“She hasn’t stirred at all?”
The woman shook her head, pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, and dabbed at her eyes. “No, sir. I rubbed her limbs and put a liniment on her chest, but she still feels awfully cold to the touch. The bed is well-warmed, though.”
“All right, thank you, Archer, that will be all.” Maxwell moved to the threshold. “I’ll stay with her tonight.”
Archer looked dubious. “Are you sure, sir? Perhaps it would be better for me to stay. She might awaken and have need of me.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he replied. “If necessary, I’ll send for you.”
Still looking doubtful, she bobbed a curtsey and left. Maxwell closed the door quietly and glanced about. A fire burned brightly in the hearth, a two-armed candelabra on the dresser held two lit tapers, and a solitary candle flickered on the bedside table. The coziness of the room belied the tragic situation.
Louisa lay on her back, covers pulled up to her chin, the bruising on her face a dark stain on the pallor of her skin. Maxwell moved to the bedside and touched her forehead, wincing at the chill of her flesh. He then drew back the coversand reached for her hand, which felt equally as cold and horribly lifeless.
“All right, Reuben Thornthwaite.” Maxwell began to undress. “Let’s see if this suggestion of yours works.”
Stripped naked, he slid into the bed and gathered her close, the smell of the liniment tingling in his nostrils. The chill of Louisa’s skin, seeping through the cotton of her nightdress, alarmed him. The warmth of her breath at the base of his throat gave him reason to hope.
He rested his cheek against her still-damp hair. “I love you, Mrs. Harlow,” he murmured, hoping that somewhere in the depths of her unconsciousness she might hear him. “Please don’t go.”
Sleep, for Maxwell, was out of the question. But, as the hours passed, Louisa’s body grew noticeably warmer, and he became less fearful for her life. Even her breath felt stronger against his throat. Still, she had yet to show any sign of consciousness, and he hardly dared consider the repercussions of a head injury. The doctor might be able to tell him more, but Maxwell suspected that time alone would declare the truth of it.
When the first bird shouted a greeting to the dawn, Maxwell left the bed, pulled on his shirt and trousers, and went to the washstand to splash water on his face. Then, somewhat revived, he dragged the armchair from the corner, placed it next to the bed, and sat down to await the physician’s arrival. Sitting back, he allowed his gaze to wander around the room, his attention drawn to something sitting atop the armoire, but partially hidden by the cornice. Curious, he went to investigate, and lifted the thing down.
A hat.
He recognized it immediately, for he had held it once before. Dragged it out of a gorse bush in fact, pheasant feathers and all. The memory surfaced with startling clarity, bringing the soundof Louisa’s laughter back to him. He hadn’t realized, at the time, just how significant the incident had been. It was, as Louisa would say, a trinket. A moment in his life he would never forget.
“Please, God,” he whispered, his throat tightening, “don’t take her from me. I beg of you,please.”
Chapter Eighteen
An icy darkness,thicker than any fog, held Louisa in its clutches. What felt like a hard, knotted rope twisted and tightened around her head, biting mercilessly into her skull. But she was not alone. Someone was with her in the blackness, comforting her, holding her, the contact gentle and so wonderfully warm. A voice too, familiar, masculine, uttering quiet words she couldn’t quite understand. As the chill ebbed from her bones, she tried to speak, to move, to let him know she was aware of his presence. But she couldn’t find the strength.
And then, from somewhere in the distance, a bird sang—a thrush—its sweet refrain piercing the blackness. Louisa held her breath, seeking the direction of the sound. She had the impression of floating upwards, as if emerging from the depths of a lake. Above, a golden glow appeared, flickering like flame.
Then, like the vanishing of a dream, the darkness slid away as she opened her eyes.
Candlelight cast shadows across her bed canopy, while somewhere outside the thrush continued with its pretty song. Louisa attempted to gather her thoughts. She turned her head toward the window, wincing at the sudden throb of pain in her skull.Am I ill? Has something happened?
She squinted into the candlelight and blinked, unsure of what her eyes beheld.
Max?
He appeared to be asleep in her armchair, which, for whatever reason, had been moved to the side of her bed. He was also in a noticeably disheveled state; shirt hanging loose, hair tousled, jaw shadowed. A vague sense of panic set her heart rattling. Why was he there? Was she dreaming?
“Max?” It came out as a croak. She swallowed over a dry throat and tried again. “Maxwell?” Still a croak, but stronger this time. He frowned in his sleep and then opened his eyes, blinking once or twice as he met Louisa’s gaze.
Then his eyes widened, and he sat up. “Louisa!” He leaned forward. “Oh, thank God. How do you feel, my love? Speak to me.”
“I…”My love?She hesitated, wondering if she’d heard him correctly.Are those tears in his eyes?“What… what has happened? Have I been ill?”
“Not exactly.” He leaned in and cupped her cheek, his flesh cool against hers. “You came off your horse yesterday. Had quite the tumble. Do you recall any of it?”
Still confused, Louise tried to think. She also tried to move and let out a squeak of pain.
“Careful, sweetheart,” Maxwell said. “Try to lie still, at least till the doctor arrives. I want him to examine you before you even think about getting out of that bed. You’ve acquired a few bruises, but I don’t think anything is broken.”
She winced. “I have the most awful headache.”
