Chapter Eleven
When Emily next opened her eyes, it was to see a handsome gentleman leaning over her. He had sandy curls that clung damply to his forehead, and hazel eyes that contained hints of green amongst the brown.
Could she be dreaming? No one this handsome existed in her daily life. Any second now, she would wake up in her bed with Isabella.
Pressure on her hand. Slowly, as though she moved through treacle, she glanced down to where she found his fingers wrapped around hers. He was holding her hand.
What an odd dream.
“You’re awake,” a male voice said.
Was she? This didn’t feel how she associated being awake to feel. Her surroundings were wrong, too. And who was this man? She blinked, trying to bring him into focus.
“Emily,” he said, and brought her hand to his lips. Everything about him looked cold. As though he had brought winter inside with him. “Emily, can you hear me?”
She blinked at him, puzzled. Confused. Some part of her mind recognised this man, but he had not imprinted himself on her so deeply that she would recall him no matter what. All her thoughts felt fuzzy.
Finally, a name came to her.
“Oliver,” she croaked.
Relief spread across his face like fallen snow.
“Thank heavens. I thought you’d forgotten me.
” There was something a little unsteady about his voice.
She frowned at it, the world slowly coming back to her in bits and pieces.
Fits and starts. She was Emily Brunton, and for some reason she was lying down on this bed instead of doing something useful.
There were dishes to scrub and eggs to collect and so, so many rooms to dust. Cooking to do, fires to light, and budgeting their frugal income. They couldn’t afford coal.
Oliver pressed on her shoulder. “No, Emily,” he said, oddly gentle. “Don’t get up.”
Her tongue felt too thick in her mouth. “But there’s so much to do.”
“Nonsense, child,” another voice said to her left. A female voice this time, motherly and anxious. “There’s nothing you need do but feel better.”
“I—” She couldn’t collect her thoughts enough to get the words out. “Isabella.”
“She’s at home, waiting for you. Us,” Oliver corrected a little too quickly. “She’s all right.”
More memories filtered through the haze in her mind.
Oliver kidnapping her, trying to marry her—or rather, Isabella—and trudging through the endless snow to get here.
They were pretending to be man and wife, and there was no guarantee that Isabella was fine, because if this much snow had fallen here, then it would have fallen back at Dalston, and Emily didn’t know if there was enough food in the house to see them through.
The chickens would continue laying, of course, and there was flour and salt and some yeast that she had picked up the last time she had gone into the village—but Isabella had never made the bread.
Isabella, Emily was starting to realise, had done very little around the house. But that only meant she would find it much harder to do everything now.
She closed her eyes, and Oliver squeezed her hand again.
“I fetched the physician,” he said, leaning in closer so she could feel the hot brush of his breath against her skin. Her head throbbed. “He said you have a commotion of the brain and recommended willow bark for pain relief. And rest. But you’ll be all right.”
“The . . . physician?”
“Yes. I rode out in the snow.” He shuddered, and she felt another burst of cold air from him. “Horrendous weather, but it was worth it.” She heard that tinge of panic in his voice again, and opened her eyes to find his face just above hers, brows drawn over those bright eyes.
“Oh,” she mumbled.
“More tea,” Mrs Chambers declared, and bustled out of the room. Everything fell silent, but for the crackle of the fire. Emily stared up at Oliver, who sat back, his mouth a hard line.
“You wouldn’t wake up,” he said. “Mr Winters said you would be all right when you awoke so long as you rested, but I thought—” He shook his head. He looked older here, and she had the oddest inclination to reassure him. All this worry over her.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “You rode all the way out in this weather for me?”
He dropped his hand onto his lap. “What else was I to do? I said I would make it right, Emily.”
“But your arm.”
“I’ll admit, it was a dashed uncomfortable journey,” he said with a quick smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “But Mr Winters took a look at my arm and said he couldn’t have done a better job with the splint, so that’s something. And it was worth it for the reassurance that you’ll be all right.”
Mrs Chambers re-entered the room, a tray in her hands and the promised tea atop it. “Here,” she said. “I’ve got to get back to the house, but you let me know if there’s anything you need.”
