Because You're Mine (13 page)

She wasn't needed here. Scott had servants to care for him, the services of an excellent doctor, more friends and acquaintances than he could count. He would recover without her help. Frowning, Madeline watched him sleep for a long time. She sat by the bed, changing the cloth on his forehead or spooning a few drops of tonic between his lips when the cough became troublesome.

Every now and then a servant came to ask if Madeline required anything, but she refused. Except for those brief intrusions, it seemed that there was no world outside the bedroom. Minutes stretched into hours, until the afternoon sky began to fade and evening shadows approached.

Just as Madeline considered sending for some beef tea, Scott began to waken. He stirred and blinked, his eyes fever-bright. Gently Madeline removed the damp cloth from his head and resumed her seat on the edge of the bed. “Mr. Scott,” she said, smiling at him.

He stared at her as if she were a figure in a dream, his expression curious and slightly detached, and then an answering smile hovered on his lips. He spoke in a rusty voice punctuated with harsh coughs. “It seems…I'll never get rid of you.”

Madeline poured a glass of water and helped him to drink, keeping her hand on the glass and sliding her arm behind his head. Unsteadily he leaned back against her supporting arm as he took a few listless swallows. He was very heavy, and the muscles in her arm began to strain from holding him. When he had had enough, he turned his face away, and she eased him back to the pillow.

“Would you like me to leave?” she asked softly.

He closed his eyes, taking so long to answer that she thought he might have fallen asleep once more.

“Stay,” he finally said.

“Is there someone I should send for to take care of you? A friend or relative—”

“No. I want you.” He closed his eyes, the conversation finished. His fingers curled in a fold of her gown.

Despite her worry, Madeline wanted to smile. Even in his sickbed, he was as commanding as ever. For some reason, he wanted her to remain. He trusted her. She had no more thought of leaving. “Logan,” she murmured, testing his name on her lips.

Somehow, after her ambitious scheme had failed, she found herself standing watch in a sickroom. Nothing had gone according to plan. Strangest of all, she didn't even care about her own problems. All she wanted was to see Logan well again.

She went to the writing table positioned beneath one of the windows, and wrote a note to Mrs. Florence, explaining the situation. Folding it neatly, she sealed the letter with a stick of brown wax, then rang for a maid and gave her the letter to be delivered to Mrs. Florence's residence on Somerset Street. “Please send a footman to collect my belongings,” she added, and the housemaid bobbed in a curtsy before departing.

Madeline returned to her bedside vigil. It seemed that Logan's condition deteriorated by the hour, the fever strengthening its hold and advancing stealthily. He was too groggy to argue as she fed him sips of beef tea. After Madeline's persistent efforts, he had managed to eat perhaps half a cup of the nourishing broth; then he fell asleep once more.

Somewhere in the house a large clock chimed twelve times, its tone deep and sonorous. Despite herself Madeline grew weary, her head bobbing as a wave of sleepiness nearly overcame her. She stood and stretched in an effort to waken herself, turning with a start as she heard someone enter the room.

Mrs. Beecham and the valet approached the bed. “How is he?” the housekeeper asked in a friendlier manner than she had used before. It seemed that she had adjusted to the idea of Madeline's presence and had decided to set aside her suspicions.

“The fever is worse.”

“That is what Dr. Brooke said to expect,” Mrs. Beecham replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “Mr. Scott's valet, Denis, is going to assist me in sponging him with cold water. Perhaps that will help to bring the fever down. You may wish to rest for a few hours. I thought you would like to occupy the small bedroom in Mr. Scott's private suite.”

“That is very kind of you,” Madeline replied. “But I want to be here if Mr. Scott needs me—”

“I'll watch over him until you return,” the housekeeper assured her. “You'll need a few hours of sleep. Miss Ridley, in order to be fresh for tomorrow.”

The point was well taken. Madeline was exhausted, and there were many long hours, even days, ahead before the fever would run its course. “Thank you,” she said, and the housekeeper showed her to a guest room only a few doors away.

Her gowns and other garments had been put away in a mahogany armoire. The bed was covered by a blue silk canopy that matched the embroidered counterpane. Madeline declined the offer of a maid to help her change, preferring to undress herself.

Donning a prim white nightgown with rows of pleats at the neck, Madeline climbed into bed. It seemed that she had never been so tired. Sleep claimed her immediately, the welcome darkness filling her mind.

