Love, Come to Me(89)

“God almighty.” For someone as consistently unruffled as Damon, the soft exclamation was the equivalent of another man’s shout of alarm. “You’re not well. I’ll have someone take you home in the hack.”

“Don’t be a fool. I just need some . . . water.” Heath let his head fall to his arms, slumping on the desk.

“He’s calling me a fool,” Damon muttered. “Wonderful.” He left the small office and returned in less than five minutes. As Heath rested his cheek on the cool surface of the desk and concentrated on regaining his strength, he would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that at least an hour had passed. “The hack’s right outside,” Damon said. “It will probably take two or three of us to get you out of here, so I’ll—”

“I walk out alone,” Heath said, lifting his head and staring at Damon with eerily blue eyes.

“You need help.”

“Not . . . in front of them.”

Damon knew that Heath was referring to the staff of the Examiner. Heath didn’t want to appear less than invincible in front of them. Damon was tempted to argue, correctly deducing that Heath’s resistance would crumble if he prolonged the debate a little longer. It would be foolhardy to let him walk out on his own. But Damon was beginning to understand the nature of a Southerner’s pride, and he had a strange admiration for the gallant foolishness of it. He also knew that Heath would forever bear a grudge towards him if he didn’t accede to this particular demand.

“All right. You can try to make it out of here without help,” Damon said reluctantly. “But I’m walking beside you, in case you fall. And if you fall on me, you’ll do me significant damage, in which case I’ll sue you up to your ears.”

Heath muttered something uncomplimentary about Yankees and stood up in one fluid move, grasping the edge of the desk as the room swayed around him.

“Stubborn Reb,” Damon couldn’t keep from whispering. “What have you done to yourself?”

Alerted by the imperious pounding of a fist on the door, Lucy rushed to the front hallway just as Sowers received the caller. “Heath!” she cried, sick with panic as she saw her husband leaning heavily against the doorframe, his face pale underneath the tan of his skin. Damon was on his other side, holding him up by an arm.

“I’m fine,” Heath croaked.

“He’s ill,” Damon said shortly, motioning to the butler to help him move Heath inside the house. “I’ve sent for the physician who has attended my family for years. He ought to be here in a few minutes.”

“I just need to rest—”

“Damned Southerners,” Damon said. “They never know when to surrender.” Though the statement was uttered in his typically cool manner, there was something almost like rough affection underlining his voice.

It took the three of them to get Heath up to the bedroom and onto the bed, and then Sowers went downstairs to wait for the physician. Normally Lucy would have gone crimson with embarrassment at the thought of partially undressing her husband in someone else’s presence, but she stripped off his coat and pulled off his shoes without hesitation, barely aware of Damon’s watchful ebony gaze. Heath was shivering. Anxiously Lucy murmured to him and pulled the covers up to his neck, her hands smoothing repeatedly over the outline of his shoulders.

“Mrs. Rayne?”

She recognized Bess’s voice and replied without looking up. “Bring quilts.”

“What about hot bricks wrapped in flannel—”

“Yes. Yes, but hurry,” Lucy said, biting her lip. The maid left the room and flew downstairs, and Heath turned his cheek into the palm of Lucy’s hand, closing his eyes and falling asleep with dreadful ease. She felt like weeping. His skin was burning. How could he possibly be shaking with cold? She glanced at Damon; her hazel eyes were dark with guilt and misery. “He’s been working too hard,” she whispered. “I should have stopped him.”

“You couldn’t have,” Damon said quietly. “We all tried. But there’s a demon riding on his back—there has been for a long time. You couldn’t have stopped him.”

Startled, Lucy gave him a searching stare. What did he mean? Had Heath confided something to Damon that he had not told her? Or was Damon merely guessing at some undisclosed reason for Heath’s relentless labor? She was never to find out the answer, because the physician arrived before Damon could reply.

No matter how kindly and trustworthy they might appear, doctors always frightened Lucy. Their very presence was an indication that something was seriously wrong. They always seemed to be needlessly callous, and in Lucy’s mind, the fact that they had looked so often on the face of pain and death set them apart from ordinary people. Dr. Evans, the man Damon had sent for, was more bearable than most. He had an appropriately grandfatherly manner, and he seemed to understand Lucy’s fears, assuring her that there was nothing wrong with Heath except a fever and exhaustion. Tonics and undisturbed rest were prescribed, and then the elderly doctor left with encouraging promptness. Lucy walked with him to the front door and saw him out.

“How is he?” came Damon’s voice from behind her, and she turned to find that he had been waiting in the parlor.

“Much better than I had feared,” she replied slowly. “He just needs rest. I can’t tell you how relieved I am, and how grateful to you for—”