Page 27 of The Defiant Governess (Intrepid Heroines #6)
“Miss Jane?” A candle flickered in the darkness and Jane snapped her head upright. “You must take a bite to eat, my dear, and lie down for a proper sleep. I shall sit with His Lordship while you do.” Mrs. Fairchild hovered by her chair with a tray of sustenance sent up by Cook.
“No, no, I’m awake—I must have just dozed off for a bit.” Jane straightened slightly in the chair and looked at Saybrook. He was still sleeping though his breathing sounded even more erratic. She reached over to press her palm to his forehead. “Lud, he feels so hot. Do you think so, too?”
Mrs. Fairchild touched his brow. “Yes, he does seem warm. But come, I can do that,” she added as she watched Jane sponge his face with cool water. She waited for a minute, then placed the tray on the night table with a sigh. “At least keep up your strength.”
Jane smiled. “I shall, as soon as I check on Peter.”
Mrs. Fairchild followed her from the room. “Mary is with him now. She knows to call you if anything changes.”
“I know, but I want to see him myself.”
Peter looked almost lost in the huge four poster bed, his tiny form a mere smudge on the snowy sheets. His splinted arm lay outside the coverlet across his chest, which rose and fell with reassuring regularity. But still he had shown no signs of regaining consciousness.
“At least he shows no sign of fever,” murmured Jane.
“No, Miss Jane, he’s been right comfortable,” said Mary. “Now, if only he’d open his eyes.”
Jane’s hand caressed his cheek. “We must be patient—and pray.”
Saybrook was tossing feverishly when Jane and Mrs. Fairchild returned to his room, his arm thrashing about at the covers, his breathing coming in ragged gasps. He was burning to the touch and Jane was gripped with a stabbing fear.
“Send for Dr. Hastings!” she called as she lifted his head and put the glass of laudanum-laced water to his parched lips.
He managed to swallow some of the liquid. After a few minutes it seemed to ease some of the discomfort and he became quieter. Jane took the opportunity to change the bandage, noting with alarm that the edges of the wound looked even more red and inflamed.
The shirt he was wearing was soaked with sweat so she stripped it off.
As Jane unfolded a fresh one she couldn’t help but be aware of his broad, muscular chest, the chiseled contour of his stomach and the intriguing curls of dark hair across his breast. She had never seen a man in such a state of undress before.
There was a stirring deep inside her as she placed her palm on his chest, tracing lightly over his undamaged ribs to the hollow of his stomach, where it lingered just for a moment.
Jane found herself wondering what it would have been like if she had accepted his carte blanche .
She could have been lying in these very sheets with his arms around her, his lean, hard body pressed tight to hers.
A part of her longed to experience the strength of his arms and the fire of his kisses.
She thought back to his kiss. Yes, she wanted more. A ragged sigh escaped her lips. But she wanted more than just his passion. She wanted his love.
Saybrook began talking in his sleep, mostly unintelligible mutterings but occasionally a discernable word.
“No!” A gasp. “You mustn’t!”
Jane touched his cheek. “It’s alright, sir,” she whispered.
“Father!” he groaned. “No!” He began tossing so violently that she could hardly hold his shoulders down. “No! No!” Then quite softly, “Jane.”
“I’m here, sir. I won’t leave you.”
The tension seemed to drain from his body and he fell into a fitful sleep.
Dr. Hastings finally arrived. After a quick examination, he rose, shaking his head slightly. “It is as I feared. The fever has taken hold and we can only hope that his constitution proves strong enough to weather it.”
He looked at the frightened faces of Jane and Mrs. Fairchild as he reached into his bag and took out a bottle of medicine. “You must try to get him to swallow a dose of this every two hours. It is of utmost importance.” He paused. “Should I send I send a woman from the village?”
Jane shook her head doggedly.
The doctor regarded the dark circles under her eyes, then the determined thrust of her chin. “Very well, then. I shall call again in the morning.”
Jane sat upright in the chair, rubbing the sleep—what little there had been—from her eyes.
The fever had been going on for over two days.
At times it raged, forcing her to call for assistance in holding the writhing marquess down in his bed.
Then there were periods when it seemed to slacken, allowing him some fitful rest. She had managed to get the medicine down him, but was beginning to doubt its efficacy.
With each visit, the doctor merely pursed his lips and muttered that they must wait, that the climax would come soon when the fever either broke or …
Jane splashed some water on her drawn face.
