Kitabı oku: «Betrayal», sayfa 2
‘Nothing will ease hell’s flames,’ he muttered, opening his eyes.
Their intensity held her spellbound. Although she knew they were bright from fever and sickness, they seared to her soul. She reached to put the empty container back on the nightstand and missed. It crashed to the floor.
‘Oh!’ Exasperation coloured the word. Now she would have to clean up the mess before she stepped or sat on a piece of glass.
‘Unless ‘tis a goddess,’ the man whispered, continuing his confused train of thought. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips.
Pippa’s attention snapped back to him. His gaze was roving over her face and down to the nightshirt she wore. The muslin sheath was loose, but the material was thin enough to show the swell of her bosom. She had removed the confining linen wrap because of the heat and now regretted the comfort that one action had given her in the moist heat. His intimate perusal was making her heart pound. She told herself it was fear that he would discover her charade.
‘You are mistaken, sir. I am a youth, not a maid.’
‘And I am the Prince Regent,’ he muttered, his mouth curving into a rakish grin. ‘No man of my acquaintance has such translucent skin. Nor eyes of such lustre. Green as new grass in a summer meadow. Or are they silver?’ he muttered, his voice turning querulous as he sought to focus in the dim light. Giving up, he closed his eyes. ‘God, but I hurt!’
‘You have been grievously injured,’ Pippa said, forcing her voice down an octave. ‘I…I have been tending you.’
Her subterfuge was wasted. He had passed out again.
Her worry of exposure was immediately replaced by worry for his leg. Was it worsening? Lighting a candle, she quickly examined him. The wound had finally scabbed over several days ago, but the bandage needed changing. Thank goodness there had been enough materials for her to have extra. She changed the dressing quickly and efficiently. Next, she had to lower his fever.
She soaked a cloth in water, wrung it out, and wiped it across his brow and cheeks and down his neck. Hopefully this would bring the fever down while the bark worked from inside. The water was warm, but it was better than doing nothing. She dipped and wrung the cloth again.
If he were not so well muscled and completely inert, she would move him and change the bedding, but she had learned early that he was too heavy for her. Instead, she lifted up his nightshirt as best she could and ran the cloth down his chest and across his ribs, tempted to follow the trail of brown hairs that led beneath the covers. Intellectually she knew that cooling his groin would ease some of the heat from his body, but just the idea of doing so made her stomach knot.
She did not know what was wrong with her. She never had reacted to a patient this way. Never.
She was a healer.
Eyes averted, Pippa carefully peeled back the cover. Soon she would have to look at him, but first she could moisten the cloth. She did so with meticulous care. The last thing he needed was to have sheets wetter than they already were from his sweat, or so she told herself.
Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him. Her gaze travelled slowly down his body, past broad shoulders and flat belly—lower. He was lean and narrow. She gulped and turned hot and cold and hot again.
He was magnificent. Everywhere.
She was a healer. It was her duty to sponge his flushed skin until it cooled, and she would do exactly that.
It seemed a long time before his fever began to break, and every minute was alternating pain and pleasure. Was he as wonderful a person as his body was perfect? She almost feared he would be. He was definitely charming. No man had ever kissed her hand.
He was very likely a rake.
Her hands moved automatically while her mind raced. Perhaps when her quest for her twin was over, she would go to London for a Season. She had refused to do so these many years because she had no wish to find a husband. Now, to her chagrin, she found the idea had some interest. But that was the future. First she had to heal this man and then she had to find her brother. After that would be time enough to think further.
Resolutely, she covered her patient and returned the cloth to its bowl. Next she cleaned up the broken glass she had forgotten about.
When she crawled back into bed, she felt as though she had been riding to hounds and all her energy was spent. All because of him. The way he affected her made it hard to breathe and even harder to think impartially.
Never had she been this attracted to a man, much to her grandfather’s irritation since Earl LeClaire wanted her married. All she had ever cared about was her healing. Now she had found a man who stirred her blood—and she was impersonating a male.
It was a situation she could do nothing about, and morning would come soon enough. She needed rest as tomorrow would be another busy day.
But sleep eluded her. And when it came, her dreams were of a tall, smiling rake who pursued her down a tree-shaded lane. Spring filled the air with the scent of freshly scythed grass; grass the colour of her eyes.
Dev woke slowly, his head spinning, his leg throbbing. Heat was a palpable blanket of discomfort, so he tossed aside whatever was covering him, only to discover he was still twisted in something.
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered, frustration and pain increasing his normal impatience. Where was he? Why did he hurt? Why couldn’t he move?
