Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(44)

She gasped as he caught her wrist, his hand closing until the fragile bones threatened to snap. At the sound of her soft cry, his grip relaxed, and he seemed confused. He said a woman's name…Olivia…his voice turned venomous. He wanted to kill her, he said. She had taken everything from him. He wept and cursed, his suffering so acute that Madeline was wrenched with jealousy.

Haven't you ever been in love with anyone? she had asked him not long ago.

Once, he had replied. It didn't work.

It was clear that Olivia was the woman he had loved, and that she had betrayed him. Madeline stroked Logan's hair and murmured to him, using her slight weight to subdue him until his body relaxed beneath her. “I would never leave you if I had a choice,” she whispered, her heart pressed to his. “I would never hurt you. I love you.” Passionately she kissed his hot face and dry lips. “I love you,” she repeated, wishing desperately that she could pour her strength into him.

He made an incoherent sound and went still, sinking further into the fever.

Madeline lifted herself away and rested her hand on his chest. His breath was only a weak stirring beneath his ribs. She felt the vitality draining from him, and she was terrified to sleep. He was going to die in her arms, she thought, and a knot of cold despair formed in her stomach.

Slowly Madeline knelt on the floor. Despite a lifetime of regular church attendance and weekly religious instruction at school, she had never been a person of strong faith. She was too rebellious in nature, too resentful of what her mother had assured her was “God's plan” for her to marry Lord Clifton. It had always seemed that God's wishes were to make her life as joyless as possible. But if He were truly merciful, He would accept her bargain…and she would never again dare to ask Him for anything.

Carefully she folded her hands together and prayed, investing her soul in each word. It was an unexpected relief to pour out her fear and longing. For the first time in her life, it seemed that prayer was not just a useless ritual, but a confession told to a loving friend. “…I ask forgiveness for my sins,” she whispered in the dim light. “I'll be an obedient daughter and do everything my parents wish. I'll marry Lord Clifton and serve him in every way I must without complaining…as long as You make him well. I don't care what happens to me anymore. All I want is for him to live. He doesn't deserve to die so young. You must let him live…”

She wasn't aware of how long she prayed. When she finally arose, her knees were numb and cramped from the floor, and she was slightly dizzy. When she returned to Logan's side, she packed fresh ice bags and placed them around his body.

Many more supplications passed through her lips as the night wore on. She felt as if she were in a dream that would never end. Mechanically she worked without stopping, forcing Logan to drink, calming his delirious ravings until at last he fell utterly silent. She scarcely noticed when the lavender light of dawn ventured through the French glass doors that opened onto a small balcony.

“Miss Ridley.”

Madeline jerked and turned toward the voice.

Mrs. Beecham approached with the valet, their faces blank with dread. “How is he?” the housekeeper asked, coming to the bed and looking at Logan's still form. Madeline watched silently, her body swaying, a dripping rag clutched in her hand.

The housekeeper placed her palm on Logan's forehead. After a long moment she turned to Madeline, peace and relief spreading over her face. “Thank God. The fever has broken.” Gently she used a dry corner of the sheet to blot the beads of sweat on his skin.

Madeline watched without comprehending. The valet approached her, speaking with the trace of a French accent. “Everything is all right, mademoiselle. He'll be well again soon.”

Dizzily she turned toward him, not daring to believe the truth. She tried to remember his name. “Denis?…” she asked through dry lips, and the room seemed to tip sideways. She felt his wiry arms close around her, and for the first time in her life, she fainted.

As Logan awoke, it seemed that he drifted upward from heavy layers of water and darkness, his body becoming lighter until he finally broke through the surface. He felt sluggish and weak. It would have been easy to sink back into the mist of sleep, but one thought clattered through his brain, forcing him awake. Madeline. Opening his eyes, he waited until the blur had cleared. She wasn't there. His lips parted, but the only sound he made was a harsh croak.

“Ah, Mr. Scott.” The housekeeper's familiar face appeared. “We've all been quite worried for the past few days,” she said with a smile. “Thank heaven, you're much better now. You must want something to drink.” She lifted his head and offered him a few sips of tepid broth. Logan drank the liquid, which had a salty, faintly metallic taste.

He thought of asking about the Capital, but at the moment the subject paled in importance next to the other question in his mind. He remembered Madeline's presence all through the fever. He had felt her hands on him, her gentle breath on his face as she recalled him from torturous dreams. Maddy, he thought, wanting her, craving her. But she was gone. Had she been there at all, or had he merely imagined her?

He listened without interest to the housekeeper's chatter, vaguely registering that Dr. Brooke would be visiting later in the day, that the Leedses had been concerned enough to send their own doctor, that the entire household staff was rejoicing in his recovery. His fingers plucked at the freshly laundered bedclothes, and he focused on the rectangle of daylight that came in through the parted curtains at the French doors. Then Mrs. Beecham said something that captured his attention.