Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(81)

As Madeline stared at the array of French cuisine, the cloying aromas began to erode any trace of appetite. Feeling queasy, she averted her gaze from her plate and reached for her water glass. Logan watched her with a sudden scowl.

“You're going to eat,” he said.

“I'm not hungry.” Madeline swallowed against the rising pressure in her throat, while the smell of rich food filled her nostrils. Pushing her plate away, she closed her eyes and breathed through her mouth.

“Dammit,” she heard Logan mutter. “You're not consuming enough to keep yourself healthy, much less provide for the babe.”

“I'm trying,” she returned, her eyes still closed. “But I feel sick all the time.”

Logan summoned a footman and instructed him to bring more food from the kitchen: dry chicken with no seasoning, and boiled potatoes mashed with milk.

“I'll only send it back,” Madeline said stubbornly. “I can't eat anything tonight. Perhaps I'll feel better tomorrow.”

They exchanged a mutual glare. “You'll eat something if I have to stuff it down your throat,” Logan said grimly. “Now that you've gotten yourself in this condition, you have a responsibility to the child.”

The accusatory note in his voice stung. “I had some help ‘getting myself in this condition,’” Madeline snapped, her own temper flaring. “It was as much your fault as mine!” She leaned her head on her hands, breathing unsteadily and wishing that the waves of nausea would go away.

There was a short silence. “You're right,” Logan said abruptly. “I didn't give a thought to the possible consequences of what we did that night. I was too eager to bed you.” He sounded distinctly uncomfortable as he added, “Besides, I've never had to bother with that sort of thing. The women I…er, knew before you were all in the habit of taking preventative measures.”

Madeline peered at him between her fingers. Was it her imagination, or did he look almost contrite? “Preventative measures?” she repeated. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Logan smiled. “We'll discuss it later. After the baby is born.” He moved his chair beside hers and slid his arm behind her back. Dipping a napkin into a water glass, he held the cool cloth against her sweat-beaded forehead. “Remember the milk toast you fed me when I was sick?” he murmured. “You promised I could have my revenge someday.”

She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I should have left you alone.”

“You saved my life,” Logan said. “It doesn't matter what your motives were. You took care of me in spite of my bad temper and delirious rantings and sickroom stench.” The cool, damp cloth moved over her cheek and down to her throat, soothing her. “The least I can do is return the favor.”

The tightness in her throat eased, the sickness receding a little. Madeline opened her eyes and saw Logan's face very close to hers. The way he looked at her made her heart pick up a rapid beat. It wasn't the loving gaze she remembered from before…but at least the coldness and distance had been banished. “You can have anything you want,” he murmured, as if he were coddling a sick child. “Just tell me.”

“Anything?” She laughed shakily. “You're putting yourself at risk, making an offer like that.”

His intense blue eyes held hers. “I never say things I don't mean.”

She stared at him wonderingly, until the footman returned with a new plate of food and set it before them.

“Thank you, George,” Logan said, picking up a fork. “That's all for now.” His arm remained behind Madeline's back. Scooping up a tiny morsel of mashed boiled potato, he held it to her lips. “Do you think you could manage one bite, sweet?”

Resignedly she opened her mouth and accepted the offering, despite the roiling of her stomach. The potato was bland and crumbling on her tongue. Chewing slowly, she tried to keep from gagging.

“Once more,” Logan coaxed.

He was unexpectedly patient, distracting her with light conversation, supporting her back with his hard arm as he fed her. He could be very gentle, for such a large man. Each bite went down a little easier than the last, until she had consumed half the food on the plate. Finally she shook her head with a sigh. “No more.”

He seemed reluctant to withdraw his arm. “Are you certain?”

Madeline nodded. “You should eat now. Your supper is getting cold.” She sipped a goblet of water while Logan attended to his own plate. She was fascinated by the movements of his hands, the way his long fingers tore chunks from a hard-crusted roll, the way he held a crystal glass. As he realized that she was watching him, some unvoiced question seemed to hover between them. His expression was arrested…he seemed curiously discomforted, as if he wanted something he shouldn't have.

Waving away the offer of dessert with an abrupt gesture, Logan helped Madeline from the table. The past few nights they had spent an hour or two after dinner in a private parlor, reading and conversing before the fire. Tonight, however, Logan seemed disinclined to share her company. “Perhaps I'll see you in the morning,” he said, casually flicking her chin with his forefinger. “I have some work to do in the library.”

Her brows knit together, and she kept her voice low, mindful of being overheard. “You won't…come to me later?”