Hougoumont. Flames. Pain. The woman.
Memories roared back, bringing agony instead of comfort. But he was alive, he had survived that battle fought in hell. Was it over? Had they defeated Napoleon? What of Patrick?
He tried to sit up and pain shot from his right leg to his groin and up his spine. He fell back, cold sweat breaking out on every part of his body.
Slowly and carefully, he lifted his head only and gazed down the length of his body. He wore a nightshirt that reached down to his thighs, ending—
His right leg was encased in a wooden splint from foot to knee.
He groaned and let his head drop. He vaguely remembered someone saying it would have to come off and him telling a lad not to let it happen. It seemed the youth had done what he asked. Relief washed over Dev.
It was instantly replaced by anxiety. He was alive and whole. Was Patrick? Had he saved the French lad?
And what about the woman? The one who had cared for him. Or had she? The memory was not solid. It seemed to float in and out of his mind. Maybe it was a dream. Perhaps it had been the lad, if there had been a lad. He was delirious.
Yet, the image of a beauty with ebony hair and green, green eyes haunted him. Her face was an oval with high cheeks, a wide mouth and flawless skin. Unless there was no woman, and his mind was playing tricks with him—which was quite possible under the present circumstances.
Perhaps he was even crazy. He would not be the first to go insane after a battle. His older brother, Alastair, had suffered nightmares for years that made him relive the battles against Napoleon in Spain.
Wearily, Dev rubbed a weak hand over his brow. If only someone were here to tell him what was going on.
The sound of an opening door caught his attention. Turning, he saw a youth pause in the act of entering the room.
Chapter Two
Pippa stopped flat. Her patient was awake and alert, his gaze fixed on her. Taking a steadying breath, she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.
His cheekbones were rouged with fever or exertion, but his eyes were aware and intelligent. ‘Who are you? Where am I?’ he demanded in the tones of one used to being obeyed.
She smiled in spite of herself even as she bristled at his order. He reminded her much of Philip, her twin. Moving to the bed, she said, ‘My name is Pippen LeClaire, and you are in my room.’ At his frown, she added, ‘No one knows who you are, and I am the only one with room for you. I could not leave you in the street or have you taken to the hospital with the other wounded.’
The scowl faded from his face when she laid the back of her hand lightly on his forehead to feel for fever. He had none.
‘Then I have much to be grateful to you for. And my name is Deverell St Simon.’ His brow furrowed again, and his eyes took on a faraway look before coming sharply back to her face. ‘Are you the lad who saved my leg from amputation?’
She nodded.
‘Then I owe you my life,’ he said gravely. ‘I would not have wished to live a cripple.’
‘You owe me nothing,’ Pippa said hastily, feeling uncomfortable at his solemnity. ‘I am a healer and helping others is something I must do. Besides,’ she said as matter-of-factly as possible while her heart pounded in discomfort, for she had known exactly how he would feel and that scared her. ‘You will never move comfortably and most likely that leg will plague you until you die.’
He attempted a shrug that made him grimace. ‘Much better than wearing a wooden peg.’
Pippa, seeing the stubborn set of his jaw, forbore comment and hoped fervently that he would continue to think so. ‘You have been unconscious and delirious for nearly a fortnight and must be ready to eat a feast. If you will lay quietly, I will ask the landlady for some gruel.’
‘I won’t eat pap!’
Instead of arguing, which she knew from past experience with her twin would be fruitless and only end in a fight, Pippa turned away and left the room. He was weak enough and hungry enough that he would eventually eat whatever she brought him.
Dev watched the youth leave. The boy had an odd feminine look about him, with a face that was free of beard and hips that were a trifle too wide for his shoulders and moved a tad too much for masculine purpose. Pippen reminded him of the woman he had seen in his delirium—a ridiculous thought.
Exhaustion ate at him. Sighing, he fell back on to the cushions and told himself Pippen could not help that he was made the way he was. It was not as though the lad was the only man ever born with more female traits than was good.
Dev promptly fell into a restless half-sleep where cannon and musket shot echoed in his ears, and the stench of burning flesh swamped his nostrils.
A short time later Pippa re-entered the room with a tray. Warm tea and a steaming bowl of beef-flavoured gruel would do wonders for her invalid.
Putting the tray on a nearby table, she saw her patient—Deverell St Simon, she told herself—had slipped back into a troubled sleep. Sweat dotted his brow and his hands clenched the sheet in bunches. The urge to soothe him was as overpowering as it was bewildering. All her life she had felt the need to help others, but never had the desire to care for another made her body shake. Why, she knew nothing about this man except his name, and that meant nothing to her.
