Destitute On His Doorstep by Helen Dickson Page B

containing cold water to her lips. When she had quenched her thirst, Mary lowered her back on to the pillows.
    â€˜There. How are you feeling now?’
    â€˜I’m not sure,’ she replied. Her clothes had been removed and she now wore one of the two nightgowns she had brought with her. Her gaze moved searchingly around the room that was so achingly familiar to her. This had been her parents’ room. She lay in a large four-poster bed with overdrapes of scarlet and green.
    The man she recognised as Francis Russell was watching her closely, hands on lean hips, short dark hair slightly tousled. His eyes were bright and vivid blue, as blue as the sky on a summer’s day. She frowned, wondering why he was here.
    â€˜I’m glad to see you are back with us, Mistress Lucas,’ he said, his voice imbued with warmth. ‘You were sleeping so soundly we were beginning to wonder if you would ever wake. As it is you’ve slept two nights and most of three days.’
    Francis had been deeply concerned about her. From the moment she’d been confined to bed he’d enquired after her almost hourly. Mary had assured him that although Jane was very ill the physician was confident she would make a good recovery. When Mary had left the room to fetch fresh linen, he’d gone in to see for himself. As he’d stared down at her, her gleaming hair spilling over the pillows, guilt and fear made his chest ache. She looked so ill, but what struck him forcibly was how small she looked in that great bed, tucked around with bedcovers and pillows.
    When she’d arrived at Bilborough, she had faced him with all the self-assurance of an educated, prim and proper young lady. But when he’d gazed down upon her face, unguarded in sleep, there was nothing prim about that soft, generous mouth and those long curling lashes that lay like crescents against her cheeks. He realised as he watched her chest rise and fall with fitful little gasps, how vulnerable she was, how innocent she looked. She had told him she had no family. It would seem she needed him more than she realised and the urge to protect he’d felt on their first encounter was stronger than ever.
    When Mary had returned and seen the deeply etched lines of fatigue and strain on his face she’d urged him to get some rest—‘Otherwise when she opens her eyes the sight of you might frighten her into a relapse.’
    â€˜You do remember me?’ he asked softly, and as he spoke with a lightness to his words, no one would guess at the terror that had gripped his heart when she’d collapsed and how he’d prayed to God for the first time in years not to let her die.
    She nodded, but the movement made her head hurt. ‘Yes, Colonel Russell,’ she answered tightly, feeling the dreamlike sense of submergence threatening to engulf her again. ‘I remember you.’
    He moved to stand closer, lending her his undivided attention. She could not take her eyes off him, for never had she seen a man as handsome as he was. His dark hair, curling slightly, was just long enough at the nape to brush the open collar of a shirt that appeared no less than dazzling white in the dimmed light. ‘Please don’t,’ she said, suddenly alarmed that he was about to venture too close. Struggling to raise her head, she was overcome by a dry cough. When the cough had abated she managed to gasp, ‘Please don’t come any closer. You mustn’t.’
    He ignored her and came to stand next to the bed, looming over her. ‘And why not, pray?’
    â€˜You’ll become infected.’
    â€˜I’m quite safe. I had the illness when I was a lad.’
    â€˜Then you were fortunate to survive it. Better if you all leave me to die in peace.’
    â€˜Die? Who said anything about dying?’ He chuckled low in his throat. ‘Dear me, Mistress Lucas, you are feeling sorry for yourself.’
    Jane’s eyes widened in