One Night With You (The Derrings #3)(55)

Jane stared at his resolute expression. "You would have let me keep what I brought to the marriage?"

"Your late husband left it to you. Not me." He leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. The motion pulled his jacket taut against his shoulders and biceps and she forced her gaze to his face.

"Money has nothing to do with why we married." His stare held hers, the molten brown steadily trained on her. "You know why we married."

For the life of her she could not look away. Nor could she breathe as she gazed into those warm brown pools, eyes that ensnared her, the seized her by the heart and refused to let go. You know why we married. Indeed she did. Her hand brushed her stomach, to the child within who made his presence known daily. She knew why Seth married her. Duty drove him. Duty to his sister. To his unborn child.

Her reasons, however, had nothing to do with duty and more to do with hope. With dreams of love that her foolish heart refused to release.

He blinked. And just like that a shadow fell over his eyes. Abruptly, he turned, circling back around his desk. "I've work to do."

She rose as if a poker prodded her backside.

"Of course," she murmured, moving to the door, calling herself the world's greatest fool to ever hold out hope that his feelings for her would change, that he could love a woman he had never wanted to wed in the first place.

Jane clutched the edge of the basin, her empty stomach clenching until her fingers turned numb and bloodless. After several more heaves, her stomach stilled, and she prayed that the worse had finally passed. Heavens knew there was nothing left in her belly.

The air sounded fuzzy, a humming quiet after the harsh sound of her retching. Blinking through watering eyes, she pulled back on unsteady limbs. Cold tears streamed silently down her face and she dashed a shaking hand over each cheek. The gray light of dusk washed over the chamber and she marveled at the day lost to illness.

She didn't attempt to stand, simply crawled toward the bed, grasping the hem of her nightgown so that it did not become caught beneath her. Halfway there she gave up and collapsed, curling up on her side with a shuddery sigh. For the best, she supposed, eyeing the basin. She shouldn't stray far.

She hugged herself, trembling like a leaf on the wind—a dreadful full-body shake that made her feel weak and helpless at the same time. For the moment, her belly was still, the nausea at bay, but even as she tried to hope that her stomach had settled, that she couldn't possibly feel any sicker, she knew she could. She knew she would. Today had been an endless misery. Not for the first time, she agonized that something was wrong with her—with the babe. Even though Anna had assured her that such things were normal, even common, she could only feel a deep, gnawing anxiety.

Her hand drifted to her belly, love swelling in her for this life that was a product of her and Seth. Something good. Sweet and innocent. Love would result of their union. One way or another. Fierce determination gripped her. No harm could come to him, this person that she already loved. Who would love her in turn—as her own family never would. As Seth did not. She curled herself into an even tighter ball. Please, please make him well and strong. The litany rolled through her mind with the ferocity of a rushing river.

The door opened. Relief coursed through her. No doubt Anna had returned with the mint tea. She had vowed the brew would help settle her stomach.

"Anna," she whispered through parched lips and a throat that felt ravaged as plowed earth. A moment later, warm, firm hands were pulling her up.

"Seth," she murmured, confused, instantly knowing his touch, his smell, his enlivening heat. Blast. Would she never be immune? Indifferent?

He swung her up into his arms and gently laid her on the bed.

"No," she protested, one arm motioning weakly for the floor. "The basin," she managed to get out.

"I'll fetch it."

Mortification stung her cheeks. Seth playing nursemaid was the height of humiliation. She could not bear for him to see her like this. At her worst.

"Go away," she choked, jamming her eyes shut.

"Hush," he murmured, pressing the cool cloth that Anna had used against her forehead. With a sigh, she turned her face toward that soothing coolness. Her heart should not leap at the gesture. It didn't mean he cared for her. It didn't mean she meant anything at all to him. He was an honorable man. An honorable man would stop to help an injured animal. Certainly his wife would not be excluded from that basic impulse to offer aid.

Even a wife he did not want.

Worry hammered Seth's chest as he bathed Jane's brow. She looked the image of death. An image he knew well. Lips as gray as gunmetal. Eyes glassy with agony. He'd seen the face of death before. On brave men cut down in their prime, vital one moment, refuse on the deck of a ship the next—the loud whistle of the bosun's mate a sorrowful salute on the wind as their wrapped bodies slid to a watery grave.

"How long have you been like this?" he demanded, chasing thoughts of death from his mind and focusing on the present, on Jane.

Why had no one fetched him? He assumed she had been avoiding him, retreating rather than face him. As he had been doing. Never had it occurred to him that she was ill. Passing her door, he had heard her terrible retching. For no other reason would he have entered her room, too determined to avoid the temptation she presented.

"For a while," she whispered, her voice a dry croak. "Anna says it will pass."