She took a controlling breath and laid a hand on his shoulder. He jolted awake.
‘Who—?’ He broke off, his eyes wide, his body jerking upward. ‘Angel?’
His eyes searched her face, bringing a blush of awareness as his attention lingered on her mouth before sliding down to where her breasts would be if she had not bound them.
Pippa pushed him gently down on the pillows. ‘Calm yourself,’ she murmured. “Tis only me, Pip—Pippen.’ She had almost said her own name, she was sure because of his blatant regard. She must be more careful, constantly on guard. It would not be easy. ‘I have brought you some food.’
His eyes lost their startled look and his gaze fell away from her face. Some of the tension left his body. ‘For a moment I thought you were someone else. A…a woman.’
Pippa kept her countenance smooth, showing only mild interest. ‘What would a woman be doing in here?’
He turned away. ‘I don’t know. I thought a green-eyed lady cared for me while I was unconscious.’ He looked back at Pippa. ‘She had your face. Only I would swear, she had the sweet curves of a female.’ He sighed. ‘But enough of daydreaming. Right now I could eat the landlady’s entire larder.’
Pippa chuckled, letting the relief she felt at his change of topic ease the tightness that had mounted in her shoulders during his talk of a strange woman. He was remembering the time she had sponged him. ‘You will eat lightly. I don’t want you throwing everything up no sooner than you get it down.’
He grimaced.
Pippa put her fists on her hips, feet shoulder width apart, and looked at him. Belatedly she realized what she was doing. The pose was natural with her when dealing with her brother, and invariably it put her twin’s back up. It would probably do the same to her patient.
With a sigh at her own mishandling of the situation, she quickly sat down on the only stool the room had and ladled up some of the gruel. She put the spoon to his lips. Instead of opening his mouth, his nose wrinkled in disgust and he scowled at her.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘You need food to get well, and you need food that is easy on your digestion. Later, when you are better and your stomach can handle mutton, I will allow you a complete meal.’ When his face softened, she added the clincher, ‘I don’t have the time or energy to care for you longer than necessary. I’m already late for my shift at the hospital.’
She watched his countenance as irritation warred with consideration. Consideration won. Pippa had been right about the way to handle him. It was the way she would have dealt with her twin.
Dev swallowed the gruel quickly, and Pippa was sure that if he had the energy and the bad manners, he would pinch his nose closed. Afterwards, she sponged off his face as professionally as she could when his nearness made her stomach knot. That finished, she tucked the covers around his chest to protect him from a draught.
Her face flamed at the familiarity of the gesture and the feel of his muscled shoulders under her fingers. It was a relief to turn away and prepare a draught.
‘Take this,’ she said, pivoting back and tipping the glass to his lips.
‘I’m not an invalid,’ he groused, wrapping the fingers of one hand around the glass Pippa still held.
Mind-startling awareness travelled from where they touched to explode in Pippa’s chest. She stepped abruptly away and chattered, ‘The drink is laudanum for sleep and pain and bark for the fever and inflammation. When I return, I will change your dressing, but ‘twill not be until late tonight. If you need anything, ring this bell and the landlady will come.’ She laid a brass bell with wooden handle by the bed.
‘Thank you,’ he said solemnly. ‘I won’t ever forget what I owe you.’
“Tis nothing,’ Pippa mumbled, grabbing up her coat and heading for the safety of the hospital.
The less time she spent in her handsome patient’s company now that he was awake, the better for her peace of mind. She was here in Brussels to find her twin, not get herself embroiled with a man who might be anyone. But even if he was the Prince Regent himself—which he wasn’t because he was much thinner than that corpulent royal—she would not be interested. She was going to dedicate her life to healing.
Best, when she returned, to find out if he had lodgings somewhere and arrange for him to be moved there. Surely there was someone who could look after him. That decision made, Pippa found herself alternately unsettled at the thought of him alone and relieved that he would no longer be a constant temptation to her.
Arriving at the crowded hospital, she set to work with a vengeance. There was always so much to do and not enough people or supplies to do it with.
Bent over the ripped arm of a sergeant, Pippa concentrated on removing the dressing with as little pain as possible. Gangrene had set in.
‘How is it?’ the man asked, agony etching furrows in his brow.
Pippa looked from the arm that would need to be amputated to the man’s face. It was all she could do to keep tears from slipping down her face. ‘You will need the surgeon to look at you,’ she said calmly, quietly, hoping the sergeant didn’t see the truth in her eyes. ‘For now, I am going to clean it and let it lay unwrapped. The air will do it good.’
