Page 22 of Two Rogues Make a Right
“I feel certain you shouldn’t think so.” Will didn’t need to turn his head to know Martin was blushing. “You’re really a terrible judge of character.” The air was heavy with the scent of bluebells and the weight of everything they were almost saying.
“I thought of you every day,” Will said quietly. “Sometimes I thought you had to know, even from the other side of the world.” He swallowed. “I had your letters all but memorized.” He thought of that packet of letters, and how he had clung to it like a talisman to a dead God, like a latchkey to a home that had burned to the ground. Sometimes, if he stopped to wonder what had happened to that carefully folded and refolded stack of papers, tied and retied until the string broke, he thought his heart might break. “I don’t mind you being jealous,” he finally said.
“You ought to. It’s the sort of thing my father would do.”
“No, your father would take it out on the person he was jealous about. You were properly civil to my friend, then sulked for two minutes and brought me to a lovely bluebell wood to make things better.”
He heard Martin let out a soft breath and knew he had gotten it right.
Chapter Nine
Will had been gone all day, first running errands for Mrs. Tanner and then inspecting some piglets he wished to buy. He was tired, hungry, and more than a little dusty when he got home, and therefore not in the best possible frame of mind when the first thing he heard upon opening the door was a cough.
Will looked at his friend’s pale cheeks, heard the hacking cough, and gritted his teeth. “I’m sending for the doctor.”
“It’s a cold.” Martin sat at the table, a cup of tea before him and a book open on his lap.
“I’m serious. Have you been like this since I left this morning?”
“It’s a cold, you silly man,” Martin repeated, but he didn’t sound like he believed it.
“That might have sounded more convincing if you hadn’t been wheezing while you said it,” Will observed. He turned back toward the door. “I’ll be back in an hour with Mr. Booth.”
“I wish you wouldn’t. I mean, at least sit down with me for a minute and tell me how your day went before you turn me over to the not particularly tender mercies of the physician.”
There was something in Martin’s voice that was more than the usual sniping. He tried to remember how Martin had reacted during their visit to the doctor in London, but Martin had barely been conscious at the time. “You’ve never even met Mr. Booth. He might be perfectly nice.”
“They’re all the same,” Martin grumbled. “Poking and prodding and bloodletting, followed by medicines that make me too weak to even sneeze properly, and all of it generally accompanied by ominous lectures and calls to prayer.”
“I won’t let him do anything you don’t want,” Will promised. “And if he tries to lecture you, I’ll kick him out.”
“You say that, but when he starts going on about how I’ll die without some patent remedy that does nothing but make me vomit, you’ll sing a different tune.”
Will passed a hand over his mouth. “Look. You said you prefer when this sort of thing is out in the open, so I’m just going to tell you that if you die in the night, I’ll feel better if I know that I did everything possible to help you.”
Martin narrowed his eyes. “Do you know, that’s almost exactly what my father used to say before locking me in my bedroom and drugging me stupid. To be fair, I’m not entirely sure whether he hoped to improve my lungs or my morals, but the principle stands.”
Will stepped forward and put his hand to Martin’s forehead. “You have a fever.”
Martin ignored him. “He was such a hypocrite. To think that he was carrying on with Hartley at the same exact time he was punishing me for even looking at you.”
Will’s heart stuttered in his chest. He held one of Martin’s cold hands in between both of his and rubbed, as if bringing warmth to this one part of Martin could restore him to health. “Your father was a piece of shit and I wish he were alive just so I could kill him again.”
“You’d have to wait your turn.”
Will crouched before him, not letting go of Martin’s hand. “All right. Can I send for the doctor tomorrow, if you aren’t feeling better?”
“Do you know, that’s why he sent you away. He found us in bed together and jumped to conclusions. So he found you a place in the navy.”
“That’s not what happened. Nobody sent me away.” Will brushed the hair off Martin’s forehead so he could get a better look at his eyes. Glassy, too bright. Will frowned. “We’ll talk about this when you’re well. For now, tell me if I can get the doctor tomorrow.”
“Leave off, Will. I get to decide. Only me. I’m not delirious or unconscious, and you need to stop.”
Will got to his feet and added a log to the fire, then hung the kettle over the flames. He stayed silent until the tea had steeped, then poured a fresh cupful for Martin.
“Should I apologize for having brought you to the doctor in London?” he asked softly. “I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t want to take your choices away. Ever. I just—my mother was very much the heroic martyr. She’d let things get to a desperate state before even agreeing to lie down. Once she fainted while hanging out the wash and we didn’t even find her for hours. And then we all blamed ourselves for not noticing. I’m trying to do better by you than I was able to do by her.”
Martin frowned into his teacup. “You cannot possibly know how badly I wish you didn’t have to tend another invalid.”
