Chapter 12 #2
There was a T-shirt thrown over the bottom of the bed.
He managed to get it over his head without undue distress, but he supposed that would have to do for any and all grooming efforts for the day.
His arm ached abominably, which he found slightly disconcerting.
He touched the puncture wound gingerly, hardly daring to speculate on what had found its way inside.
There was a bandage there, but he didn’t imagine Sunny had put in stitches.
If she’d done more than just put a plaster on it after packing it with her miracle salve, he would have been very surprised.
He gathered his courage, then got to his feet. He staggered to the door, then leaned against it for several minutes until he thought he could get the door open and continue on.
He tottered into the sitting room and managed to get to the sofa, but no farther.
He sat down heavily, then put his hand over his eyes and simply breathed until he thought he could open his eyes and not have the world continue to spin wildly around him.
He squinted at the coffee table in front of him and blinked in surprise.
Waiting there was tea, broth, and juice.
He suspected that wasn’t for Samantha’s benefit.
He wasn’t sure any of it looked very appetizing, but he wasn’t going to be ungracious.
Well, any more than he had been already.
He looked up to find Samantha sitting in a chair at the table, watching him.
“Thank you,” he said.
It came out more brusquely than he had intended, but what did she expect? His arm was on fire, his head felt as if it were stuffed with gauze, and there was a piece of Elizabethan lace sitting somewhere under a planter four hundred years in the past and it was that woman sitting over there’s fault.
“You’re welcome.”
He scowled. Why didn’t she just stand up to him and give him a right proper ticking off?
He didn’t want to think about why that bothered him so much, so he simply didn’t. He ate what he thought he could manage, then sat back and tried to ignore how dreadful he felt.
He needed a vacation. In fact he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a vacation. He was beginning to wonder if perhaps he shouldn’t take a vacation at a charm school.
His head was pounding, his tum was far from settled, and he thought he might have to soon go have a little lie-down.
And still his lace languished in a place where it shouldn’t.
He looked at Samantha to find her looking off into the distance where he wasn’t.
He sighed, then set his computer on the table.
“I think I might have to sleep a bit more.”
“Sure.”
He pushed his tablet toward her. “Surf all you like, if you want.”
She nodded but didn’t say anything.
“We’ll try to go tonight.”
She looked at him in surprise. “You’re kidding.”
He wished he were. “I can’t leave that lace behind any longer.”
“But you’re in no shape—”
“I will be,” he interrupted sharply.
She didn’t reply and for some reason that irritated the hell out of him.
“How did Cameron get my password?” he demanded.
She looked at him then. “He asked you while you were delirious. He pretended to be the ghost of Christmas future, promised dire retribution if you didn’t cough up the goods, and you blurted it out like a man with a secret.”
He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her say so many things in one sentence.
He imagined his cousin had greatly enjoyed his role as reproving ghost. Perhaps there was something to be grateful for that it had been Cameron in the role and not some damned ghost in truth. In his delirium, though, he likely wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.
“Unsurprising,” was all he could manage to say, though he supposed it was a particularly lame comment on the whole situation, a situation that was absolutely untenable.
His arm was killing him, which led him to wonder briefly if he shouldn’t have had a proper doctor look at it.
His computer had been compromised—with help, apparently—by a woman who was too polite to tell him to get over himself.
And he still had lace where it shouldn’t have been, but he was honestly not at all sure he would manage to get to it before someone else did.
He decided that perhaps the best thing he could do was get himself back to bed and rest for the afternoon. He took a deep breath, then pushed himself to his feet.
He supposed, looking at it in hindsight, it was the deep breath that had been unwise.
Perhaps he should have fortified himself with several, as well as a lad on either side to keep him upright.
Instead, what he had was Samantha Drummond, doing her best to make sure he didn’t destroy the coffee table.
She caught him before he fell. He supposed it was just dumb luck that the table was topped with marble instead of glass. As it was, he heard something give under the weight of his knee on it. A porcelain saucer, perhaps.
“Sorry,” he gasped.
