Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(66)

Her cheeks burned with humiliation, as he had intended. Logan felt a stab of satisfaction at the sight.

“I wish I could say the same. But I've thought about you every day and night. I'll never forgive myself for how I behaved. If you could only know how I—” She stopped suddenly, managing to stem the flow of renegade words.

Logan clenched his teeth. She made herself so damned vulnerable that there was no sport in crushing her. It was infuriating, it made him feel ashamed, and he didn't know how to deal with it.

He watched Madeline close her eyes and lean her head back against the seat, her lips parting with a sigh. Suddenly her skin seemed chalky against the chocolate, velvet upholstery. “What is it?” he asked abruptly.

She shook her head in a tiny motion and answered without opening her eyes. “I'm fine,” she said through stiff lips. “It's just that sometimes I feel a little…queasy.” The carriage bounced over a rough patch of road, and she pressed her lips together.

Logan regarded her suspiciously, wondering if she were trying to gain his sympathy. No, she was too pale to be faking illness. And now that he thought of it, Julia's morning sickness had lasted during her first three or four months of pregnancy, causing frequent absences at the theater. “Shall I tell the driver to stop?” he asked.

“No. I'm fine…really.”

She didn't seem fine. There was a pinched look on her face, and she kept swallowing convulsively.

Logan frowned and drummed his fingers on his taut thigh. He had been too preoccupied earlier to make certain that she had breakfast. As far as he knew, she hadn't eaten all day. “We'll reach Oxford soon. We'll stop at an inn there, and you can have an early supper.”

Madeline shook her head before he could even finish the sentence. “Thank you, but the thought of food…” She put her hand to her mouth and breathed until her nostrils flared.

“We'll stop soon,” he said, picking up a crystal decanter of water from a mahogany sideboard fitted in the carriage. He moistened a handkerchief and gave it to Madeline. She murmured gratefully and pressed the cloth to her face.

Remembering the covered basket that Mrs. Florence had packed for them, Logan reached beneath the seat and dug it out. He found a few pieces of fruit, a wedge of cheese, a few slices of brown bread, a small pudding wrapped in a damp napkin. “Here,” he said, extending a piece of bread to her. “Try this.”

She turned her face away weakly. “I couldn't swallow anything.”

He sat beside her and held the bread up. “One bite, damn you. I won't have you getting sick in my carriage.”

“I won't damage your precious carriage,” she said, lowering the handkerchief and glaring at him over the edge.

All of a sudden Logan wanted to smile at her defiance. He remoistened the cloth, folded it, and draped it over her forehead. “One bite,” he said, his voice gentle as he held the bread against her lips.

She made a sound of wretchedness and complied, chewing as if her mouth were filled with sawdust. Finally she swallowed, making a face as she tried to keep it down. It seemed to Logan that her color began to improve. “Another,” he said inexorably.

She ate slowly, seeming to feel better, until she relaxed and let out a deep sigh. “I'm better now. Thank you.”

Logan realized his arm was around her, securing her firmly to his side. Her head was close to the crook of his shoulder, her breast pressed lightly against his chest. The position was so natural, so comfortable, that he hadn't noticed what he was doing until that moment. She looked up at him with eyes like liquid amber. He remembered when she had taken care of him during his illness. No matter what else she had done, she had led him through the fever and nurtured him back to health. She had given him hope, and a taste of happiness.

And then she had taken it all away.

Overwhelmed with bitterness, he let go of her roughly. “Take better care of yourself in the future,” he said, returning to his own seat. “I'm not inclined to play nursemaid.”

Madeline was sick with dread as the carriage rolled along the winding drive to her family's estate. It was situated amid the gentle hills of Gloucestershire, with rich fields veined by mineral-laden creeks. The Matthewses' land was far more impressive than the manor house, which seemed to huddle awkwardly in the midst of a patch of smaller buildings. The tiny one- and two-room cottages had been erected to accommodate the family's need for extended servants' quarters and kitchen areas.

Logan glanced out the window at the estate and made no comment as they approached the manor house.

“My parents won't like the idea of our marriage,” Madeline said, plucking at her skirts. She was dressed in a plain, girlishly styled gown. It seemed to him that the bodice was already too tight across her br**sts. He wondered why her parents hadn't yet suspected her pregnancy.

“I expect they'll be more than happy to have you married once they learn of your condition,” he said.

Madeline didn't look at him as she replied. “My parents disapprove of anyone associated with the theater. I think they would rather die than see their daughter enter into marriage with an actor.”

“No wonder you chose me,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing as he stared at her. “Not only were you able to rid yourself of your virginity; you also managed to pick a man whom your parents would find particularly offensive.”