She was tired of waiting. She felt so helpless watching him suffer.
Perhaps Dr. Hastings wasn’t as skilled as they thought.
Perhaps they should send to London for a specialist?
A quick glance at the bed showed that Saybrook’s face was more pallid than ever, and he seemed smaller, as if his ravaged body were wasting away in front of her.
But at least for the moment, he was resting quietly.
“Miss Jane!” Mary hurried into the room. “It’s Master Peter! He’s opened his eyes. And he spoke! He asked for you.”
Jane rushed to the boy’s chamber.
“Miss Jane, I’m thirsty.” He tried to throw his arms around her neck. “Oh! And my arm hurts!”
“Yes, I know, my love,” she soothed, as she settled the broken limb. “You’ve been a very brave boy, but now you must keep still so your arm can mend.” She motioned for Mary to pour a glass of water, then added three drops of laudanum as Dr. Hastings had advised. “Drink this and you’ll feel better.”
Peter took a sip and made a face. “It tastes awful. I don’t want it.”
”Your uncle has to drink it too, and he doesn’t complain.” Jane decided a half lie wouldn’t hurt.
The boy looked at the glass for a moment, then swallowed the rest without further complaint. “Uncle Edward was coming to get me, wasn’t he? I don’t remember anything more. What happened after that?”
“Yes, he was. He saved you from the bull, but not before it knocked you down.
“Did the bull knock Uncle Edward down too?”
“Yes.”
“Did it break his arm?
“No, but its horn wounded him in the side.”
The boy’s lower lip trembled. “Will he be alright?”
Jane forced a smile. “Yes, I’m sure he will.”
Peter hung his head. “Are you very angry with me?” he asked in a tremulous voice. “I know what I did was wrong.”
Jane pulled him close. “Little lambkin, I‘m not angry—I’m very happy that you are all right.”
He snuggled closer to her. For a few moments she sat silent, stroking his hair.
Then she sent Mary to the kitchen for a bowl of porridge.
Peter managed to eat half of it before his eyes began to droop as the laudanum took effect.
Jane tucked the covers around him, grasped the candle from the night table and motioned the maid to follow her into the hall.
“I don’t think it’s necessary to sit up with him anymore,” she told the tired girl. “I shall check on him throughout the night—it is night, isn’t it?”
“It’s past ten in the evening, But Miss, surely you should be getting some sleep, too. We’re all afraid you are wearing yourself to the bone. You’ve not had a proper rest in ages.”
“Yes, I will shortly,” said Jane, cutting off the girl’s protests. “You may bring some breakfast for Peter in the morning and perhaps then I will lie down for a bit.”
“Well, if you’re sure …”
“Good night, Mary.”
Jane returned to Saybrook’s room. His condition hadn’t changed. His breathing was harsh and ragged. When she felt his forehead, it was still hot, but it did seem that the fever had abated slightly. She hoped it wasn’t just her imagination.
She placed the candle down and picked up the book she had been reading at odd moments throughout the past few days—though how she would manage to keep her eyes open was beyond her.
But she must.
Jane opened the slim volume to where her marker lay.
It was one of her favorite works, The Corsair by Lord Byron.
Saybrook had teased her about liking the scandalous poet, she remembered with a tiny smile.
She shot a glance at his chiseled features and watched how the candlelight flickered off his high cheekbones, straight nose and sensuous lips.
And then she forced her eyes back to the page and let the romantic poetry overwhelm her thoughts.
It was well past midnight when she put the slim leatherbound book aside and rose stiffly from the chair.
Every bone in her body ached with weariness and she looked at the large shadowed bed with longing.
Rubbing at her temples, it took her a few moments to realize that something seemed different.
Saybrook’s sleep suddenly sounded more restful, his breathing more normal.
A touch to his brow confirmed that the fever had indeed gone.
“Thank heavens,” she whispered to herself as her eyes brimmed with tears of gratitude. Her hand slipped down to his and squeezed it gently. It was more than a few minutes before she could bring herself to move from his side. Soon she would not be needed in the sickroom.
And then what?
It did not bear thinking about in her current state of exhaustion. Taking up her candle, she went to look in on Peter.
The boy was sleeping peacefully, helped, no doubt, by the influence of the laudanum, There was little for her to do, but she was loath to return to Saybrook’s room just yet.
A small pile of freshly laundered shirts lay on the mahogany dresser in the far corner of the room.
Mary must have forgotten them, so Jane moved to put them away in one of the drawers.