to save her.

  To her surprise, Michael had appeared. Placing a hand over his heart, he said nothing, but she knew what he wished to convey, for she had a wound in her heart, as well.

  Her wound was caused by her fear of Lord Oswald, or any other man who wanted to take her away without her permission. The wound with which Michael suffered was brought on by a love he once had and, she suspected, wanted again.

  What she suffered could be healed, for Lord Oswald faded from the dream. That which Michael suffered, however, may never heal, his wounds were that great. Her heart hurt for his pain and the ruin around him, and she could do nothing to save him no matter how hard she tried. And that only increased her pain all the more.

  “Help me, Emma,” Michael said. “You must help me.”

  “I want to,” she replied, “but I do not know how.” Then he faded away.

  Emma opened her eyes to slits and Michael’s house appeared with its cracked windows and empty spaces. She had to squint against the bright light that streamed into the room. How long had it been since she had that dream? It could have been moments ago, but it also could have been days.

  When had she returned to his house? She recalled saying her goodbyes and then leaving, but then she had become dizzy. Beyond that, she had no recollection.

  As she stirred, she groaned. Her head still ached, but the pounding from earlier had subsided somewhat. It took several minutes to open her eyes fully, and when she did, she gave a mortified gasp. She felt utterly depleted, and the gasp sounded more a release of breath. Regardless, mortification still filled her.

  There she lay on the couch without a stitch of clothing in the drawing room of the estate belonging to Lord Michael Bracken. She was on her stomach and Michael sat beside her, his hand resting on her back without one thought of her state of undress.

  Undress? She was bereft of all clothing!

  She felt his hand leave her back and then a cool cloth replaced his hand. It brought her such relief, she pushed the embarrassment aside and reveled in the comfort it gave her.

  “Michael?” she managed to say, although it came as no more than a whisper.

  “Emma?” he asked. “You are awake!” Why would he sound surprised?


  “Yes.” She glanced back at him. “Would you please place the blanket over me?” She was not cold, but she refused to move before she was properly covered.

  Once the blanket was in place, she wiggled around to her back. Michael stood over her, a wide grin on his face.

  “What happened?” she asked. Her throat hurt it was so dry.

  “You collapsed outside,” he said, pointing toward the front of the house. “I found you in the snow burning with fever.”

  Emma squeezed her eyes shut. “I had felt unwell but assumed I was well enough to travel home.” She opened her eyes and tilted her head. “How did you know to come find me?”

  “I thought I heard you…call out my name,” he replied, shaking his head. He placed the cloth in a nearby bowl. “It does not matter. You seem to be feeling better.” He pulled himself up, sat beside her on the edge of the couch, and placed a hand on her forehead. “Yes, the fever has broken.”

  The gesture was simple, but Emma felt great comfort from it.

  “Have I been asleep all day?” she asked. Her stomach rumbled and her cheeks heated with embarrassment.

  “Two full days,” he replied. “I feared your health would not improve. I did what I could; I’m sorry for not doing better.” He said the last with a frown.

  Emma reached over and took hold of his hand. “You nursed me back to health,” she said. “Thank you. Now it is twice you have saved my life.”

  He chuckled. “I doubt I will get another reward as I did the first time,” he said with a wink.

  This made her laugh, but she groaned again and grasped her head as it throbbed with the effort. “I feel as though my head is filled with lead.”

  “You need water and food,” he said, rising from the couch. “I will bring you both. Oh, and in regard to your lack of clothing? You were soaked through and quite wet, but I did not…”

  “I know,” she whispered. “You are no enemy to my wellbeing. You are my friend.”

  He winced as though her words pained him and quickly walked away.

  Emma brought the blanket to her chin and pulled herself to a sitting position with great effort. The rays of the sun streamed through the window, and she wondered how much of the snow had melted. Today she would return home for certain. That meant she would have to say goodbye to Michael again, which saddened her.

  When he came to sit beside her, a bowl of what looked like some sort of broth in his hand, her sadness increased.

  “I’m no great cook,” he said with a smile, “but this should help you feel better.”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the bowl. The blanket fell from her shoulders, and she gasped as she grasped it and pulled it over her once more.

  With a laugh, Michael tucked it around her. “Eat and regain your strength,” he said. “Then I will ride back with you to Sweetspire Estates so you do not have to do so alone.”

  Emma returned his smile, secretly pleased. Anything that would delay the moment they would separate was welcome.

  ***

  Emma consumed the entire bowl of broth - it was quite good - and then slept for several more hours. When she awoke again, she felt nearly her old self.

  Now, bundled in her heavy coat, she stood on the portico of Michael’s house. The snow had indeed melted, at least in the open areas of the front garden and drive, and the sun gave a promise of clearing out what remained before the day came to an end. Or at least much of it.

  As she waited for Michael to join her, thoughts and feelings of what had transpired over the past week arose. The idea of returning home held less appeal than it had before, but she knew she had no choice.

  The door opened and Michael joined her. What a handsome man he was. Was the affection that had grown inside her a result of mere curiosity or had she developed a true desire for the man?

