No, not better. Relieved. Which he supposed was a form of better.
“You are doing remarkably well,” she said. “You must not forget that it has been only a day since you woke up.”
He eyed her with a narrowed stare. “Don’t say that Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“I would never,” she promised, and he could hear the smile in her voice.
“I felt better this afternoon,” he said. His voice was small, almost childlike to his ears.
“Better? Or improved?”
“Improved,” he admitted. “Although when I kissed you . . .”
He smiled. When he kissed her, he’d almost felt whole.
Cecilia stood and gently took his arm. “Let’s go upstairs.”
He did not have the energy to argue.
“I shall have supper brought to the room,” she said as they made their way to the stairs.
“Not much,” he said. “My stomach . . . I don’t know what I could keep down.”
She looked at him intently. Probably measuring how green his skin had become.
“Broth,” she said. “You must have something. Otherwise you will never regain your strength.”
He nodded. Broth sounded possible.
“Perhaps some laudanum,” she said quietly.
“A small amount.”
“Very small, I promise.”
When they arrived at the top of the stairs, he reached into his coat pocket and took out the key. Wordlessly, he handed it to her and leaned against the wall while she unlocked the door.
“I’ll help you with your boots,” she said, and he saw that she had led him inside and sat him down on the bed without him even realizing it.
“I would remind you that you should not overexert yourself,” she said as she pulled off one boot, “but I am aware that your exertions today were for Thomas.”
“And for you,” he said.
Her hands stilled, but only for a moment. He might not have noticed it if he weren’t so exquisitely aware of her touch.
“Thank you,” she said. She reached behind his heel and gripped his other boot, giving it a sharp tug before sliding it off. Edward crawled under the blankets while she meticulously put them in the corner. “I’ll prepare the laudanum,” she said.
He closed his eyes. He wasn’t sleepy, but his head felt better when his eyes were closed.
“I wonder if you should have remained in hospital for another day.” Her voice was closer now, and he heard her shaking liquid in a bottle.
“No,” he said. “I would rather be here with you.”
Again, she stilled. He didn’t need to see her to know it.
“The hospital was unbearable,” he said. “Some of the men . . .” He didn’t know how much to tell her, how much she already knew. Had she spent the night by his side while he was unconscious? Did she know what it meant to try to sleep while across the room, a man moaned in agony, crying out for his mother?
“I agree with you,” she said, nudging him to scoot into a more upright position. “This is a much more pleasant place to recuperate. But the doctor is at the hospital.”
“Do you think so?” he said with a hint of a smile. “I’d wager he’s downstairs having a pint. Or maybe over at the Fraunces. Better ale there, I think.”
“Speaking of drinks,” Cecilia said, her voice a delightful blend of no-nonsense and good humor, “here is your laudanum.”
“Considerably more potent than a pint,” Edward said, opening his eyes. It wasn’t so bright any longer; Cecilia had pulled the curtains shut.
She held the cup to his lips, but he gave her a little shake and said, “I can do it myself.”
“It’s a very small dose,” she promised.
“The doctor gave you instructions?”
“Yes, and I have some experience with the medicine. My father sometimes had megrims.”
“I did not realize,” he murmured.
“They were not frequent.”
He drank the drug, wincing at the bitter taste of it.
“It’s foul, I know,” she said, but she did not sound especially sympathetic.
“You’d think the alcohol would make it tolerable.”
She smiled a little at that. “I think the only thing that makes it tolerable is the promise of relief.”
He rubbed his temple. “It hurts, Cecilia.”
“I know.”
“I just want to feel like myself again.”
Her lips quivered. “We all want that.”
He yawned, even though logically it was still too soon for the opiate to have taken effect. “You still need to tell me,” he said, sliding back down under the covers.
“Tell you what?”
“Hmmm”—he made a funny little high-pitched noise as he thought about that—“everything.”
“Everything, eh? That might be a touch ambitious.”
“We have time.”
“We do?” Now she sounded amused.
He nodded, and he realized that the drug must have taken hold because he had the oddest feeling—he was too tired to yawn. But he was still able to get a few words out.
“We’re married,” he said. “We have the rest of our lives.”
Chapter 8
Edward Rokesby looks like a man, that’s what he looks like. Really, Cecilia, you should know better than to ask me to describe another man. His hair is brown. What more can I say?
Furthermore, if you must know, I show your miniature to everyone. I know I am not as frequently sentimental as you might like, but I do love you, dear sister, and I am proud to call you mine. Also, you are a far more prolific letter writer than any other of the men here enjoy, and I do enjoy basking in their jealousy.
Edward, in particular, suffers from the green-eyed monster whenever the mail is brought forth. He has three brothers and one sister, and in terms of correspondence, you outdo all of them put together.
—from Thomas Harcourt to his sister Cecilia
Three hours later, Cecilia was still haunted by his words.
We’re married.
We have the rest of our lives.
Sitting at the small table tucked into the corner of their room at the Devil’s Head Inn, she let her forehead drop into her hands. She had to tell him the truth. She had to tell him everything.
But how?
And more to the immediate point, when?
She’d told herself that she had to wait until after their meeting with Major Wilkins. Well, that had happened, but now Edward seemed to have taken a turn for the worse. She could not upset him now. He still needed her.
Oh, stop lying to yourself, she almost said aloud. He didn’t need her. She might be making his recovery more pleasant, and maybe even more speedy, but if she were to suddenly disappear from his life, he would be just fine.
He’d needed her while he was unconscious. Now that he was awake she was not nearly so essential.
She looked over at him, sleeping peacefully in the bed. His dark hair had fallen forward over his brow. He needed a trim, but she found she liked it messy and untamed. It gave him a slightly rakish air, which was delightfully at odds with his upright character. His unruly locks reminded her that this honorable man still had a wicked and wry sense of humor, that he too could fall prey to frustration and anger.
He was not perfect.
He was real.