“Why don’t you request a fire be laid in your room?” Lady Cecilia asked as she accepted her brandy from James.
“Too tired.”
“Nonsense,” Cecilia said. “We shall engage the staff to build a fire for you when they come with our food. The room can then be warm when you retire.”
“I don’t?—”
James interrupted him. “It is a waste of words to argue with Lady Branstoke,” he said laconically. “I have had to devise other means of persuasion,” James said, smiling down at his wife.
She cuddled closer to him. “Odious creature,” she said playfully.
“A toast then, to my odious nature,” he said, raising his glass. They clinked their glasses as they stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, then Cecilia closed her eyes and relaxed against him.
James squeezed her closer, relaxing for the first time since he’d received Mrs. Montgomery’s letter. He rested his chin on her head as he watched the peat fire burn.
His Cecilia was back, and James felt his heart ready to burst from his chest. He loved this tiny, slight, fae, intelligent, impetuous, determined, and willful woman. He allowed that his role in their marriage was to cherish her and protect her—sometimes from herself. Woe be to anyone who tried to hurt her or come between them.
The fire crackled and hissed as they contentedly sipped their drinks. A clock on the mantle ticked the quiet minutes by.
A low moaning groan came from behind them.
Cecilia raised her head as James turned toward the sound.
Mr. Stackpoole did not look well. He tried to rise to his feet. “My apologies. I fear I am to be sick,” he said, stumbling against the table. He held a hand against his stomach, his face an unnatural white. His body convulsed as he tried to move toward the door.
Cecilia quickly rose from the bench and grabbed a large bowl underneath a pitcher of water available for guests to wash their hands. She thrust it at him just as his body heaved again and released the contents of his stomach. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away from the foul stench of regurgitated matter.
“So sorry,” he whispered before his body heaved again.
James took the bowl from her and set it on the table. Cecilia pulled out the handkerchief she’d stuffed into the end of the long sleeves of her dress and held it to her nose.
“I think that is all,” Mr. Stackpoole said weakly. He sank back down in his chair, sweat now beading on his brow. He closed his eyes, rocking back, his expression contorted.
James opened the door to call for a servant.
A burly waiter came to James’s call. He reeled back at the awful sink in the room.
“Oi best fetch da missus,” he said, backing out of the room.
James grabbed him by the shoulder. “No, you stay here with Mr. Stackpoole. Lady Branstoke and I will notify the innkeeper of this occurrence,” he said.
He pulled Cecilia to her feet and hurried her from the room.
“Thank you,” Cecilia said. “Though I may feign illness at times, I cannot stand illness. It turns me from a spectator to a real patient,” she whispered.
James nodded. “I understand. For me, after the smells coming from the battlefields in Spain with their sick, dead, and dying, noxious smells no longer traumatize me.”
He led her down the stairs, only stopping once to call out to a passing servant to notify the Prices of a sick guest.
James led Cecilia toward the large hearth in the pub room. A young man seated by the fire saw their approach and jumped to his feet. “Here yar, please to give da lai-dy my seat,” he said, quickly doffing his brown plaid cap.
“Thank you,” James said as he led Cecilia to sit down. “Will you be all right while I speak with Mr. Price about Mr. Stackpoole?” he asked her.
She smiled up at him. “Yes, I shall be fine.”
“We’ll watch after da lai-dy,” the man said as he stuffed his cap in his coat pocket.
The other men heartily agreed.
