Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(42)
“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.”
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