“I told you I hate rain.” Morgan closed his eyes and laid back against the pillow that his wife had dutifully propped behind him. Guy had installed him in a second guest bedroom, muttering something about not wishing to spread the illness. His friend was perhaps dong him a favor but Emma had yet to leave his side since he had started sickening.

“A little rain does not cause colds,” she said, drawing the blankets up over his chest.

He opened his eyes and looked at her through narrowed slits. His throat was so damned raw and he could feel a hacking cough coming on. If he died all because he’d been made to go on a walk and kiss Emma in the rain…He sighed. Well, he supposed he could die a happy man.

“You are not dying,” she insisted.

He must have said something aloud. “Feels like I am.”

She perched on the side of the bed and brushed his hair from his forehead to feel his skin. He did not need her to tell him he was about ready to combust. He tried to push away the blankets but Emma batted away his hand.

“Too hot,” he grumbled.

“Why are men so terrible at being ill?”

“How many ill men have you nursed?”

“My father for one.”

“And I suppose he speaks for all men then.”

Emma shook her head and smiled softly. “No, but it is a well-known fact. Men are terrible at being ill.”

“Poppycock.”

She ignored him and reached for a cup of hot lemon tea from the side table. She offered it to him and he made a face.

“Cannot stand the stuff.”

“Tough, you need to drink it. It will ease your throat.”

“It will make me hotter.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “Lord Radcliff, you will do as you are told and stop acting like a damned child. Drink the tea or I’ll force it down your throat.”

Morgan considered her fiery eyes and eyed her determined expression. If his body was not riddled with aches, he’d have grinned. He’d never loved her more than in this moment.

Love.

He blinked at her and wordlessly took the tea. Emma watched him drink the lot with a slightly surprised expression. Then he handed it back. If she was surprised, then he was flabbergasted. Of course, if he thought hard, the feeling had been creeping over him for a while. He’d noticed her once or twice before, registering her prettiness and her enthusiasm for cards. Then he’d really taken notice after that first kiss. Once he had taken her to bed, he’d been a lost man, he supposed.

“I shall have some broth made for you later but you should rest.” She stood and settled herself on a chair at his bedside.

“Are you staying?”

“Yes. Now go to sleep.”

“I’m meant to sleep with you watching?” He did not like the idea of that one bit. What if he said something in his sleep? What if he had a nightmare? But his eyes were so heavy and the pillow was so damned soft. How could he resist just a little snooze? Perhaps it would be all right and he would be too tired to have nightmares.

“Go to sleep,” Emma soothed.

Damned wicked woman’s words worked. He felt himself fall into the abyss, powerless to stop it.

The abyss wasn’t deep enough, though. It was shattered by a voice. He tried to close his ears to it, to clap his hands over his head but it was no good, it would always reach him. His mother, screaming for help, the words slowly drowned out as she too drowned. He fought to get to her through the quaggy mire that suddenly surrounded him but the weeds and mud kept sucking him back. Every step he took seemed to draw him farther away. The carriage vanished into the mud, taking his mother with it.

“Morgan!” she called to him from the depths. “Morgan!” His name continued to whisper through his mind until the darkness vanished and gave way to a slit of light.

He peered through the light to spy an angel. Was he dead? Emma would be sorry. No, that wasn’t right. Angels didn’t have wild red hair that stuck out at all angles or freckles, did they?

“Emma?”

“I’m here.” She put a hand to his cheek.

His mouth was as dry as dirt but the fatigue was rolling off him slowly. “How long have I been asleep?”

“All day and night. It’s nearly three o’clock in the afternoon. Are you hungry?”

He forced himself to focus for a moment. “I think so.”

“I’ll get you some broth then, and some more tea.” She rose but he reached out and snatched her wrist before she could leave.

“Just ring for it. Have you been here all night?”

She smiled and the black smudges around her eyes gave her away.

“You have. You should be resting.” He released her wrist and gave into the tickling cough that had been threatening to unleash itself.

Emma tugged the bell pull and came to sit beside him on the bed, rubbing his back until the coughing ceased. She put a hand to his head. “You’re cooler now. I think the rest did you good. Were you…um…?”

“Um?”

“You were saying things in your sleep.”

“Like what?” Dread curled deep inside him, sending him instantly cold. What had she heard?

“Noises mostly. I couldn’t really understand them.”

“Must have been feverish.”

“Yes, I suppose.” There was a sullenness to her voice that turned him even colder.

He glanced at her. His gut tightened for different reasons now. She knew he was keeping something from him and he didn’t like that.

“I had some bad dreams,” he said quickly. “I get them sometimes. I’ll tell you all about them soon.”

Her lips curved again and a weight lifted from his chest. It was hardly a confession but for her sake he had to find a way to tell her about the things that haunted him most.