“Thank you again. I owe you much.”
“You owe me nothing, Edmund. I am happy to have helped.”
She fled the room. Short-staffed or not, this was the last meal she’d deliver to his bedchamber.
19
It felt good to be in his study, out of his bedroom, away from the stuffy air and wrinkled sheets. Edmund relished the feel of pencil lead against paper, the soft scratch of it, the satisfying lines of his campaign emblem taking shape—until his lungs spasmed. An ugly black mark ruined the drawing as he reached for his handkerchief. Whenever the blasted cough took over, there was nothing he could do but ride the wave.
Ami entered with a tea tray, a frown scrunching her brow. “That’s exactly what I feared. You’re overdoing it. You’ve only been awake since yesterday. Please go back to bed.”
His body agreed. His very bones cried out for a lie-down, fatigue weighing as heavily as the pressure in his chest. But even so, he straightened as he tucked away his cloth. “You fret like a fishwife. I am perfectly fine.”
Setting down the tray, she searched his face. Worry shone in her eyes like a beacon. “Liar. That sheen of perspiration on your brow says otherwise.”
Blast. He swiped his forehead with his sleeve. Leave it to a restorer of antiquities to notice such a detail. “I will rest, but first I wish to sketch an emblem for my campaign. The election will be here before I know it.”
She arched a brow at the page with the unruly black mark. “That’s a bold statement, though I’m not sure it’s a very good one.”
He grinned. “I appreciate your—”
Another coughing fit hit. Once again he grabbed his handkerchief, this time a little too exuberantly. Papers flew off his desk, several fat folders loosing quite a flurry, and yet he was helpless to stop the mess or his cough.
Oh, how he hated such weakness!
Concern etched a deep furrow into Ami’s brow as she swiped up paper after paper. “You really should go to bed,” she singsonged.
Ah, but he could watch her lithe figure working like this for hours. Suddenly he felt feverish—and this time it had nothing to do with being sick. But as she gathered the last of the sheets and began tucking them into a familiar folio, his blood ran cold.
He knew what that folder held and—God help him—he knew exactly the sort of heartache those devilish documents could breathe to life.
“Leave it!” he barked.
Yet it was entirely too late.
Ami turned to him, papers in hand, a knowing light in her eyes.
His gut twisted. She’d seen the writing. She’d read it. And once again he’d been exposed for the half-wit he truly was.
Surprisingly, she dipped her chin sheepishly as if she were the one who was humiliated. “I suppose I should tell you that I ... em, well, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen your writing, Edmund.”
He tensed, his guard immediately raised. “There is no way you could have possibly read any of my work.”
“I’m afraid there is.” A lump traveled the length of her neck. “That day Mr. Harrison came to view your cargo, I put a tally of the artifacts on your desk before either of you entered your study. A notepad fell to the floor as I did so. I picked it up, not intending to read it, but ... it just sort of happened.”
She’d known? All this time? Then again, she’d not really had an opportunity to shame him about the matter.
Yet.
Rising, he snatched his poetry from her hand. “I will thank you to keep this to yourself, Miss Dalton.”
She scowled up at him, eyes flashing fury. “I can’t imagine what you think of me. I would never share your private writings with anyone!”
“I’ve heard that before.” The words ground out of him as foul memories surfaced. Things he’d run halfway around the world to forget stung as sharply now as they had eight years ago.
Wheeling about, he slapped the folio onto the desk just as another bout of coughing racked through his body. Shaken and weary, he sank into one of the leather chairs near the hearth, clutching his handkerchief in a tight fist.
“Edmund, I’m so sorry. I never meant to pry.” She dropped to her knees at his side, skirts billowing around her. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, you know. Your imagery is vivid, your words sweet.”
