Page 61 of Fair Weather Enemies
“Eternally, particularly concerning Caroline’s childhood. Although I proved more fortunate than most. The prize for my foolishness was Mary. She has made virtuous my sins, forged a fiery sword from my regret, and raised the ignoble to nobility.”
Adam laughed. “You really are a poet.”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “Love makes a poet of every man who is unafraid to speak his feelings. I recommend you do so when your Jane awakens.”
Adam’s brow knotted, matching the reflexive clench of his gut. “But I am pledged to another, sir. Convention prohibits such an action.”
“Convention be damned. You should tell her anyway. Anything less will engender only deep and lasting regret.”
Adam studied Jane for a time before sighing. “I will consider your advice, Mr. Wordsworth. After all, dismissing the counsel of a poet seems potentially foolish and regrettable.”
“Now you begin to understand.”
Adam’s gaze did not leave the sleeping Jane. “Despite my continuing bewilderment, sir, perhaps I do.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fevered dreams beset Jane, one after another. Initially, she was back at the archer’s window of Carlisle Castle defending the keep. The ranks of the enemy, countless in number, all wore Adam’s face. This scenario confused her very much. Each time she rose to nearly rational thought, the fever redoubled its grip and dragged her again to the depths of irrationality.
Eventually, the scenario changed. For a time, she and Adam were running together. Toward what, she did not know. Away from what, she could not say. She knew only that both the beginning and the end seemed abjectly terrifying in their own way, and that the sole comfort was found in the continued journey. That repetition gave way to another more horrifying than the last. She followed Adam for days and days, always ten steps behind, calling his name. He never turned to answer—not even once. This was the image seared into her mind when she finally emerged from the string of delirium. Her eyes fluttered open. Unaccustomed to the light, she blinked several times as the dismal vision abated and logic reasserted its rightful place.
A wall. Floral paper covering it. A bed, soft and warm. Memory crowded in. She had become ill. Adam had carried her to a house. The house of…no, no, no. That could not be right. Another remnant of the delirium, no doubt. Was she alone? Abandoned? She rolled carefully from her left side to her right. The sight that greeted her elicited immediate tears of relief. Adam sat sprawled in a chair, hands folded, chin on his chest, eyes closed. She brought a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. He had not abandoned her! The comfort of his ongoing vigil flooded her, elbowing aside the vestiges of delusion left by the fever. Afraid of shattering the moment, she lay silently, watching him. The steady rise and fall of his chest gave evidence of his slumber. In a sleeping state, his handsome features would have appeared boyish if not for the stubble peppering his jaw and chin. Clearly, he had not shaved for a time. How long? Even as she considered that question, his breath hitched, and he stirred. Brown eyes opened and rapidly locked with hers. He stood abruptly from the chair.
“Jane!” This single word seemed all he could manage. She produced a weary smile.
“You were expecting another, perhaps?”
Her words emerged raw from a parched throat. He laughed, settled back into his chair, and leaned toward her. “No. As you seem particularly devoted to this bed, the presence of another would have proved rather shocking.” He reached for the floor and retrieved a glass of water. “You should cool your throat before speaking further.”
When she lifted her head, he held the glass gently to her lips while she sipped the contents. When her head fell back to the pillow, he returned the glass to the floor.
“Very good, Jane.”
“Thank you.” She yawned wide before embarrassment drove her to cover her mouth. “Pardon my manners.”
“Not to worry. My presence elicits a similar reaction from many people wherever I go. It should be no different with you or in this place.”
Jane squinted. “Speaking of this place, my recollection is foggy. We are in someone’s house, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“Good, then. Now promise not to laugh at me.”
“Laugh at you? About what?”
She tucked her chin and smiled sheepishly. “While I slept, I was visited by strange and disturbing dreams. In one, I dreamed we had come to the house of William Wordsworth, the poet. Is that not odd?”
A smile stretched across Adam’s face. “Very odd. And what renders it odder still is the dream’s accuracy. We are, indeed, guests of the aforementioned poet.”
Surprise overcame her. She tried to sit up only to be driven back to the pillow when the room spun around her. She clutched her temples to halt the spinning. “Oh. That was an ill-advised maneuver.” When the room steadied, she glanced at the open door and brought her hands to her chest. “Tell me. Would Mr. Wordsworth think poorly of us for occupying a bedroom? Alone? Together?”
Adam shook his head. “Not at all. He seems not the kind of man to cast aspersions on others. Recognition of his own flaws prevents that.”
“And Aunt Hester? Mr. Barlow?”
“They approve. You have been very ill. Watching over you was my duty as a gentleman, chivalrous and virtuous.”
She smirked. “Chivalrous, you say? Are you a knight, then?”
