Just Like Heaven (15 page)

“Thank you.” His voice was soft, barely even audible, but she heard him. And it took every last ounce of her strength not to cry.

“I won't leave you,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “Not until you're well.”

“Th-th—”

“It's all right,” she told him. “You don't need to say it again. You didn't need to say it the first time.”

But she was glad that he did. And she wasn't certain which of his statements had touched her more—his two words of thanks, or the first, his simple, solitary
“You.”

He was thinking about her. While he was lying there, possibly near death, even more possibly at the brink of an amputation, he was thinking about her.

For the first time since she had arrived at Fensmore, she wasn't terrified.

Chapter Thirteen

T
he next time Marcus woke up, he could tell that something had changed. First of all, his leg hurt like the devil again. But somehow he suspected that wasn't such a bad thing. Secondly, he was hungry. Famished, in fact, as if he had not eaten in days.

Which was probably true. He had no idea how much time had passed since he'd fallen ill.

Lastly, he could open his eyes.
That
was excellent.

He wasn't sure what time it was. It was dark, but it could just as easily have been four in the morning as ten at night. It was bloody disorienting, being sick.

He swallowed, trying to moisten his throat. Some more water would be nice. He turned his head toward the bedside table. His eyes still had not adjusted to the dark, but he could see that someone had fallen asleep in a chair by his bed. Honoria? Probably. He had a feeling she had not left his room throughout the ordeal.

He blinked, trying to remember how she had even come to be at Fensmore. Oh, yes, Mrs. Wetherby had written to her. He could not imagine why his housekeeper had thought to do so, but he would be eternally grateful that she had.

He rather suspected that he would be dead if not for the agony Honoria and her mother had inflicted upon his leg.

But that wasn't the whole of it. He knew that he had been in and out of consciousness, and he knew that there would always be huge gaps in his memory of this terrible time. But even so, he had known that Honoria was there, in his room. She had held his hand, and she had talked to him, her soft voice reaching his soul even when he hadn't been able to make out the words.

And knowing she was there . . . It had just been easier. He hadn't been alone. For the first time in his life, he hadn't been alone.

He let out a little snort. He was being overly dramatic. It wasn't as if he walked about with some invisible shield, keeping all other people at bay. He could have had more people in his life. He could have had many more people. He was an earl, for the love of God. He could have snapped his fingers and filled his house.

But he'd never wanted company for the sake of idle chatter. And for everything in his life that had meant anything, he had been alone.

It was what he'd wanted.

It was what he'd thought he wanted.

He blinked a few more times, and his room began to come into focus. The curtains had not been pulled shut, and the moon shed enough light for him to make out the barest gradations of color. Or maybe it was just that he knew that his walls were burgundy and the giant landscape hanging above the fireplace was mostly green. People saw what they expected to see. It was one of the most basic truisms of life.

He turned his head again, peering at the person in the chair. It was definitely Honoria, and not just because she was the person he expected to see. Her hair had come partly undone, and it was clearly light brown, not nearly dark enough to be Lady Winstead's.

He wondered how long she'd been sitting there. She couldn't possibly be comfortable.

But he shouldn't bother her. She surely needed her sleep.

He tried to push himself up into a sitting position but found he was too weak to manage more than a few inches. Still, he could see a little better, maybe even reach across Honoria to the glass of water on the table.

Or maybe not. He lifted his arm about half a foot before it fell back to his side. Damn, he was tired. And thirsty. His mouth felt as if it had been packed in sawdust.

That glass of water looked like heaven. Heaven, just out of reach.

Damn it.

He sighed, then wished he hadn't, because it made his ribs hurt. His entire body ached. How was it possible that a body could ache absolutely everywhere? Except for his leg, which burned.

But he thought that maybe he didn't have a fever any longer. Or at least not much of one. It was hard to tell. He certainly felt more lucid than he had in some time.

He watched Honoria for a minute or so. She didn't move at all in her sleep. Her head was cocked to the side at an unnatural angle, and he could only think that she was going to wake up with a terrible crick in her neck.

Maybe he should wake her up. It would be the kind thing to do.

