Page 12 of Never Leave Me
“Absolutely. I was a bit befuddled and didn’t know what I was doing.”
Maybe he’d been a little befuddled to begin with. But he’d quickly found himself kissing her back, hungrily taking advantage of the situation.
She twisted her hands together. “The doctor’s on his way. ButI thought in the meantime, I’d do what I could to keep you from falling into a coma.”
“I venture to say, your efforts worked wonders.” He tried for a smile, wanting to put her at ease.
“Ugh.” She released a tense breath. “I didn’t intend to get so carried away.”
His heart dropped a notch, and his smile fell. “Neither did I. I only hope you’ll work it out to forgive me.”
“As long as you’ll do the same.”
“Done.”
“Then we can forget it ever happened.”
“Absolutely.” Never. He’d never forget his stolen moment with her as long as he lived. In fact, at the merest thought of the taste of her lips against his, the longing for her swelled against his chest painfully.
“Good.” She managed a shy smile.
“Yes, good.” He forced a benevolent tone in return.
“At least you’re not in a coma. I was so worried when you passed out, and thought you’d end up like Dad and Marian.” She reached out a hand toward his neck but then pulled back abruptly. “Your pulse. I was going to check your pulse.”
If she so much as laid a finger on him, he wouldn’t be able to resist pulling her down and wrapping her in his arms. “Many thanks, love. But I think I can look after myself now.” He pushed himself up to his elbows and tested his strength.
She clasped her hands in front of her. “Of course. I’ll wait to see what the doctor says when he arrives.”
He hefted himself a little higher, a strange energy coursing the length of his body. “How long have I been laid out?”
“Not long.” She glanced at her watch. “Ten minutes or so. How are you feeling?”
“I’ll be fine in two shakes.” Marian had always been sleepyalmost to the point of exhaustion whenever she’d ingested even the smallest residue of holy water. But he felt more awake by the second.
Ellen retrieved his spectacles from the bedside table and handed them to him. “I guess I’ll go see where the doctor is.”
Harrison froze with his spectacles halfway to his face and then glanced around the chamber, a combination of modern and historical. Every piece of dark antique furniture was in sharp focus—the toes on the claw-footed armoire, the elegant line of scrollwork on the settee, and even the carvings on the eighteenth-century Italian candlesticks on the fireplace mantel. Not only could he see the minuscule details, but everything was clearer than he’d ever seen.
For seconds, he could only sit in stunned disbelief, taking in the tiny, golden fleur-de-lis on the blue tapestries hanging in the window. With his terrible myopia, how was it possible he could see so clearly?
As soon as the question sifted through him, the answer followed on its heels along with a jolt of anticipation so immense, he could hardly breathe. He pushed himself to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs off with an ease that startled him.
“Even if you don’t think you need a doctor,” Ellen was saying as she crossed slowly to the door, “I’d still like him to check you over. You ingested poison, Harrison. Poison. And maybe it didn’t put you into a coma, but we need to be sure it didn’t affect you in any other ways.”
Harrison glanced at his legs. They’d been useless for thirty-five years, since he was a boy of four and had been in a car accident. Although his parents sustained only minor injuries, he suffered a ruptured disk that bruised his spinal cord. While a surgeon successfully decompressed his spine, the paralysis in his lower extremities, including his legs and feet, hadn’t gone away, and he hadn’t been able to walk ever since.
His parents had done all they could. And while they blamed themselves for the accident, he didn’t blame them in the least. He’d been content to hide away at home, spend hours in the library with his best friends—books—and stay aloof from people and their prying questions and pitying stares.
His parents had all but forced him to attend the best schools and helped him to see his natural aptitude for science. If not for their encouragement, he wouldn’t have gone to graduate school, wouldn’t have worked at Mercer Pharmaceuticals, and wouldn’t have met Arthur Creighton and his two beautiful daughters. Having the Creightons as family after his parents had passed on had been a blessing.
Although he’d never needed the income from his position with Mercer Pharmaceuticals Canterbury Research and Development Headquarters, he’d enjoyed the stimulation and challenge the work had provided.
Of course, he’d had physical therapy throughout his life to maintain the little movement and muscular ability that had remained. He’d learned to adjust and had adapted so that he was fairly independent.
In spite of everything, he led a gilded life. He could keep up appearances by wearing expensive, tailored suits and smart, shiny shoes. He could act the part of an aristocrat. He could wield his power and money with abandon. But underneath the polished veneer, a thin layer of insecurity had always remained.
With a shaky, nervous exhale, he wiggled his toes on first one foot, then the other. The movement rippled up the length of his legs with an odd sensation he reckoned was normal but was one he couldn’t remember ever having.