Emily looked into Mrs Chambers’ kindly face, and she felt a surge of guilt and affection so vast, it threatened to swallow her whole. “I’m so very grateful,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Nonsense, child. You get better, you hear?” She bent and kissed Emily on the cheek before bustling to the door and leaving quietly.
Emily looked at Oliver. “And to you,” she said quietly. “I am grateful. You—we barely like one another.”
“Speak for yourself,” he said with a hint of that roguish charm. “You are growing on me by the day.”
“You make me sound like a fungus.”
“A fungus wouldn’t insist on making breakfast for the family while she was suffering from a brick to the head, so that is a most unfair comparison.”
To her surprise, Emily cracked a smile. “I suppose I shall attempt to be more fungus-like, then.”
He adopted a shocked expression. “Was that a joke? You truly must have hit your head.”
“Very funny.”
“Thank you—I like to think so.” He took her hand again, toying with her fingers as though the gesture were perfectly natural. “How badly does your heart hurt?”
“Only a little.”
“For you to admit any pain at all must mean you are in agony.”
She rolled her eyes, which did nothing to ease her headache, and closed her fingers around his. “Help me sit up, please.”
“As you wish.” He slid a hand under her shoulders, and she did her best not to notice the warm press of his palm as he levered her upright.
Her head pounded, and at the look on her face, Oliver leaned over to a case on the table she hadn’t noticed before.
“Willow bark,” he explained, measuring out a little of the powder and handing it to her.
“In case you have a fever. And for the pain.”
At home, she had a similar little medicine box, although its ingredients had all run out some time since.
After accepting the little spoonful of powder and the water to wash it down, she rested against the bed’s headrest. Oliver fussed, rearranging the pillows, and when she frowned at him, he raised a brow.
“Not had someone look after you before? It’s quite simple. All you have to do is sit back and let it happen, then thank me. A smile is appreciated, but optional.”
All her previous amusement and humour vanished.
Her chest felt too tight. When was the last time someone had looked after her?
Not since her mother had died, that was for certain—Isabella had been too young to care for anyone at first, and then .
. . Well, Emily had got into the habit of not letting her weaknesses show.
But she recalled how it felt to be cared for—the memories were quieter now, faded against the everyday worries of her life, but still there.
Her mother’s cool hand on her forehead. Feeding her broth.
Curling up with her on the sofa, telling her endless stories as the fever sent her imagination soaring.
But back then, she had been a child, and her only responsibility had been to grow up healthy and strong. Both parents had been around to guide her.
Embarrassingly, she found tears start to her eyes, and she did her best to blink them back. This was not how she behaved. She did not have the time and space in her life for weakness.
“Emily?” Oliver looked as though he wanted to reach for her, but thought better of it. “What did I say? I’m sorry.”
“I’m just thinking about my childhood. Isabella.” She didn’t dare give him too much of herself. “When you marry her, please don’t introduce her to Lord Marlbury.”
“Marlbury?” His face creased in confusion. “What’s wrong with Marlbury?”
Everything. She closed her eyes, knowing she had already revealed too much with her request. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“Are you acquainted with him?”
In the most intimate of ways—along with half the girls in the village. “It doesn’t matter,” she repeated, more forcefully this time. “I should never have said anything. Thank you again for fetching the physician for me.”
“I must now take him back,” Oliver said. “In the meantime, I forbid you to leave this bed.”
Something sparked inside her, past the misery that came from being so exhausted and aching—a certain awakening. Curiosity about what it could mean to be commanded, and how it might feel to command.
No, no, no.
She shook her head, dislodging the thought. Such things did not belong attached to Oliver of all people. He was destined for her sister—her sister. And she was destined for no one at all.
Marlbury had made sure of that.
Oliver watched her as though he could read every single one of her thoughts, perverted as they may be. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and a line appeared between his brows.
“Forgive my wording,” he said. “But I mean it. Stay where you are, Emily. Rest. And feel better soon.” He raised a hand as though to brush it across her face, then let it drop and strode from the room.