Page 36 of Because You're Mine
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.
