Chapter Twenty-Two
Emma’s cheek was pressed against James’s chest. His hand was in her hair, stroking and tugging, pulling her head back so he could kiss her. Even as she felt the touch of his lips upon her mouth, her hand roved greedily across his taut muscles, toyed with and pinched the fascinating male nipples with their halo of hair. He groaned against her mouth, and his tongue, hot and slick, probed her lips, then penetrated and invaded her.
She pushed up, pressing her body hard against him, her tongue working with his, finding a rhythm that satisfied them both, stoking their mutual desire higher and higher.
Thud.
Suddenly, she was awake, her heart thumping painfully. It took her a moment to realize where she was, but when she looked down and saw her book lying open on the floor, she remembered.
She remembered the dream, as well.
So much for the Reverend Clark’s edifying sermons!
Thump.
This time the sound came from James’s room. Fearful he’d fallen out of his bed, she dashed in and found him sitting on the edge of it, trying—and failing—to find his way back into his nightshirt.
“Wait. I’ll help you.”
It was a bit of a battle, but they achieved it together, and he lay back on his pillows, his face pallid.
“Would you like some water?” She was still sleepy, and too confused by her dream to think of offering anything else.
“No. Too cold. More blankets, please.”
She collected up some blankets and tucked them around him. A spasm shook his body, eliciting a groan.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she examined his face closely. “James, are you in pain?” she asked.
He shivered again, then looked at her with a puzzled frown. “Why’s it so damned cold in here? What is this place?”
“Tresham Hall. You were taken ill.”
“Is it always freezing in this house?”
“I’ll make up the fire directly,” she promised, leaping up to fetch the bellows.
As soon as the logs in the hearth were blazing fiercely, she asked, “Shall I heat a brick for your feet?”
“Why do you keep troubling me with questions?” he moaned. “I just want to sleep…if ever I can warm up enough to do so.”
How she wished George were here! She’d never had to deal with a serious illness before, and her confidence was quickly draining away. But she couldn’t let her patient see the doubt in her eyes—he must believe she had absolute control of the situation and knew just what to do for the best. Settling beside him again, she reached out to stroke his hair back from his forehead, saying, “You’ll be warm in no time.”
“Not without you to warm me, my ministering angel.”
“I beg your pardon?” She recoiled in shock, but he seized her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip and pulled her down, so their faces were almost touching.
“Warm me, I beg you,” he repeated in a soft whisper, his eyes boring into hers. “Nothing else will serve so well as another body next to mine.”
She didn’t want to examine how he knew this, or why she suffered a twinge of jealousy at the idea of him sharing his bed with someone else.
What he wanted was impossible.
“You can’t ask that of me,” she said, her cheeks heating. “I’ll be ruined.”
“Not if you marry me, you won’t.”
What?
“James, you’re delirious. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know my own heart,” he replied.
A flash of physical awareness shot through her center, but she fought against it.
This wasn’t real. It couldn’t possibly be. Either she was still dreaming, or he wasn’t in his right mind. It didn’t matter which. She must not get beneath the covers and wrap her arms tightly around him. Even if it was the best way to stop him shivering.
However…
Wasn’t it vital to keep an invalid calm and comfortable? What if her refusal made him more distressed and confused, resulting in a scene that would rouse the whole household? She debated with herself.
And debated some more.
Perhaps…if she remained fully clothed she could accomplish the task and feel less guilty about it. No one need ever know, and he’d probably have forgotten about it himself by morning.
Did she dare?
He moaned again. “Please,” he murmured.
She swallowed heavily. And made up her mind.
To be on the safe side, she padded across to the door and locked it, then slipped off her shoes, lifted the blankets, and lay down in the space James had made for her. He took her in his arms and pressed her against him.
A great spasm of shuddering convulsed his body, so she hugged him back, trying to quiet him with the certainty of her warmth and compassion. He nuzzled at her hair and gripped her harder, his rough cheek grazing her face.
How easy it would be to kiss him! But wasn’t she already risking her own health by being this close? She wondered if the man had any idea of the enormity of what they were doing.
Probably not.
“James,” she murmured as the paroxysm eased. “Shall I fetch the hot brick now?”
“No,” he whispered against her hair. “Don’t let go. I don’t want you ever to let go.”
Each word he spoke, each touch of his fingers, made their situation feel less like merely a practical solution to a problem.
It felt more like the lovers’ embrace they’d shared in her dream.
She rubbed a hand vigorously over his back, chafing the heat back into his flesh, trying to make her touch feel as unlike a lover’s caress as she could.
It made no difference to the escalating pull of desire within her. He just shifted closer, fitting himself into every bend and curve of her body, until an audit of their limbs could hardly differentiate where his ended and her own began. For all his superior height and athlete’s body, he seemed to fit her like a glove.
Oh, how beautiful it would be to be held like this—loved, cherished, wanted—for real. The urge to snuggle down in his arms and enjoy being crushed against his tempting body nearly overwhelmed her.
He was shivering less now, and his limbs moved appreciatively over hers, accompanied by a low growling sound from deep in his chest.
It was time to escape.
She removed his arm where it cradled her waist, and wriggled backward to the edge of the bed. He mumbled a complaint and tried to stop her, but she set her jaw and pushed him gently but firmly away.
His eyes flashed open, and he looked straight at her, as if he saw her perfectly normally, not through the mist of delirium. “You are so beautiful,” he said.
Ignoring the invitation in his gaze, she shuffled off the bed and landed in an ungainly fashion on her knees. Keeping well out of his reach, she said, “This moment never happened. It’s just a dream, part of the delirium caused by the ague, enhanced by the laudanum and Peruvian bark you’ve taken.”
She swallowed again and got to her feet, summoning up her most commanding voice. “I’m going to give you a hot brick for extra warmth, then you’ll sleep. When you wake again, call out, and someone will come.”
“I want only you. You’re my ministering angel, my blessed guardian angel.”
She looked down at herself with a frown. She couldn’t imagine anyone looking less like an angel than she did right now. Her gown was crumpled, her hair half down and all in a tangle, and her eyes must look bruised from lack of sleep.
His vision must be affected by his illness.
Still, it was the most flattering thing the viscount had ever said to her. In fact, apart from Charles Keane’s meaningless flirting, it was the nicest thing any man had ever said to her, and she’d always treasure the words.
With a sigh, she turned away and knelt by the hearth to retrieve the warm brick and wrap it in a towel. She tucked it into the bed at his feet, and said, “You’ll feel better for a while now. There are always gaps between the paroxysms of fever and cold. I’ll make up some more feverfew tisane in the morning. Good night.”
He settled back against his pillows, turned his head toward her, and answered, “Thank you. And good night my darling, my beloved Belinda, good night.”