William slipped his arm around her waist and helped Lillian up the stairs. She insisted she could walk on her own and refused to allow him to carry her. He appreciated her stubbornness when dealing with workers or the various shops they frequented.
He did not like her stubbornness when it came to her health.
But their argument only resulted in her deep cough returning, so he compromised. With every step she leaned more and more against him, her head on his shoulder, her fingers clutching the back of his shirt. Her breathing grew ragged, heavy; each breath sounded as if it hurt, a struggle to take in.
Worry churned in his stomach, and he nearly set the candelabra on the step and carried her the rest of the way, her stubbornness be damned.
Only two steps remained, however. Then she could rest. And he’d rather that then spending precious moments arguing with her. Again.
Finally they walked into her bedroom, a cold, dark room that didn’t look as if it were occupied in days. William hastily set the candelabra on what appeared to be her vanity and ignored her protests. He carefully lifted her into his arms, cradling her gently to his chest, and crossed the several feet to her bed.
Improper? He did not care.
Lillian’s protests were mumbled and weak, and that alone worried him more than the protests themselves. He set her on the bed, careful to wrap the blankets around her and prop her against the pillows.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome.” He brushed a few wisps of her hair off her heated skin.
Turning, he quickly set and lighted the fire before retreating downstairs for another bowl of soup, the wassail, the honey, and several of the biscuits Mary insisted on packing. At the base of the stairs, he stopped and returned for the brandy.
“You tend to me better than a nursemaid,” Lillian said the moment he stepped into her room.
William sat on the bed, all thoughts of impropriety gone; she looked at him with glassy eyes set in a too-pale face. But she smiled brightly at him and took the offered wassail.
“If anyone knew you were here,” she said softly, “we’d scandalize not only everyone in Chesham, but all five villages!”
“Wouldn’t that be a fun scandal?” William asked with a smile.
Lillian tilted her head and studied him curiously. But she dutifully sipped the mulled cider.
Once they were married, it wouldn’t matter. Looking at Lillian, he wasn’t certain she was ready to hear those words. And he wanted her entirely healthy and active when he proposed.
“I’m not certain how much fun it’d be.” She moved her shoulders in a slight shrug and offered him another grin. “But it’d definitely be the talk.”
She cleared her throat and sighed deeply. It ended on a cough. William took the cup of wassail and set it on the table by her bed, ready to exchange it for the honey. Behind him, the fire blazed cheerily. He should set the honey there, to keep it warm for her.
“I’m fine.” Lillian spoke insistently, even if there was no fire behind her words. She took a slow breath and met his gaze. “Truly, I’m fine. I plan to sleep for the rest of today and most likely all of tomorrow. There’s no need for you to stay. It’ll be much better,” she said with a slight dip in her words. She spoke of a potential scandal, he knew.
“I’ll be much happier if you’re warm in your own bed,” she added and took his hand. “And then tomorrow you can attend the feast and later, you can tell me all that transpired.”
Her smile widened, and if it wasn’t for her glassy eyes and shortness of breath, he might have believed her.
“Tell me if our efforts were a triumph.”
He grasped her hand and stroked her knuckles. William frowned at the feel of her hot, dry skin. “I’d never leave one of my soldiers on the field if they were wounded. Why would I leave you if you’re not well?”
“It’s not a pleasant thing, to look after the sick. I know,” she added, her voice distant. “I tended my father for years.”
She cleared her throat and tried to smile. He saw the tiredness there, the weakness despite her attempts to mask it.
“And I don’t want you missing the feast,” she added with what he now knew to be a brave smile.
“We’ll host another,” he promised. “Perhaps this summer.”
Lillian’s eyes drifted closed, but her lips curled up. He leaned forward to brush hair off her heated forehead.
“We shall host the next,” he continued softly. “Mrs. Martins will not be allowed to horn in on the accolades.”
She laughed, but it sounded hollow and frail.
He moved. William didn’t think and didn’t much care what anyone else thought, either. He tugged off his shoes and slipped beneath the blankets. Lillian didn’t even protest when he gathered her against his chest.
“I’m worried,” he admitted.
“Do not worry, William,” she whispered against his chest. “It’s no more than a fever. It’ll pass within the day.”
He wasn’t so confident as she. He’d seen fevers sweep away the hardiest of men. Fevers were unpredictable. Her words, said far too feebly for him to take seriously, made him worry all the more.
“I’ve seen fevers take terrible turns,” he admitted. Then added the crux of his fear. “I do not want that to happen with you, Lillian.”
“You’ve seen these things take turns?” she asked. “Tell me.”
“I was in France,” he began then stopped.
Why had he started with that story? There were other, simpler stories of camp life, the minutia and mundane.
“Near the coast,” he continued. “I came upon soldiers who just escaped the French. The major was crazed. He was terribly feverish. His men thought he would not survive. He’d saved them from where they were held prisoner by the French, but then he fell very ill.”
William stopped and remembered the look of the man, the feverish wild look about it.
“The day before, his men said, he fought like the devil himself to free them.”
