Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-Eight

W hat the hell was all the commotion?

Alex's muffled mind did not quite comprehend what was happening around him, but there was plenty of hustle and bustle that woke him from his disturbed sleep. He looked around in blurry vision to see servants rushing in and out of his room, discussing his clothing trunk and all that needed to be prepared. What on earth could they be preparing for? Was this his funeral? Were they having guests to show off the sick, dying man?

He woke again to a multitude of people in his room, only this time, they all appeared at his bedside. A footman, a doctor, Nielson, Mrs. Barnes, and his beautiful wife.

"How lovely you are, Mrs. Westcott," he mumbled, immediately wishing to take back the words. Their relationship had not been the kind to produce compliments. Would she chalk it up to his fevered state?

"Thank you," she responded. "Come now, we need you to sit up, Alex."

He did as he was told, her hand gently pulling him forward off his pillows.

A man spoke. "I'll kneel down here, and he'll just need to throw his arms over my shoulders. It should be easiest to carry him out that way."

Alex blinked. "Who is carrying who?"

"Don't be difficult," Mrs. Westcott urged gently. "We need to get you into the carriage."

He sighed, leaning his body against the back of the footman. Alex felt a bit silly, letting another man carry him through his own estate, but Alex had no strength or wits about him to do it on his own, so he supposed he needed to be thankful.

"I can't very well be seen out of doors in my nightshirt," Alex mumbled, suddenly becoming self-conscious how he'd been removed from his bed.

The light sound of his wife's laughter made him open his eyes. "You're properly dressed," she said, "Though only minimally in a shirt and breeches. It's for your comfort in traveling. Not to worry, you won't be seen until we arrive."

"Where are we traveling to?" he asked, just as the brightness of the sunshine pricked his eyes and he turned away sharply.

Only a moment later her hand covered his face, his shoulders relaxing at her touch.

"To the sea," she said, and he softened even more. How did she know such a detail? That if he were going to die, he would want it to be close to the briny air and the crashing waves?

It took the coordination of a great many people to get Alex into the carriage, but eventually he was laying down on the seat again, and he found his head resting on his wife's thigh. How could she ever permit such a thing?

"Someone fetch a pillow from his bed," Mrs. Westcott asked .

He nuzzled against her. "I'm already quite comfortable, actually."

She patted a hand on his shoulder. "We'll be traveling for more than eight hours. You might be comfortable, but my leg will need some relief."

He sighed. "Very well, if you must."

And yet, even after the pillow was retrieved, she did not remove her hand from his back.

"Are you comfortable?" she asked. "I believe we're about to depart."

He grunted. "I suppose. As comfortable as one can be when he's about to die."

"You're not dying," she said, a firm steady voice. "I won't allow it."

And with that confidence, the carriage took a jumbly lurch forward, and Alex closed his eyes, comfortable in the fact that no matter what happened, his wife would be right there with him.

Alex didn't know how many times the carriage had stopped or the horses had been changed. He'd tried to keep a running tally in his mind to stay alert, but his body still ached, and, in his dozing, he'd lost track. He'd had various coughing fits along the way, only a few of which resulted in blood on the handkerchief. Mrs. Westcott offered him water from a canteen, and that did help some, but it wasn't nearly as comforting as a cup of hot tea. Which he knew he wouldn't have until they arrived. Wherever they were going.

It was the most comforting thing he'd ever experienced, any time he woke, to have the assurance that her hand, her gentle touch, would always be with him. Despite what seemed like an eternal discomfort of the lingering illness, the burning chest and hacking cough and mental obscurity, as he rested on her leg, her hand would always be rubbing his arm or patting his back or softly brushing fingers through his hair. She was proving to be a constant, and in spite of feeling like he was dying, her touch kept him alive. Wanting to live.

At some point, the air had turned cool, and their carriage had gone dark. Night had fallen, but Mrs. Westcott was not unprepared. She spread a blanket over him and retained a cloth ready to sponge away any moisture from his fever. Alex continuously repeated in his mind how much he appreciated her.

Until at some point, the scent of salt water in the air filled his senses, waking him from a deep sleep. "Am I imagining things, or can I smell it?"

She gave a light chuckle, and her hand patted his back. "We're almost there."

And then it wasn't just the smell, but the sound. The road must have traveled close to the sea on the way, for he could hear the waves crashing in the distance. Alex wanted to open his eyes and witness it for himself, but in the dark of night, it was no use.

The carriage finally came to a stop, and Alex felt his wife move away from her seat. From him.

"I'll be right back. I only need to secure a room," she said, her voice low and close to his ear.

It seemed that only minutes went by, and then the carriage door opened again.

"I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Fox. I never could have done any of this without you," his wife said profusely. "I will see to it personally that you are well compensated for your efforts."

"Think nothing of it, madam. I'll be most satisfied to see your husband fully recovered."

Whoever that Mr. Fox was, Alex would be sure to see that man well paid.

Again Alex was lugged across masculine shoulders, and without enough energy to even open his eyes, he simply let them carry him. Indoors, upstairs, and then after fumbling with a squeaky key, into what he presumed was an inn bedchamber.

Mr. Fox must have leaned Alex backward, for he collapsed into a moderately comfortable bed, and even without all his faculties, he could tell a window was nearby, for the sound of the waves and the scent on the air was unmistakable.

"You've done well, Mrs. Westcott," Alex said, the corners of his lips pulling upward. "I'll have the best sleep of my life, only keep this window open."

The rigors of the day's travel faded away, and as he let sleep take him, he heard his wife's voice. "Now that smile alone was worth the trip."