  Shaking her head, she stifled a sigh. It did not matter, for he was not the man she needed in her life. His troubles were great, and she feared he would remain the downtrodden man he had become. If only she held the key to erasing his pain.

  Then a new thought came to mind. “Before we leave,” she said, her heartbeat increasing at the thought of what she was going to do, “I must do something.”

  Michael glanced at the door. “Did you forget something?” he asked. “I can go retrieve it if you would like.”

  When he turned back to face her, she placed her hands on either side of his face and rose to the tips of her toes. “Thank you for everything,” she said and then placed a kiss on his lips.

  To her surprise, not only did the yearning inside her return, but so did the feelings in her heart. Could it be possible to fall in love with a man in such a short amount of time? She did not believe so, but she had to know if he returned her admiration.

  Before she could ask, however, a loud wail caused her to jump back.

  “Lord Bracken?”

  Emma turned to find four older women, their mouths hanging open and hands pressed to their breasts as though they had witnessed a horrendous act.

  “And is that Miss Emma Shepherd?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mrs. Matilda Benedict had lived in the town of Bottly all her life, and in that time she had witness the most immoral of deeds. When she was but twelve, she had seen a woman holding the hand of a man not her husband, and right there in plain view of any resident that happened by!

  When she was seventeen, she had been a witness to a woman who had batted her eyelashes at a man like some London hussy and then had the audacity to walk away with a proud smile on her face. Such antics were barely appropriate for private moments, but to act in such a way in public was far worse.

  Over the years, Matilda had made it her mission to know everything about everyone. Someone had to curb immorality in a time when morals had been relegated to the background of society, and who better to do such charity than she? People were having affairs as if the sanctity of marriage no longer existed. Women spoke of one day owning their own businesses. Couples danced the Waltz, of all things! The town was going mad.

  Now, at the age of two and sixty, Matilda continued her charity work. After the snowstorm had cleared, she and her friends began their rounds to ascertain that those in the country houses had pulled through without issue. For the past thirty years, she and her group had checked on their neighbors after most storms, during Christmas, or at any other time they deemed necessary.

  In truth, and though she did so under the guise of charity, their calls provided a way to escape the boring lives the women otherwise led. Their reward was the gossip they collected, for Matilda and her friends had seen and heard many things during their unexpected callings.

  Six years earlier, they had come upon Lord Tipton with a servant girl in his arms. Another time, it was the daughter of a baron they caught kissing a man when she was being courted by another.

  Not fifteen minutes ago, they had left the estate of Lord Josias Peppermill, who had quite rudely shooed off the women and told them to mind their own affairs. That had inspired Matilda to recommend they call on Lord Michael Bracken. Her friends had responded with gasps, for Lord Bracken was a known rogue of a man.

  Though Matilda openly declared the man as disgusting, she secretly found men such as he exciting. Of course, she would never admit as much to the other women in her group, for she did have a reputation to uphold.

  Many days, when she encountered her husband, Mr. Harold Benedict, snoring by the fire in the parlor, she would imagine Lord Bracken entering her home on silent steps. In those dreams, she would refuse him, declaring that she still loved her husband. Then, much to her delight, Lord Bracken would pull her into his arms and kiss her as Harold continued snoring beside them. Once he acquired that kiss, he would do what rogues do - bow and leave her with promises to return another day for more. One might think her silly for thinking such thoughts, but she never acted on them in any way. That kept her soul clean.

  It did not matter that Lord Bracken was half her age. Plus, her friends o
ften commented on her youthful beauty, so she could understand why a man so much younger than she would lust after her. Regardless, whether Lord Bracken wished to steal a kiss from her or not, Matilda did look forward to seeing the handsome young man again.

  She called on him perhaps twice a year - it was her duty, after all. The man was rugged, smelled of brandy more often than not, and was wild in his ways. Despite all this, Matilda was thankful she was not twenty, for if he were to ask her to run away with him, she doubted she could refuse.

  As Matilda and her friends approached Bracken House, however, she was shocked to find Lord Bracken and a female guest engaged in a kiss. No, it was the harlot who was in fact kissing him! Not only did it shock her, it angered her, for the woman had taken what Matilda considered her rightful place in his arms. Indeed, Matilda had seen much debauchery in her years, but this had to be the worst!

  “Lord Bracken!” she said, dismayed that her voice sounded so shrill. “And is that Miss Emma Shepherd?”

  The pair turned toward the women. Yes, that was Miss Emma Shepherd. Matilda had thought the woman quiet with a good moral background. What a delicious surprise to learn the truth.

  “Mrs. Benedict?” Lord Bracken asked without an ounce of shame for what he had been caught doing. “I did not expect guests today.”

  Mrs. Louise Busterson, Matilda’s closest friend, leaned close and whispered, “Be careful. The man’s eyes are filled with lust. We may become his next victims.”

  A shiver went down Matilda’s spine at the thought, but she pushed it away. “Quiet, you old fool!” she whispered before offering Lord Bracken a smile. “We are calling on our neighbors after the horrible storm we encountered. We wanted to check on your welfare and see if there is anything you may need.” She gave a small laugh. “It appears Miss Emma is quite adept at fulfilling any needs the men in the town may have.”