Where Dreams Begin(49)

“It's the only thing that helps,” she murmured, her mind clearly fogged with pain and drugs. “I'll sleep for a day or so…then the megrims will go away. No lessons tomorrow…forgive me…”

“Damn the lessons,” Zachary said softly.

“Your language,” she reproved with a weak sigh.

“How do the megrims start? Did I do something earlier—”

“No, no…never a reason. I start to see sparks and flashes. The pain starts on one side of my head, or my neck…it spreads until I'm sick and nauseous everywhere.”

Cautiously Zachary moved to the mattress and sat beside her. Holly mumbled a protest as she felt the bed give beneath him. “Mr. Bronson…please…leave me in peace.”

Zachary slid his fingers beneath her neck. The area between her nape and the base of her skull was so tight that he could feel the hard, contracted bands of muscle. Holly moaned at the exquisite pain of his touch. Using the fingertips of both hands, he rubbed the knotted muscles with extreme gentleness. A tear leaked out from beneath the cloth covering her eyes, and she released a quivering breath.

“Does this help?” Zachary whispered after a minute, feeling some of her tension ease.

“Yes, a little…”

“Shall I stop?”

Immediately one of her hands came to his wrist, her fingers curling around the side of it. “No, don't stop.”

He continued to massage her neck in silence, while her breathing deepened and lengthened until he thought she might have gone to sleep. After a while she surprised him by speaking, her voice blurred and soft.

“The megrims started after George passed away. First one happened when I spent a day reading letters…people were so kind…they shared their memories…everyone said how surprised they were…no one surprised as I, though.” Her tone was absent, detached, as if she spoke from the heart of a dream. “Such a healthy man. Not quite so robust as you, but still…very fit. Then the fever came, and George could keep nothing down but tea. He took to his bed for a week. He lost weight so quickly…the bones stood out on his face. The second week I became frightened when his mind began to wander. He seemed to know he was dying…he began to prepare. One day he sent for his dearest friend, Ravenhill…known since boyhood. He made Ravenhill and me promise…”

She sighed, seeming to float away in memory.

“What promise?” Zachary asked, staring at her lax mouth intently. “What did he make you promise?”

“Doesn't matter,” Holly mumbled. “I told him yes, anything to give him peace. I asked for one last kiss. He did…the sweetest kiss…though he was too weak to hold me. A little later his breathing changed…the doctor said it was the death rattle. I held George in my arms and felt the life pass out of him…held him for a long time till he was no longer warm.”

Zachary released her neck and drew the sheet protectively over her bare shoulders. “I'm sorry,” he whispered.

“Later I was angry with him,” Holly confessed, catching at his hand in a childlike gesture. “I've never told that to anyone.”

He was very still, enclosing her fingers in a gentle grip. “Why angry, sweet?”

“Because George…didn't fight at all. He just slipped away…accepted it…like a gentleman. Just slipped away and left me. Wasn't in his nature to fight. How could I blame him for that? But I did.”

I would have fought, Zachary thought, sternly locking the words inside himself. I would have gone toe to toe with the devil himself to stay with you and Rose. I would go down howling and kicking before I let go of what I had.

A weary smile touched her lips. “Now you know…what a bad woman I am.”

Zachary remained leaning over her, watching as she drifted to sleep. She was the best woman he had ever known. His entire being was consumed with one wish, that he could somehow protect her from ever knowing another moment of unhappiness. He fought against the feeling she roused in him, this awful tenderness, but it spread until it had infiltrated every part of him. The desire to go out and find solace in another woman's body had vanished completely. All he wanted was to stay here in this dark room, guarding the sleep of Lady Holland Taylor while she dreamed of her dead husband.

Sorely troubled, Zachary moved off the bed. On impulse, he took Holly's limp hand and lifted it reverently to his lips. He kissed the backs of her fingers, the tender hollow of her palm. Nothing had ever felt as good as the silken texture of her skin against his mouth.

Setting her hand onto the covers with great care, Zachary cast a last wretched glance at her before leaving the room. He had to get out of this place, his own home. He felt confined, trapped, suffocated.

“Master?” Maude waited in the center of the hallway, staring at him with patent suspicion.

“Where is Rose?” Zachary asked curtly.

“She is in the family parlor, playing with Mrs. and Miss Bronson.” Maude frowned uneasily. “If I may ask, sir, what did you do in Lady Holland's room for so many minutes?”

“I ravished her while she was unconscious,” he said gravely. “it took a little longer than I expected.”

“Mr. Bronson,” the maid exclaimed in outrage, “that is a wicked thing to say!”

“Settle your feathers,” he said with a faint smile. “I merely stayed with Lady Holly until she went to sleep. You know I would slit my own throat before causing her any harm.”