At the first ray of morning light, Madeline snapped awake, feeling somewhat refreshed. Eagerly she reached for the robe that matched her nightgown and hurried to Logan's room, her bare feet quickly chilled in the cold morning air. A maid was lighting a fire in the grate while Mrs. Beecham collected a pile of damp linens that had been used to cool Logan during the night.

There were smudges beneath the housekeeper's eyes, and her forehead was tracked with lines that had not been there the previous day.

“There is no change,” she said in answer to Madeline's unspoken question.

Madeline went to the bed and stared down at Logan. His skin was dry and burning, his lips slightly chapped. The suit of flannels had been removed, and a single sheet rode low on his waist, exposing the muscled lines of his torso, the dark patches of hair beneath his arms, the hollow of his navel. She had never seen a naked man before. Her gaze strayed to the area of his body covered by the sheet, the endless length of his legs, the intimate shape of his loins draped with thin white linen. Her cheeks prickled with a modest blush, and she turned to find Mrs. Beecham's gaze on her.

“You're not his ‘companion,’ as you claimed,” the housekeeper said with quiet conviction. “Whatever you are to him…you're not his mistress.”

Caught off-guard
, Madeline couldn't reply at first. Her heart changed its rhythm, and she tried to think above its rapid thundering. “How can you be certain?”

Mrs. Beecham smiled. “Everything about you proclaims it. Your nightgown, for one thing…a garment intended only for sleeping. Your manner, the way you look at him…it's clear that you haven't been intimate with him. You're a well-bred girl, barely out of the schoolroom. There is a particular kind of woman that suits Mr. Scott's taste…the kind that wears silk peignoirs and sleeps until two o'clock in the afternoon and would never lower herself to the drudgery of nursing a sick man. You are not his mistress.”

“I work at the Capital,” Madeline admitted. “Not as an actress…I'm only an assistant. But I am Mr. Scott's friend. At least, I hope he considers me as such.”

“And you're in love with him,” Mrs. Beecham remarked.

“Oh, no,” Madeline said, feeling the blood leave her face. “As I said, my feeling toward him is friendship…and admiration, of course—”

“You've gone to a great deal of trouble, and placed your own health at risk, only for the sake of friendship?”

Stricken, Madeline stared at her. Her throat felt tight, and the dull ache of the night before had worked its way back into her chest.

“Well, there's no need to discuss it,” Mrs. Beecham said, seeming touched by whatever she saw in Madeline's face. “Your reasons for being here are none of my concern. You may stay as long as you wish…until Mr. Scott says otherwise.”

Madeline nodded and sat down, feeling for the edges of the chair before lowering herself into it.

“He hasn't eaten for a while,” she heard the housekeeper remark. “I'll send up some milk toast. Perhaps you can coax him to take some.”

Madeline was only half aware of the woman's departure. She stared at the sleeping man's profile. This morning there was a shadow of bristle on his face, imparting the swarthiness of a sea captain or highwayman.

Taking his large hand between hers, she stroked the smooth back until she reached his hair-dusted wrist. His hand was strong and well-tended, the nails short and buffed to velvety smoothness. There were no rings on his fingers, only the white marks of a few nicks and scars. She remembered the touch of his hand on her face, her breast…the gentle brush of his fingertips.

Madeline wanted him to caress her again. She wanted things from him that she could never have. She wasn't aware that she had lowered her head to his hand until she felt his skin against her lips. Turning his palm up, she pressed her mouth to the creased hollow and tasted the salt of her own tears.

Logan would never want her…he had made that clear enough. And she had made any sort of trust between them impossible by approaching him with lies and an assumed name, and making him the object of a sordid plan. How could a man with his pride forgive her for such behavior? He couldn't.

She had never felt this kind of pain—persistent, heavy, crushing out every fragile flicker of happiness inside her. How ironic that she had pursued her goal with such cool determination, and ended up with her heart broken. She had always understood the social and even physical risks she was taking, but never the emotional ones. She hadn't planned on falling in love with Logan.

She whispered into his palm, curling his loose fingers as if to contain the precious words within his hand.

She would leave the minute his fever broke. She would not insult him, or coarsen her own feelings, by using him for the purpose she had originally intended. All at once she was glad that they had not made love, that she hadn't hurt or betrayed him. She wouldn't have been able to live with herself if she had.

There was a tap at the door, and a maid came in bearing a tray with tea and milk toast. Following Madeline's directions, she left the tray on the bedside table and helped prop Logan up with extra pillows. Madeline thanked the maid and bid her to leave, and sat beside Logan as he awakened. His lashes lifted, and he gazed at Madeline for a long moment. It seemed he didn't recognize her at first. After a while his lips formed her name.