She put her arms around him and simply held on to him, cleverly avoiding his shoulder. “Breathe,” she suggested.
He supposed that was good advice. He didn’t want to rest his chin on her shoulder, but in his defense, he was not at his best at present. He patted her back, because his hand was there and it seemed like a friendly thing to do.
“I think I’m going to be ill,” he wheezed.
“Please not down the sweater,” she said. “It’s cashmere.”
“Textile snob.”
She laughed a little. “If you only knew.” She simply stood there for a bit longer, apparently having to brace herself solidly to keep him from pitching forward onto her. “How are you?”
“Still considering ruining your sweater.”
“You know, you might feel better if you didn’t talk so much.”
He would have laughed, but it was simply beyond him at the moment. Instead, he did as she had suggested and simply breathed until he thought he could make it back to his bed.
“Better,” he managed.
She put one hand on his good shoulder, then the other on his chest and held him steady until he could right himself. He was afraid he found it quite impossible to stay on his feet without holding on to her, even with the coffee table sitting between them.
It didn’t bode well for his evening.
“I feel better,” he announced weakly.
“Sure you do. Here, let’s get you back to bed.”
He found he simply didn’t have the strength to argue with her. It was taking all his energy just to keep his gorge where it belonged.
He didn’t fight her when she eased around the table, then drew his good arm over her shoulder. He was fairly sure he’d gasped out an apology or two, but it was entirely possible he’d imagined that.
Samantha stopped him just inside his bedroom. “Bathroom?”
“Egads, woman,” he gasped, “my dignity.”
“Which will be more seriously damaged if I have to rescue you with your trousers down around your ankles.”
He wasn’t quite sure there was any farther south he could travel when it came to his pride, so he nodded, accepted her as a crutch, then stumbled along with her to the loo.
Five minutes later thanks to sheer determination, he got the door open and managed not to fall into her arms.
“You look green.”
“I feel worse.”
“Back to bed with you, then.”
He wasn’t about to argue. He managed to get himself flat without ripping open his shoulder, but he supposed that was more Samantha’s doing than his. She peered at his shoulder.
“I think that might be starting to bleed.”
“This is my favorite . . . T-shirt,” he managed.
“I guess you could pretend it’s marinara.”
He looked at her and did his best not to see two of her. “Had to tell him something believable.”
“Well, the truth wouldn’t qualify for that,” she said, sounding increasingly far away. “I’m going to call Sunny.”
He closed his eyes. “Cameron once thought she was . . . a witch.”
“Is she?”
He shook his head, which was a very bad idea. “Herbalist.”
“Want a doctor instead?”
“Please, nay,” he said. “Just Sunny.”
“I think that’s wise. I’m not sure how you’d explain this otherwise. I’ll go call her.”
He made a grab for her arm, which was a failure. She paused at the foot of his bed.
“What?”
“Sorry,” he said. “Arse.”
“Yes, I believe you are.”
He didn’t bother to argue. He simply closed his eyes and fought the urge to lean over the side of the bed and vomit.
He was fairly certain Sunny could fix that by working on his feet, but he wasn’t sure she would be willing to after Samantha got through describing his behavior, which she no doubt would. Damn her.
He realized with a bit of a start that he was angry, but he couldn’t decide whom he was angry with. Himself, definitely, because he was being rude and couldn’t seem to stop himself. Samantha Drummond, absolutely, because she wouldn’t tell him to go to hell.
He just wanted to have it all over with so he could get her and that damned piece of lace out of his life once and for all. He didn’t know her, but he was sure he wouldn’t like her if he did. Too mousy.
Of course, another lad might have called that characteristic gentleness or kindness, but he was who he was. He liked fast cars and brittle women, truly he did.
He knew he was beginning to drool, but he couldn’t stop himself.
All he could do was cling to the last vestiges of thought and concentrate on a plan.
He would brush up on his accent when he had a minute, get himself and Samantha Drummond to the appropriate spot, then get in and out of Elizabethan England with a minimum of fuss.
And then he would be done with everything associated with the ill-advised venture.