What she didn’t tell the man was that it would not matter what she did, and the surgeon would be glad of the time saved by not having to remove a bandage. Too many soldiers needed operations. Sighing, Pippa stood and knuckled the kinks in her lower back.
‘You, young man,’ a French-accented female voice said imperiously. ‘Come here.’
Pippa was getting used to being called a boy and turned to see if the woman was speaking to her. A small, blonde Pocket Venus with the biggest, bluest eyes Pippa had ever seen, knelt less than ten feet away with a soldier’s head in her lap. The woman was dressed in the height of fashion in a sprigged muslin dress, all of which was covered by a voluminous apron. Definitely a lady, but the accent was wrong for a British hospital.
Pippa strode to her. ‘Madam?’
‘Lady Witherspoon.’ She motioned Pippa down. ‘This man needs a bath and I cannot give it. The water is right here and a piece of soap.’
Pippa nearly choked. This was one of the few duties she had managed to avoid. ‘Ah, milady…’
Before she could finish her explanation, the lady had gone on to the next patient. Pippa stared after her, feeling awkward and trapped. Luckily, she saw Sergeant Jones and waved him over.
‘I cannot lift the man properly,’ she gave him her regular excuse, one he’d heard frequently.
Jones gave her his great lopsided grin that showed a missing canine tooth. ‘Then you take that bloke over yonder. Has shrapnel all in his head. Them head wounds are the bloodiest nuisances. Turn my stomach with all their weeping they do.’
Pippa agreed willingly, but before going asked, ‘Who was that lady? Her accent is all wrong.’
Jones didn’t even bother to look where Pippa indicated. ‘Frenchie. Married to our Marquis of Witherspoon. Several of the men have spit on her, but she never says a harsh word. Almost as though she’s doin’ this to make up fer somethin’.’ He grunted as he rolled the patient on to his side. ‘She’s been helpin’ regular as clockwork. Not as good as you, mind, but then she’s a woman—and Quality.’
Pippa suppressed a grin at his lumping her with the ‘men’, while she digested the information. ‘Then why have I never seen her?’
Jones slanted her a knowing look. ‘Fine woman, but not fer the likes of me ‘n’ you, lad. Besides, she comes in the late afternoon. You’re with the Major making rounds.’
Accepting Jones’s assumption and explanation, Pippa went to her next patient. At least her disguise was perfectly safe. If the man she spent the most time with, and who did all the really personal care of the wounded, thought she was male, then everyone else did too.
Many hours later, Pippa walked the darkened streets of Brussels. Her back ached, her feet hurt, and she’d cried enough tears to float one of His Majesty’s ships. The man had lost his arm, screaming in pain in spite of all the rum she and Jones had forced between his clenched teeth. She hated it when these things happened.
Her reaction made her question her commitment to healing. She should be strong and not cry. She should be able to focus on doing what was necessary and go on. The local surgeon had said she felt too much of her patients’ pain, that she needed to distance herself emotionally—and that was before she came here and saw all this carnage.
She raked her fingers through the short length of her hair, her hand running on even after the strands ended. A month since she’d whacked off her waist-length hair, and she still tried to comb it as she had for many years. Another tear slipped.
Pippa stopped in the middle of the road and stomped her foot. She was acting like a watering pot. This would never do. She had things to do. Sick men to help and a brother to find.
Philip.
Somewhere her twin still lived. Instead of spending all her time worrying about the man lying in her bed or crying over things that had to be done, she should try again to see Wellington. Last week was the most recent time she’d sought an audience with the Iron Duke, and last week was the most recent time her request had been denied. Tomorrow she would try again.
Finding Philip was her sole reason for being here in Brussels, disguised as a boy and unchaperoned. Nothing else mattered.
Her grandfather thought she was here with Aunt Tabitha, but Aunt Tabitha was in London, blissfully unaware that Pippa was supposed to be under her chaperonage in Brussels. That was the way Pippa wanted it.
She had cut off her hair and taken the clothes Philip had worn as a youth. They were no longer in fashion, but a country man might still wear them. Disguised as a boy, she had booked passage on a packet crossing the channel and made her way here.
A young woman would never be told anything but what was proper, and she had a funny feeling that what had happened to her twin was less than respectable. Nor would a woman have been allowed the freedom to come and go as she had been while asking about her twin in the hopes that some clue to his whereabouts would emerge.
But if someone ever found out what she had done, her reputation would be gone. No one in Polite Society would ever receive her. No decent man would ever ask for her hand, no matter how wealthy she was. Not that she wanted to marry. She wanted to heal the sick and had turned down numerous offers from Aunt Tabitha to come to London for the Season. Still, she did not want to be beyond the pale.