“Honoria,” he croaked.

She didn't move.

“Honoria.” He tried to say it louder, but it came out the same—raspy and hoarse, like an insect hurling itself against the window. Not to mention that the effort was exhausting.

He tried reaching out to her again. His arm felt like a dead weight, but somehow he got it off the bed. He meant to just poke her, but instead his hand landed heavily on her outstretched leg.

“Aaaaah!” She came awake with a shriek, her head snapping up so fast she hit the back of it on the bedpost. “Ow,” she moaned, bringing her hand up to rub the sore spot.

“Honoria,” he said again, trying to get her attention.

She mumbled something and let out a huge yawn as she rubbed her cheek with the heel of her hand. And then: “Marcus?”

She sounded sleepy. She sounded wonderful.

“May I have some water, please?” he asked her. Maybe he should have said something more profound; he had, after all, practically come back from the dead. But he was thirsty. Wandering the desert thirsty. And asking for water was about as profound as one got in his condition.

“Of course.” Her hands fumbled about in the darkness until they landed on the glass. “Oh, blast,” he heard her say. “One moment.”

He watched as she got to her feet and made her way to another table, where she picked up a pitcher. “There isn't much left,” she said groggily. “But it should be enough.” She poured some into the glass, then picked up the spoon.

“I can do it,” he told her.

She looked at him with surprise. “Really?”

“Can you help me sit up?”

She nodded and wrapped her arms around him, almost like an embrace. “Here we are,” she murmured, pulling him up. Her words landed softly in the crook of his neck, almost like a kiss. He sighed and went still, allowing himself a moment to savor the warmth of her breath against his skin.

“Are you all right?” she asked, pulling back.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, snapping out of his reverie with as much speed as a man in his condition could manage. “Sorry.”

Together, they got him into a sitting position, and Marcus took the glass and drank without assistance. It was remarkable how much that felt like a tri-umph.

“You look so much better,” Honoria said, blinking sleep from her eyes. “I— I—” She blinked again, but this time he thought it might be to keep from crying. “It's so nice to see you again.”

He nodded and held out the glass. “More, please.”

“Of course.” She poured another and handed it to him. He drank it greedily, exhaling only when he had finished the whole thing.

“Thank you,” he said, handing it back.

She took it, set it down, then set herself back down in the chair. “I was so worried about you,” she said.

“What happened?” he asked. He remembered some of it—her mother and the scissors, the giant rabbit. And she'd called him her touchstone. He would always remember that.

“The doctor has been by to see you twice,” she told him. “Dr. Winters. The younger Dr. Winters. His father— Well, I'm not sure what happened to his father, but honestly, I don't care to know. He never even looked at your leg. He had no idea you'd an infected wound. If he'd seen it before it got so bad, well, I suppose it all may have turned out the same.” Her lips pressed together in frustration. “But maybe not.”

“What did Dr. Winters say?” Marcus asked, then clarified, “The younger one.”

She smiled. “He thinks you're going to keep your leg.”

“What?” He shook his head, trying to understand.

“We were afraid we might have to amputate it.”

“Oh, my God.” He felt himself sinking down into the pillows. “Oh, my God.”

“It's probably for the best that you didn't know it was a possibility,” she said gently.

“Oh, my God.” He couldn't imagine life without a leg. He supposed no one could, until they had to.

She took his hand in hers. “It's going to be all right.”

“My leg,” he whispered. He had an irrational urge to sit up and look at it, just to make sure it was still there. He forced himself to lie still; she'd surely think him beyond foolish for wanting to see it for himself. But it hurt. It hurt a lot, and he was grateful for the pain. At least he knew it was still where it was supposed to be.

Honoria pulled her hand free to stifle an enormous yawn. “Oh, excuse me,” she said when she was done. “I'm afraid I haven't slept very much.”

His fault, he realized. Yet another reason he owed her his gratitude. “That chair can't possibly be comfortable,” he told her. “You should take the other side of the bed.”

“Oh, I couldn't.”

“It couldn't possibly be any more improper than anything else that's happened today.”

