Chapter Fourteen

M ark closed his eyes, but all he could see was Helen's beautiful form standing in the rain. Welcoming it on her face.

He realised that he was in love with her.

But she would never be his.

Leaning back against his pillows, he shivered again. He knew he was burning up with fever, but he was so cold. So very cold. He hadn't been warm since Helen touched him. Held him. Kissed him.

He hadn't kissed a lass since before the battle. But he'd kissed many women before then. The embraces were fleeting and pleasant. Quickly forgotten.

Mark could not forget her kisses.

Her touches.

She was his fever.

He felt her cold hand on his face. A small smile formed on his lips. Helen's hands were always cold. He almost believed her that she was cold-blooded. But this had to be some sort of fever dream. Lady Helen most certainly was not in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed, placing cool clothes on his burning face.

This imaginary Helen wasn't all wet. Her dress didn't cling to her lewdly, like it had before when she had ravaged his mouth with her kisses. Mark could tell from the embrace that she was inexperienced, but that hadn't stop her from arousing him to the point of pain. Or making him feel more alive than he ever had before.

Mark lifted his hand and touched the silk sleeve of her embroidered pelisse—this phantom felt real. She picked up his hot hand and rubbed it against her cool cheek.

‘I am so sorry, my dearest friend. Ever so sorry that my foolishness has made you ill.'

‘I almost believe that you are real.'

She gently placed his hand next to his leg on the bed and picked up another cold cloth to set against his burning face. ‘I am real. You can pinch me if you like.'

Where he wanted to pinch her would not have been appropriate. But in his current condition, he wouldn't be pinching any lass. He was either burning or freezing. Sometimes both at the same time.

‘Spoilsport,' she said, her face near his own. ‘I shall have to pinch you.'

With her slender fingers she pinched his shoulder lightly. ‘There. Do you now believe that I am real?'

Mark did and his harried mind understood enough to realise that it would be disastrous for her reputation to be found alone with him. In his room. In his house. It was compromising, even if he couldn't have seduced her in his current condition. Society never cared about the details, only the disgrace.

With all of his strength, he tried to push away her hand that was bathing his face. ‘You have to leave.'

‘I will when your fever breaks. I promise.'

Closing his eyes, he sighed. ‘Did my servants let you in?'

He heard her soft laugh. ‘No. I broke in through the window. It was terribly easy. You should really get better locks for your own safety if you're going to sleep on the ground floor.'

Against his will, his lips formed a smile. Happiness with Helen was more infectious than a fever. ‘What time is it?'

‘Two o'clock in the morning, I'd guess,' she said, bringing the cold cloth back to his burning skin. ‘I heard that you were ill and I knew it was my fault so I decided to come and check on you. I've been here for about an hour and I will be gone before your earliest scullery maid awakes to start the fires.'

‘Then your family doesn't know where you are?'

‘Of course not,' Helen said, he could hear the smile in her voice. He wanted to open his eyes and see it, but he was too tired to lift his eyelids. ‘They rarely know where I am at Hampford Castle and that's how I like it. But that's enough talking, you should sleep. I will watch over you, like you watched over me at the lake, dearest friend.'

Mark resisted the pull into the darkness, but when her cold but gentle finger tips began to stroke his forehead, he knew he was lost. Somewhere in the distance or in his dreams, he heard her humming.

After a few days and several doses of laudanum, Mark's fever abated. He assured himself that it was a good thing that Helen hadn't repeated her nightly visit. He'd almost decided that the entire episode was a figment of his imagination, but then his valet had been surprised when he saw the cloths used to mop Mark's brow were embroidered with an S that looked like a snake. Helen Stringham , the snake charmer and fairy queen, had brought them for him.

The morning after he fell ill, both a doctor and an astounding number of potted plants had arrived. Even feverish, Mark remembered that Helen didn't like cutting off a flower's life. She preferred to let it grow to its fullness or be replanted in a garden.

The following day, his servants had received a basket full of medicines and scented soaps. Then more potted plants. His poor servants did not know what to do with so many of them, so they'd spread them throughout his town house. It was like living in a greenhouse. Or an enchanted fairy garden. The sort of place he would imagine a sprite like herself living.

Mark had his valet prepare clothes for him to go to his club. He couldn't go to his back garden. She might be there. And he couldn't stay in his own house, because every flower and leaf reminded him of her.

He needed to cut Helen out of his life. Mark had let her roots grow into his heart and that would only mean pain for them both. Helen was engaged to someone else and wanted a different life than what he could offer her. And Mark wanted her in every way. He wished to teach her how to kiss. How to make love, which she would probably call mating. Mark half wondered if her love and light could fill in the missing pieces of his soul. But she would never be his. And he could never be hers. Helen deserved so much more than half of a man who had let his friends die and who was only half alive.

Taking his usual chair by the window at the club, Mark took out his sketchbook and began to finish the illustrations of the snakes for Helen. The pictures had been their original bargain. She would tend his garden in return for them. The only way to end things finally between them was to give her what she'd always wanted.

He was done with all but the last snake—a rattlesnake. The one that Helen said was her favourite. The one that warned others to stay away by the sound it made. If Helen had made such a warning sound, would he have heeded it?

He shook his head.

Helen had careened into his life, leaving him little choice.

Mark's memory was not perfect, but it was very good. Especially when it came to images. His initial sketch was good enough to identify the snake. Now all he had to do was add the shading and sharpen the image. Pressing his finger on to the page, he purposely smeared the graphite. He took particular care to make sure that the rattle appeared correctly.

He didn't notice that Pelford had taken a chair beside him. Which was odd, because Pelford was not a small man. How long the Duke had sat reading his paper, Mark couldn't say.

‘Ah, Inverness,' he said. ‘I was hoping to see you here.'

‘I trust Lady Helen has not gone missing again.'

Pelford guffawed, shaking his head. ‘No. Although I dare say she is ready to run away from home. My in-laws have assigned each other days to watch over her. Needless to say, she does not like the idea of a nursemaid.'

Mark could easily imagine her indignation. Wild creatures did not like to be caged. ‘I should think not.'

‘I still feel in your debt, Inverness. If there is anything that you need, please do not hesitate to ask me.'

Mark tore out the six illustrations from the sketchbook and handed them to Inverness. ‘Give these to Helen for me. That is all I ask.'

‘You do not intend to give them to her yourself?'

Mark shook his head, standing up. ‘I think that it is better this way. She is already engaged to someone else.'

‘Jason? He is her best friend, aside from Becca, but I don't think she loves him. At least, not how a woman should love the man that she marries.'

Warmth fluttered in his belly as his mind tangled with uncertainty. Without another word, he walked slowly down the hall and called for his carriage. It was raining again, but only a light mist. Nothing like the torrential downpour when Helen went walking in the park. Sitting in his carriage, he couldn't help but think of her. He wished for the thousandth time that things were different. That his brother was alive. That he still had a leg and was a saucy Scottish adventurer who liked to woo wealthy women. Helen was certainly wealthy. Would she have fancied him then?

His butler met his carriage with an umbrella and Mark descended cautiously. The last thing he needed was to fall in a puddle after his cold. When he entered his house, he took off his hat. The marble floors gleamed and there was not a worker in sight. Passing the new wallpaper, he opened the door to the parlour only to see a woman standing there.

‘Mother.'

Behind his mother, his aunt and Cousin Niamh got to their feet, smiling at him.

Aunt Fiona held out her arms to him. ‘Come and give your auntie a smuirich !'