Love, Come to Me(88)

Since it was still early evening, Lucy expected him to refuse. There were always papers and articles for Heath to look through before he went to bed each night. But at the moment he was surprisingly tractable, making no protest as she left him and dimmed the lights. When she returned to the bed, he made a sleepy sound and gathered her close, resting his head on her bosom. Lucy welcomed the weight of him, letting her fingers drift through his tawny hair as she stared blindly into the fireplace. His body took on a relaxed heaviness as he slept. But this sleep was different from his usual, peaceful, contented slumber. This was ominously still. This sleep was deep and exhausted, a hungry sleep that had consumed him far too quickly. He did not even stir at the gentle tapping on the bedroom door.

“Yes?” Lucy responded in a low tone, looking at the doorway. “What is it?”

Bess peered around the corner cautiously. “Mrs. Rayne, the coachman—”

“Thank him for his trouble and tell him that he won’t be needed tonight,” Lucy said, unsmiling. “Tell him to put the carriage away. And then make certain that we are not disturbed again tonight.” She knew that her manner was unnecessarily brusque, but the maid did not seem to take offense.

“Yes, Mrs. Rayne.”

The door closed again, and the room was enshrouded in darkness except for the soft red glow of the coals on the grate. There was little sound, just the occasional crackle of the coals and the deep, slow rhythm of Heath’s breathing. Lucy stayed awake beyond midnight, as if her watchfulness were the only thing that would guarantee her husband’s slumber. Perhaps someday she would find amusement in the memory of how tense and uncertain these hours had been, at how she had given in to unreasoning fear and curved her arms around him as if to protect him from the world that waited outside. Perhaps someday she would remember this and laugh. But not now. Not now.

“You have a fever,” she insisted, following him back and forth as he dressed and prepared to leave.

“Maybe I do,” Heath said matter-of-factly. He dried his freshly shaven face with a towel and strode back into the bedroom. “It’s winter. Everyone has a little temperature now and then. It’s damn well not going to stop me from working.”

Lucy made an exasperated sound. “If I’d known how stubborn you were going to be, I would have tied you to the bed while you were sleeping!”

He grinned at her and stretched, feeling more energetic than he had in weeks. “I’m glad we stayed home last night. A little extra rest is just what I needed.”

“You still need it. You obviously think one night’s sleep is going to undo weeks of self-abuse. Well, it’s not!” As Lucy noticed how carefree he looked, she became so irritated that snapping at him was all she could think of to do. Was there any other way to get through to him? “And if you don’t come home early tonight, and keep all the promises you made to me about—”

“Don’t nag, honey.” He dropped a kiss on her nose and left the room to head downstairs.

Lucy’s fists balled as she struggled to keep her voice from becoming as shrill as a fishwife’s. “What about breakfast?” she managed to ask in a reasonably controlled manner.

His raspy voice floated to her from the hallway. “No time, Cin. I’ll see you tonight.”

Despite the auspicious beginning to his day, Heath’s good mood disappeared an hour after he walked into his office. He sat down at his desk to read. A minor headache that he hadn’t been aware of before blossomed into a full-fledged, skull-cracking throbbing. A headache that seemed to be connected to every bone in his body, right down to his heels. He ignored it and concentrated on the words in front of him until they shifted back and forth across the page. Doggedly he worked until it was almost noon, and Damon’s familiar knock sounded at the door. With every rap on the door, there was a corresponding vibration in Heath’s head.

“You don’t have to hammer,” he said, scowling, and Damon entered the office with a mock display of timidity.

“Excuse me. I can see that you aren’t eager for interruptions this morning. I just wanted to check with you on the ideas for the editorial.”

“I can’t remember finding any problems with it . . . it was . . .” Heath paused and rubbed his eyes. “What the hell was it about . . . Hiram Revels?”

“No. That was yesterday.” Damon regarded him with those cool, curious black eyes, causing Heath to feel an inexplicable surge of annoyance. “This is about the Cuban Rebellion,” Damon continued more slowly, “praising Secretary Fish for keeping the president from proclaiming the Cubans belligerents. And I thought we’d include a paragraph about the bastards who are running Spain. That should excite a certain amount of sympathy for the Cubans.”

“Good. Good. Go with it.”

“All right.” Damon paused before leaving, his voice becoming quiet. “Wife managed to keep you home last night?”

“Obviously,” Heath replied hoarsely.

“Good for her. You haven’t given yourself much of a breather lately. Don’t worry, you didn’t miss much at the AP supper. I’m capable of handling things, you know. If you’ll just loosen the reins, I can take up the slack.”

Heath looked up as if he hadn’t heard him correctly. The brightness of fever had lent a shining heat to his eyes, making them such a startling, unholy shade of blue that Damon froze with a sharply indrawn breath.