“Maddy…the Capital…” The velvet-and-wine voice had been reduced to an arid rasp.

“Mr. Bennett is managing the company,” Madeline replied, hesitating before she pulled up the sheet that had ridden low on his hips. He didn't seem to be aware of his state of undress. “I'm certain he has everything under control.”

Logan didn't reply, but Madeline could see the torment in his eyes. She doubted that he had ever entrusted his theater to someone else's keeping before. “Shall I request that he send a daily report until you return?”

Logan nodded, leaning against the stack of pillows, his eyes closing.

“You mustn't fall asleep yet,” Madeline said, placing a hand on his bare shoulder to shake him slightly. His skin seemed to scorch her hand. “First you must eat.”

“No.” He began to turn onto his side, gasping with the effort.

“Then I won't give you any news from Mr. Bennett,” she said evenly.

All movement stopped, and his eyes slitted open. He glared at her like a baleful cat.

“Just some tea and a few bites of breakfast,” Madeline coaxed, repressing the sudden urge to laugh. If not for her worry, she would have enjoyed having him in her power. Carefully she held the cup of hot tea to his lips, encouraging him to sip the sweet liquid. He complied, seeming to enjoy the warmth of the tea as it trickled down his throat. However, the first bite of buttered toast soaked in hot milk—classic sickroom fare—caused him to turn his head with a sound of disgust.

“Milk,” he muttered with scratchy loathing.

“I'm not fond of it myself,” she admitted, carving out another spoonful of mush. “However, you're in no position to argue. Here, try another bite.”

He refused with an incomprehensible mutter, his face twisting.

“Mr. Bennett's report,” she reminded him, and he responded with a hostile glare. “Please,” she murmured, changing her tactic. “I promise, someday when I'm sick, you can travel to wherever I am and personally feed me bowls full of milk toast.”

The idea seemed to inspire him enough to choke down a few more bites. “Thank you,” she finally said, setting aside the bowl. She leaned over him to remove the extra pillows and smoothed his hair. “You'll be well soon, and you can choose your revenge.”

He turned his face into the coolness of her hand and promptly fell asleep, his breath coming in rattling surges. Continuing to lean over him, Madeline traced the fine curve of his ear…small ears for such a large man…and kissed the indentation where his jaw met his throat. For an instant she knew an absurd rush of happiness, being near the man she loved, having the freedom to touch him. She would do anything, go to any lengths to please him. Eagerly she went to ring for a servant, and sat at the writing desk to dash off a missive to Mr. Bennett.

Mrs. Beecham, Denis, and two other servants came in shifts to help Madeline nurse Logan. It was difficult work, constantly sponging and cooling his body until her sleeves were soaked to the elbow and the front of her gown was damp. At first the sight of his nakedness had startled and fascinated her, but there was little enjoyment in staring at his body, no matter how attractive, when he was suffering with fever.

Madeline worked ceaselessly in the darkened room, forcing liquid between Logan's lips, cooling his skin until her shoulders and back ached from bending over him. Stains from beef broth, water, and herbal infusions covered her gown from neck to hem. Occasionally Mrs. Beecham came to urge her to take a bath or nap, but Madeline couldn't bring herself to leave Logan.

Iced sheets and frozen compresses had no effect on the fever, which raged out of control. By early afternoon, Logan had descended into a delirium from which he couldn't be roused. Anxious servants came to the door of the private suite, volunteering folk remedies and family recipes, even bringing powders and amulets that they swore would be effective.

Careful not to offend the givers' dignity, Mrs. Beecham accepted the offerings and deposited them in a box to be discarded later. “Powdered bone dust,” she said with a rueful smile, showing Madeline a handkerchief that had been given by one of the footmen. It was filled with a handful of fine gray crumbs. “He bought it at a shop in London—they told him it was ground from a unicorn's horn and would cure any illness. Dear man, to sacrifice his ‘magic remedy’ for the master's sake.”

“They have great affection for him, don't they?” Madeline asked from her position at the bedside, her gaze fastened on Logan's face.

“Mr. Scott is a unique man,” the housekeeper replied, filling linen bags with crushed ice and piling them on a tray. “He prides himself on never being ruled by his emotions, yet he can't bear the sound of a child crying or the sight of someone frightened or in trouble. The things he's done for his own servants…why, it would amaze you.” She paused in her task, looking thoughtful. “Mr. Scott has a way of drawing people close, making them depend on him…and yet at the same time he manages to hold them at a distance.”

“It's because he has absolute control that way,” Madeline said, picking up the ice bags and packing them around the still form. “He's protecting himself.”

