When Strangers Marry (Vallerands #1)(16)

There was a white square of paper on her bed, having been placed carefully against the pillow. Frowning curiously, Lysette picked it up. Her heart stopped beating as she saw what it was.

“The letter,” she whispered, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. The envelope trembled in her hands. It was her letter to Marie, unopened, undelivered. Vallerand had assured her that it had been sent. Why had he lied? And what was his purpose in keeping it? Oh, God, she had known she couldn’t trust him!

She decided to confront him at once. Her head throbbed with sudden vicious pain, and her back ached from the top of her spine to her hips. White with outrage, she gripped the balustrade in her slippery hand and began the long descent. Halfway down the steps, she saw Vallerand walking out of the dining room.

“Monsieur,” she said, her tongue feeling thick in her mouth. “You have something to explain to me.”

He came to the bottom of the stairs. “Explain what, mademoiselle?”

She held up the letter. “Why did you lie to me? My letter to Marie… you kept it! You never intended to send it.” She shook her head impatiently to dispel the ringing in her ears. “I don’t understand.” She tried to back away as he began to ascend the stairs. She couldn’t think above the annoying jangling in her head. “St-stay away from me!”

Vallerand’s face was inhumanly calm. “How did you get it?”

“That doesn’t matter. Tell me why. Now, damn you! Tell me—” The letter dropped from her nerveless hand, fluttering to the steps. “I am leaving. I would rather be with Sagesse than endure another minute with you.”

“You’re staying,” he said flatly. “I have plans for you.”

“Damn you,” Lysette whispered, her eyes prickling with humiliating tears. “What do you want from me?” She raised her hands to her head in an effort to stop the pounding inside. If only it would stop. If only she could calm herself enough to think.

Suddenly Vallerand’s face changed. “Lysette…” He reached out to steady her swaying form, his hands closing around her waist.

Wildly she pushed at him. “Don’t touch me!”

His hard arm slid around her back. “Let me help you upstairs.”

“No—”

Even as she fought to be free, she felt herself slump against him. Her head fell weakly against his shoulder while her arms hung uselessly at her sides.

“Max?” questioned Irénée, who had come out of the salon when she heard the commotion. Noeline was close behind. “Is something wrong? Mon Dieu, what has happened?”

Vallerand didn’t spare her a glance. “Send for the doctor,” he said tersely, and picked Lysette up, hooking his arms underneath her knees and back. He carried her as if she weighed nothing, ignoring her whimpers of protest. “I can walk,” she sobbed, prying at his hands. “Let me down—”

“Hush,” he said softly. “Don’t struggle.”

The trip to her room took only a few seconds, but to Lysette it seemed to last forever. Her cheek rested on his shoulder, while her tears dampened the crisp linen of his shirt. She was hot and nauseous, and wretchedly dizzy. The only solid thing in the world was his hard chest. Somehow, in her misery, she forgot how much she despised him, and was grateful for the steady support of his arms.

For a moment she felt better, but as Vallerand lay her on the bed, the room whirled sickeningly around her. She was falling into suffocating darkness. Blindly she reached out in an effort to save herself. A gentle hand smoothed the hair back from her burning forehead. “Help me,” she whispered.

“It’s all right, petite.“ His voice was calm and soothing. “I’ll take care of you. No, don’t cry. Hold on to me.”

Fitfully Lysette thrashed to escape the scorching cloud that had descended on her. She tried to explain something to him, and he seemed to understand her frantic babble. “Yes, I know,” he murmured. “Be still, petite.”

Noeline, who had followed them into the room, looked over Max’s shoulder and shook her head grimly. “Yellow fever,” she said. “It’s bad when it comes on this quick. I’ve seen some walk around healthy one day and drop dead the next.” She sent a pitying glance at the suffering figure on the bed, as if a quick demise were a certainty.

Max threw the housekeeper a thunderous scowl, but he was careful to keep his voice even. “Bring a pitcher of cold water, and some of that powder— what was it we gave the twins when they had it?”

“Calomel and jalap, monsieur.”

“Be quick about it,” he growled, and Noeline left immediately.

Max looked down at Lysette, who was muttering incoherently. Tenderly he disentangled her hands from his shirt and gripped her hot fingers in his.

“Oh, hell,” he muttered, his entire being seized with a dread he hadn’t felt in years, not since the twins had succumbed to the potentially deadly fever. He smoothed her hair again, feeling how wet it was at the roots, and a violent curse escaped him.

Irénée stood behind him. “Her death would certainly foil your plans, mon fils,” she said quietly.

He continued to stare at Lysette. “She’s not going to die.”

“The illness has come on too quickly and with too much force,” she murmured. “She is already out of her head with fever.”