“No,” she said, looking as if she might laugh if she weren't so tired, “I mean really, I couldn't. The mattress is still wet from when we cleaned your leg.”

“Oh.” And then he did laugh. Because it was funny. And because it felt so good to smile.

She squirmed a little, trying to get comfortable in the chair. “Maybe I could lie on top of the blanket,” she said, craning her neck to look over him to the empty spot.

“Whatever you wish.”

She let out an exhausted sigh. “My feet might get wet. But I don't think I care.”

A moment later she was up on the bed, lying on the blanket. He was, too, actually, although most of him was under a second quilt; he supposed they'd wanted to leave his leg open to the air.

She yawned again.

“Honoria,” he whispered.

“Mmmm?”

“Thank you.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

A moment went by, and then he said, because he had to, “I'm glad you were here.”

“Me, too,” she said sleepily. “Me, too.”

Her breathing slowly evened out, and then so did his. And they slept.

H
onoria woke the next morning delightfully snuggly and warm. Her eyes still closed, she pointed her toes, then flexed her feet, rolling her ankles one way and then the other. It was her morning ritual, stretching in bed. Her hands were always next. Out they went like little starfishes and then back into claws. Then her neck, back and forth and around in a circle.

She yawned, balling her hands into fists as she stretched her arms forward and—

Crashed into someone.

She froze. Opened her eyes. It all came back to her.

Dear heavens, she was in bed with Marcus.
No
. That was not the right way to phrase it. She was in Marcus's bed.

But she wasn't
with
him.

Improper, yes, but surely there was a special dispensation given to young ladies who find themselves in bed with a gentleman who is clearly too ill to compromise them.

Slowly, she tried to inch away. No need to wake him. He probably had no idea she was even there. And by
there
she meant right next to him, side to side, feet touching his. Certainly not on the far end of the bed, where she'd started the night before.

Bending her knees, she planted the soles of her feet on the mattress for traction. First she lifted her hips, moving them an inch to the right. Then her shoulders. Then her hips again, and then her feet to catch up. Time for the shoulders, and then—

Whomp!

One of Marcus's arms came down heavily across her.

Honoria froze again. Good heavens, what was she supposed to do now? Maybe if she waited a minute or two, he'd roll back to his previous position.

She waited. And she waited. And he moved.

Toward her.

Honoria swallowed nervously. She had no idea what time it was—sometime after dawn, but other than that, she had not a clue—and she really did not want Mrs. Wetherby coming in to find her pressed up against Marcus in bed. Or worse, her mother.

Surely no one would think badly of her, especially not after all that had transpired the day before. But she was unmarried, and so was he, and it was a bed, and he was wearing very little clothing, and—

That was it. She was getting out. If he woke up, he woke up. At least he wouldn't wake up with a proverbial gun at his back, pointing him toward marriage.

She wrenched herself up and out of the bed, trying to ignore the rather pleasantly sleepy sounds he made as he rolled over and nestled beneath his quilt. Once she had her feet firmly on the carpet, she took a quick peek at his leg. It seemed to be healing properly, with no sign of those ominous red streaks Dr. Winters had warned about.

“Thank you,” she whispered, sending up a quick prayer for his continued recovery.

“You're welcome,” Marcus murmured.

Honoria let out a little shriek of surprise, jumping back nearly a foot.

“Sorry,” he said, but he was laughing.

It was quite the loveliest sound Honoria had ever heard.

“I wasn't thanking you,” she said pertly.

“I know.” He smiled.

She tried to smooth down her skirts, which were horribly wrinkled. She was wearing the same blue dress she'd donned in London, which had been—oh, dear heavens—two days earlier. She couldn't even imagine what a fright she must look.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Much better,” he said, sitting up. She noticed he pulled the blankets along with him. Which was surely the only reason her blush was pink instead of deep red. It was funny—almost. She'd seen his bare chest a hundred times the day before, had poked and jabbed at his naked leg, and even—not that she would ever tell him about it—caught a glimpse of one of his buttocks when he'd been tossing about. But now, when they were both fully awake and he was no longer at death's door, she could not even bring her eyes to meet his.