Lillian pulled back just slightly. “Did he survive?”
“I don’t know,” William admitted. “I fear he did not.”
He looked down and studied her. Her eyes half closed and she leaned against him with no shame. William didn’t know how much she realized what happened, their positions, but decided he could stay this way for the rest of the night.
Forever.
He never considered himself a romantic, full of poems to young women and fanciful words. But fear beat hollowly through him, a vacant sensation that gripped him tight and refused to release its hold.
He may not have ever written poems to Lillian, and likely would never. But he loved her far more than words could ever express.
“Fear is not reality,” she assured him softly, her words tired and slightly slurred. “He might be perfectly well, enjoying his life, married with many children.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted.
Pressing his lips to her forehead, he lingered far longer than he intended. Slowly pulling back, he caught her gaze.
“Sleep now. I’ll be downstairs,” William said and gently disentangled himself from her arms and her bed.
She protested as he crossed the room to the honey and poured her another spoonful. Lillian huffed but swallowed the warm honey without verbal complaint. Returning to the fire, he added several more logs to keep it burning through the night.
At the door, he debated leaving it open or closed. He needed to hear her, but wanted the heat of the fire to stay in her bedroom. Easing the door partially closed, he retreated downstairs.
He hadn’t noticed before the bareness of the cottage. He thought he knew Lillian well enough to know that while she wasn’t predisposed to clutter, she enjoyed color. Miller’s Cottage by the Brook looked as if Alice Miller decorated it herself and Lillian added not one personal touch.
Restless, William walked the small cottage. He’d been in such a rush to return to Lillian, he’d neglected to bring any work with him, correspondence, or even a book. He rubbed his hands over his face and circled the rooms again. He didn’t want to move too far from the stairs in case Lillian called for him.
In the front parlor, which looked as if it also doubled as a sitting room, William searched for a book. Instead he came upon a carefully smoothed-out letter.
Curiosity got the better of him, and he lifted the obviously once-crumpled paper and read it over. From her father’s steward, the letter sounded apologetic but reiterated the one hundred and twenty-five pounds a year stipend from the cousin who inherited her father’s estate.
Fury burned through his veins. His fingers clenched over the letter, crumpling it once more. William looked up the stairs, though he couldn’t see much beyond the second or third step.
One hundred and twenty-five pounds a year.
He knew the cousin who inherited her father’s estate and knew it could well support more than the measly one hundred and twenty-five pounds currently paid to Lillian.
Had no one looked out for her? No one thought of her future? No one saw to her needs? How was she to survive on so measly an amount?
Angry on her behalf, furious at the cousin who treated her with such callous contempt, he reread the letter. What of Lord Granville? Did he not know of his cousin’s situation? And what about the father Lillian nursed for years?
He’d not bothered to provide for his only child. Only a selfish man kept a young woman with him for nearly a decade then didn’t bother to see to her welfare after his passing.
With a wordless growl of contempt, William dropped the letter and paced around the parlor. The fire burned low, but the rooms retained enough heat to be comfortable. William’s mind raced.
What had Lillian said about his courtship? She wasn’t an appropriate match?
With his hands clasped tightly behind his back, William wondered how Lillian survived these last years. With no one who truly cared for her and no future, how had she done all she had? He stopped at the base of the stairs and looked up.
She was a survivor.
Abandoning the letter, the solitude of the empty rooms, William set foot on the first step. He told himself it was to check on her. He told himself she was sick with fever. He knew they were lies. He wanted to see the woman who managed to capture his heart in a matter of weeks. The one with the lightning-quick mind and the fast smile.
Sleeping on the small settee in the parlor, if he could even fit on it, only kept him from her. What if she worsened in the night? Or succumbed? A cold chill banished the hot rage that kept him moving.
He took the stairs two at a time.
He couldn’t lose his one chance to have someone he knew he already loved.
She slept soundly. It looked as if she hadn’t moved since he left. The flickering firelight cast shadows on her cheeks, dancing over her brow. Despite the heat in the room and the blankets wrapped around her, Lillian shook with chills.
William brushed his fingers over her cheek, far too hot for his liking, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. The cough racked her entire body with deep, heavy sounds that should have woken her. The fact they did not panicked him.
With quick movements, William grabbed the warmed honey and the spoon, and set both on the bedside table. He slipped back into bed with her and propped her against him. She shifted slightly, barely opening her eyes.
“Lillian,” he whispered. “I have more warm honey. Open your eyes.”
She hummed, but nothing more. Carefully, and far too slowly for his liking, William dipped the spoon in the honey pot, one handed, and brought the sticky substance to her. Lillian obediently opened her mouth and swallowed it.
He let the spoon clatter to the tabletop and settled her more comfortably in his arms. He wanted to retrieve a bowl of water and a flannel for a cold compress, but didn’t dare leave her side.
With one arm wrapped around her, he used his other hand to brush her hair back.
“Hold onto me tonight,” he whispered. William pressed his lips to her forehead. “And allow me to hold you.”