Page 49

Chapter Thirteen

Through oppressive, unyielding layers of fog, wool, and draft horses’ wide arses sitting on his eyes, Liam struggled awake. Damn, but his limbs felt leaden, his tongue huge and swollen, and his mouth was as dry as soot and tasted as if swine had mucked about inside.

So damned weak.

He couldn’t even lift his arm.

The last thing he remembered was kissing Emeline in front of everyone before everything went black.

“Wh—” A harsh croak emerged from his raw throat.

What he wouldn’t give for a drink of cold water. Husbanding the strength to pry his eyelids open, he peered out through the weighty slits. Sticky with sweat, he lay in his bed, a lamp burning low on the mantel. A banked fire glowed in the hearth, and something godawfully heavy held his legs immobile.

Prince?

As if sensing his master had awoken, the dog lifted his head and thumped his tail.

With supreme effort, Liam swallowed and tried to speak again. “What the hell happened?” he said to himself. Eyes gritty and throat shredded as if he’d gargled glass, he’d never felt so wretched in his life. He almost gave up and sank back into blessed oblivion.

Och, Gagneux stabbed me. That sod would threaten Emeline no more. Liam had seen to that.

“Holly hell,” he hissed, as searing pain radiated across his torso when he tried to sit up.

He closed his eyes, until the wave of agony passed. Tentatively, he brushed his fingertips across the bandages encircling his ribs. Coming in contact with the wound, he winced, cursing the Frenchman to the seventh layer of hell.

The merest noise to his right made him turn his head.

His breath lodged in his throat at the wonderous sight. Fast asleep and fully dressed except for her shoes, Emeline lay curled on her side facing him, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting on his arm. Her rich bronze hair fanned across the pillow, and her breathing deep and steady, she slept the slumber of the exhausted.

Because she’d been caring for him?

He rather liked the idea. Liked it a great deal, in fact. He thought his heart might burst so full of love was he.

In sickness and in health…

He took in the soft hand curved around his upper arm, as if, even in sleep, she’d need the physical contact. How could he have not felt her hand the instant he awoke?

A frown drew his brows together.

What in God’s holy name was she doing in his bedchamber? If discovered, there’d be no escaping the scandal. Even if he had every intention of asking her to become his wife.

“Emeline?”

Her sooty eyelashes fluttered before ever-so-slowly inching upward. Her sleep-clouded, dark honey-colored eyes cleared instantly, and she surged upward, worry and fear washing over her features. At once, she pressed her hand to his forehead, closing her eyes for a blink.

“Och, thank, God. Yer fever has broken at last.”

Such relief weighted her raspy words, he had cause to wonder how long he’d been ill.

He caught her delicate hand in his. “What happened? How long have I been abed? What time is it?”

“Shh, dinna tire yerself.” She placed a finger on his lips, and he kissed the tip. She blushed prettily. “’Tis early evenin’.”

“What day?”

Hesitating for an instant, she replied, “Thursday.”

“So I’ve only been unaware for one day?” he asked.