Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(45)

“…Perhaps Miss Ridley will come to see you later in the day, though I suspect tomorrow morning is more likely—”

“She's here?” He struggled to sit up, his gaze riveted on the housekeeper.

“Mr. Scott, you should not exert yourself—”

“Where?” he barked, levering himself upward, cursing as he discovered how weak he was.

“Miss Ridley is sleeping only a few doors away. I doubt I could wake her, sir. She insisted on caring for you the past three days and nights, hardly resting or eating. The poor lamb finally fainted this morning, after she learned that your fever had passed.” Mrs. Beecham paused as she saw the look on his face. “Oh, you needn't worry, sir,” she said hastily, “she's not ill. 'tis only exhaustion. I'm sure she'll be fine after several hours of sleep.”

Logan's mouth felt pinched and dry. He reached for a glass of water on the bedside table, unsteadily navigating it to his mouth. “Why didn't you make her rest?” he demanded scratchily. “There was no need to let her work herself into exhaustion.”

“There was no way to stop her. She insisted on taking care of you—”

“Bring me a robe.”

“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, a rendez-vous is 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 br**sts 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 comer, 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 bet-clothes rustled as her knees drew up slightly.