Page 49 of The Defiant Governess
“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 Corsairby 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 seemeddifferent. 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.
The flicker of another candle caught her eye. She turned, expecting Mrs. Fairchild. But instead, the figure of the marquess appeared in the doorway.
He looked every bit as piratical as the hero in the epic poem she had been reading. His long hair was tangled, a dark stubble covered his chin and his linen shirt hung half-open, revealing his bare chest. The fever had left hollows under his cheeks and though his eyes appeared sunken, they were as sea-green as ever. He seemed unaware of her presence, and with slow, shuffling steps he moved towards Peter.
Jane almost spoke out, but something held her back. She watched as Saybrook slowly sat on the edge of the bed. His hand ran lightly over Peter’s cheek, then he gathered the boy in his arms, taking great care not to jostle the splint, and hugged him tight to his chest. He remained holding the boy in an embracefor some time. Then, brushing a kiss to the boy’s forehead, he lay Peter back down and made to rise.
The effort caused his lips to compress with pain. Hitching in a shaky breath, he gripped one of the bedposts as he rose unsteadily to his feet.
“Miss Langley,” he whispered hoarsely, not turning to look at her. “I regret that I must ask what is no doubt an odious task of you—but without your assistance I fear I shall not be able to return to my chamber.”
Jane wiped away the tears the poignant scene had brought to her eyes and moved quietly to his side. “Steady, sir. If you just put your arm around my shoulder …” She in turn slipped hers around his waist. “Now, rest some of your weight on me.”
In that manner they were able to slowly cross the hall. With a repressed groan, Saybrook sank onto his bed, his shirt damp with sweat from the effort.
“Please, sir, you mustn’t try to walk yet or you’ll bring back the fever,” she said as she helped lift his legs onto the bed and pulled the coverlet over them. “You’ve been very ill.”
“Peter—how is Peter?”
