Page 40 of Because You're Mine
“Sir?” Mrs. Beecham seemed appalled as she realized that he intended to get out of bed. “Mr. Scott, you can’t possibly mean to…why, it would be madness…”
“Ring for Denis,” Logan said, with no thought save that he had to see Maddy for himself. “And send for the doctor.”
“But sir, I told you he’ll be calling later in the day—”
“I want—” He stopped as a harsh cough was torn from his chest. Gripping the glass of water, he took another swallow. “I want him to see Miss Ridley.Now.” He had to be certain that Maddy was well, that it was indeed exhaustion and not the beginning stage of illness that had brought about her collapse.
Mrs. Beecham retreated to the door. “I’ll send for the doctor,” she said crisply, “but it will be no service to Miss Ridley, waking her after all she’s been through. And before you attempt to leave the bed, I suggest that you eat something. I’ll have a maid bring up an egg custard and some toast.”
Logan subsided against the pillows as the housekeeper left, though it was hardly by choice. He was as unsteady as a colt. His unmanageable limbs hardly seemed to belong to him. For a man who had always enjoyed unusual health and agility, his weakness was maddening. Cursing beneath his breath, he leaned back until his head stopped spinning.
Despite Dr. Brooke’s assurances that Madeline was not afflicted with the fever, Logan was not satisfied.
“My friend,” Dr. Brooke said with a laugh, “you needn’t expend your energy worrying over Miss Ridley. I assure you, she’s quite healthy, only a little tired. Tomorrow morning should see her back to her usual self. It’s your own health you should concern yourself with. You mustn’t go charging back to your usual schedule, or your recovery will take twice the time it should. Stay in bed for at least a fortnight, and refrain from any exertion.” He winked as he added, “That includes any amorous inclinations, though I’ll admit I would be sorely tempted if I were in your place. Miss Ridley is a delightful creature.”
Logan was annoyed by the doctor’s statement, experiencing a rare stab of jealousy. Scowling, he tapped his fingers on the counterpane, signaling his impatience for Brooke to leave.
“Very well,” Dr. Brooke murmured, “there’s no need for me to return unless you bring about a relapse. Follow my advice, Scott, and try not to overdo.”
Logan grunted in assent, continuing to drum his fingers until the man was gone. Then he reached for the bellpull and rang for Denis.
Overriding the valet’s objections, Logan commandeered his help to walk to Madeline’s room. The amount of exertion it required amazed him. When he finally crossed the threshold, his lungs and heart were laboring to accommodate the demands he had made on his body. Releasing his hold on the valet’s shoulder, Logan went to the bed alone. “Leave,” he said brusquely. “I’ll ring if I want your help.”
“Oui, monsieur,” Denis replied, his tone littered with skepticism. “But I think with the two of you in such a condition, arendez-vousis not such a good plan—”
“Go, Denis.”
The door closed behind him. Logan stared down at the still figure on the bed. Madeline lay on her side like a child, her hands loosely curled, her breasts covered by a modest white gown that reached her throat. Logan sat beside her, touching a lock of golden-brown hair that streamed across the pillow. She stirred and resettled her face against the pillow, her breath resuming its deep rhythm.
He saw that her hands were reddened from the days of nursing him, and a flush warmed his face. The feeling was not one of embarrassment—he had no shame when it came to matters of nakedness and physical intimacy. Rather, it was the sense that she had claimed a part of him that he couldn’t retrieve…he felt bound to her. While part of him resented the feeling, another part welcomed it.
He wondered what he would do with her. One thing was certain—he couldn’t send her away now. She had launched into his life and wedged herself into every private corner, and it seemed that he had no choice but to accept her. Why not take the enjoyment she offered? She was young, beautiful, and fearless, possessing a resilient optimism that he had come to admire. His gaze moved over the outline of her body, cocooned in linen and wool blankets. Lightly he touched her breast, his fingers shaping over the soft mound until it nearly filled his hand, His thumb drew across the tip in a small circle, luring the nipple into a swelling point. Madeline murmured in her sleep, and the bed-clothes rustled as her knees drew up slightly.
Logan smiled, smoothing the silken hair on the pillow. For a moment he allowed himself to think of the things he would teach her, the pleasures they would share, until the heat of arousal began to fill him. Grimacing wryly, he stood up from the bed. Too soon for such thoughts. There would be time enough when they had both recuperated. Then he would indulge Madeline’s every fantasy…and more than a few of his own.
Seven
Madeline awakenedand lay still for a few minutes, slowly recollecting all that had happened. She began to rise from bed and winced at the ache of her muscles. The worst of it was in her back and shoulders. Cautiously she stretched, gasping as the pain brought smarting tears to her eyes.
A housemaid knocked at the door and entered with a bucket of coal to refresh the grate. “Miss Ridley,” she said, seeming gratified to find Madeline awake. “Mrs. Beecham says we should all thank you for what you done for the master.”
“How is he?”
“Oh, very well, miss! Sleeping most o’ the time. When ’e’s awake, ’e rings for someone every few minutes, wanting food, liquor, books, an’ such, but Mrs. Beecham said not to bring anything like that.”
Madeline smiled, reflecting that it wasn’t in Logan’s nature to be a good sickroom patient. She wanted to go to him at once. Self-consciously she put her hands to her unwashed hair.
“We’ll pour a bath for you in the dressing room,” the maid said. “And I’ll bring a breakfast tray. Mrs. Beecham said you were to have anything you wanted.” She went to the armoire and opened it to reveal some garments. “These came for you last evening.”
The new gowns…Mrs. Florence must have sent them from Somerset Street as soon as they were delivered. Murmuring her thanks, Madeline approached the armoire and lifted out the yellow corded silk, grimacing at the ache in her shoulder. Noticing her expression, the maid quickly deduced the reason. “I’ll ’urry with the bath, miss. May’ap the warm water will ease your pains a bit.”
Two maids helped Madeline to bathe and wash her long hair, rinsing it with violet-scented water until it gleamed. They wrapped her in warmed towels and brushed her hair before the fire, brought a tray of ham, soufflé, and fruit, and pressed every last wrinkle from her gown.
They arranged her hair in a neat braided coil on top of her head, letting a few waving strands fall on either side of her face, and helped her to dress. The yellow gown was cut with a simplicity that suited her, giving her an appearance that was neither too young nor too sophisticated. She enjoyed the rustle of the scalloped hem around her feet, and the crisp fabric that flowed down to a cuffed wrist. As the maids exclaimed admiringly, Madeline felt a blush rising from the scooped neckline.
“Quite lovely,” Mrs. Beecham said, coming into the room with an approving smile. “Are you feeling better this morning, Miss Ridley?”
“Yes, thank you. About Mr. Scott—”