The housekeeper looked at Madeline with some surprise. “You seem to understand him quite well.”

“Not really. I just know that he would choose to deny himself something he wants rather than risk being hurt.”

“I see.” Realization dawned in Mrs. Beecham's face, and new interest appeared in her gaze. “You are the ‘something’ he wants, aren't you? And yet he turned you away.”

Perhaps it was the mixture of weariness and worry that made Madeline admit the truth. “He said that any involvement would hurt us both,” she said, lowering her face until a few strands of hair dangled over her cheeks.

The housekeeper rubbed her chilled hands together as she contemplated Madeline's statement. “He was probably right, Miss Ridley. If I were you, I would accept his word on that.”

“I have. The only reason I'm here is that I can't walk away from him while he's sick…without saying good-bye.”

“Miss Ridley.” The housekeeper's tone was gentle. She waited until Madeline looked at her with glittering eyes. “In his heart, I believe he knows that you truly care for him. It's a fine gift you've given him.”

Madeline set her jaw to stop its trembling, blinking hard against her tears as she took her place in the bedside chair once more.

The following day there was an unexpected visit from Lord Drake, who had learned of his old friend's illness and had come to the estate without delay. He was standing in the entrance hall, asking questions of Mrs. Beecham, when he happened to catch sight of Madeline passing by with an armload of soiled linens.

“Ah, the little wench from the theater,” Lord Drake exclaimed, gesturing for Madeline to approach him. A grin crossed his face, but it didn't reach his worried eyes. “Trust Jimmy to have a pretty nurse to attend him!”

“Jimmy?” Madeline asked in confusion.

Lord Drake smiled faintly. “He wasn't always Logan Scott, you know.”

Mrs. Beecham took the linens from Madeline. “I'll dispense with these, Miss Ridley,” she murmured, glancing at Madeline's disheveled appearance. “You might try resting for a little while.”

“Yes, I might,” Madeline replied, rubbing her aching temples. “If you'll excuse me, Lord Drake—”

“Wait,” he said, his cocky demeanor dropping away. As Madeline stared into his face, puffy and pale from too much alcohol and not enough sleep, she sensed that underneath his reprobate exterior, there was sincere worry for his friend. “I came to offer my services…to ask if there is something I can do for Jimmy. He's my oldest friend, you know. Never been sick a day in his life. I knew it was serious if it kept him from his bloody theater. Tell me what he needs—anything—and I'll get it for him.”

“Thank you,” Madeline replied, touched by the earnest note in his voice, “but I don't think there is much that anyone can do for him.” She felt her throat tighten, and she couldn't go on, only looking at him with helpless desperation.

It seemed that from her expression, Lord Drake understood the seriousness of the situation. “It's that bad?” he asked, and swore quietly. “I want to talk to him.”

Madeline shook her head. “He's delirious, Lord Drake.”

“I have to see him.”

“But you may catch his fever—”

“I don't give a damn. Jimmy's like a brother to me. Take me to him…please.”

After a long hesitation, she led him upstairs. The lamp had been turned low in Logan's room. Robbed of all expression, his face was masklike, with fitful breaths passing through his dry lips. He hardly resembled himself, his body lax and helpless.

“My God,” Madeline heard Lord Drake mutter as he approached the bed. He stared at Logan's still form and shook his head, seeming bewildered. “Dammit, Jimmy,” he murmured, “you're not going to die.” He smiled crookedly. “For one thing, I owe you a bloody fortune, and it's going to take me years to pay you back. For another…you're the only anchor I've got.” He sighed and scrubbed his hands through his long dark locks in a gesture that struck Madeline as oddly familiar. She had seen Logan pull and tug at his own hair just that way, in moments of tension or distraction. “I'm warning you, old boy…make plans to recover, or you'll answer to me.”

Lord Drake turned and walked away from the bed. He paused by Madeline and spoke with difficulty. “If you're certain you don't need my services, I'm going out to get stinking drunk.”

“That won't help anyone,” she replied.

“It will help
me
, Miss Ridley, I assure you.” He rubbed his forehead. “I'll see myself out.”

Doctor Brooke visited in the evening, and Madeline waited outside the room with Mrs. Beecham as he tended to Logan. After a short time, the doctor emerged. “You appear to have done an excellent job of nursing,” he remarked, but his tone was one of consolation, not reassurance.

Although his face was composed and he had the same pleasant manner as the day before, Madeline sensed that something had changed. “Do you think the fever will break soon?” she asked. “It can't last much longer.”