She sighed. She had to stop this useless worrying, it did her no good. Shaking her head to clear the melancholy thoughts, she squared her shoulders. Spirits somewhat under control, Pippa strode purposely to her lodging.
She paused just inside the door of her darkened room, allowing her eyes to adjust. The moon shone through the lone window like a silver flame in a big lantern. A splash of white light fell across the bed where Deverell St Simon lay, his face flushed and glistening from sweat.
‘Patrick! Damn it man, where are you?’ His anxious words cut through the night. ‘I can’t see you!’
A nightmare. Pippa forgot her earlier resolve to have him gone as soon as possible and rushed to his side.
She put a hand to his forehead. Fever. She should have prepared another draught of bark and left it with the landlady with instructions to give it to him. Instead, she had let her attraction to him make her careless. Guilt twisted her stomach even as she wrung a damp cloth in the nearby bowl of water which she had placed just for this type of occurrence.
Remorse brought still more tears. She dashed them away with the heel of her hand and concentrated on cooling and soothing her patient. She was overly tired and needed a good night’s sleep, something she would get shortly.
‘Deverell,’ she murmured, ‘everything is fine. You’re in my bed, not on the battlefield. Patrick is not here.’
Her voice seemed to calm him. He stopped thrashing and no more words came.
Pippa crossed to her bag of herbs, lit a single candle and prepared more bark. Kneeling at the bed, she dripped it into her patient’s mouth.
His eyes opened, catching her in their brilliance. ‘Angel,’ he whispered. ‘My angel of mercy.’
Pippa started, nearly dropping the half-full glass. ‘No! That is…’ She took a deep calming breath. He was delirious. “Tis me. Pippen. The boy who is taking care of you.’
‘Pippen?’ Bewilderment replaced the admiration in his eyes. ‘Oh, yes. I remember now.’
Pippa lifted his head and tipped the rest of her concoction down his throat. ‘That will help you,’ she said as he sputtered.
‘Choke me, more like,’ he said with a faint smile that did dangerous things to her equilibrium.
She let his head fall. ‘Some laudanum will ease the pain in your leg and help you sleep.’
‘You should take some for yourself, Pippen.’ His hazel eyes, full of compassion, held hers. ‘You look exhausted. I’d wager a monkey that since I’ve been here you have not gotten a decent night’s sleep.’
His words were too close to the truth for comment. Instead, she held out the opium.
‘I need to go back to my own rooms,’ he said. ‘There is no reason you should have to give up your bed and your privacy for me.’
He took the small glass from her. Pippa didn’t fight him, understanding that he needed to show he was not completely helpless. His hand shook, and he very nearly spilled the contents before getting it to his mouth. The small act exhausted him, and she grabbed the empty glass as his arm fell.
‘You will get stronger every day.’
‘Can I be transported to my rooms?’
‘Most probably. But it would not be comfortable.’
His eyes darkened. ‘I can stand pain, Pippen. I am not a milksop to be constantly coddled. I am a man who has taken care of himself for many years.’
‘Tell me where your rooms are, and I’ll find out tomorrow if they are still available.’ Now it was her turn to frown. ‘But I’m not sure this is a good idea. You need someone to care for you.’
He grinned. ‘You can check on me. It isn’t right that I have taken your bed. Where have you slept while I’ve been here?’
Pippa nodded to a screen. ‘Behind that is a pallet. It’s big enough and comfortable enough.’
Dev gave the tiny room a cursory look. A single window provided what cooling breeze there was. There was a plain oak wash-stand, a small stool and table. A single candle illuminated the area around the bed. Nothing was expensive, but it was utilitarian. The screen took up space, but he understood why Pippen would want it. No one, not even family, liked living this close together.
‘This room isn’t big enough to house my father’s hunting dogs, let alone two men,’ he said.
‘Your father must be very grand, indeed.’
‘The Duke of Rundell.’
Pippa sat abruptly on the stool. ‘The Duke of Rundell?’
Even she had heard of the most powerful duke in Britain. That meant Deverell was definitely an officer. He might know her twin. Excitement clenched her hands and made the breath catch in her throat.
‘Do you…do you know Philip LeClaire?’
His brow furrowed. ‘No. I’ve heard of the LeClaire name, but that’s all.’ He gave her a narrowed look. ‘Why do you want to know?’
She took a deep breath and plunged into her rehearsed lie. ‘He is a distant cousin and we were told he was dead, but I know better.’ For once the words came easily to her tongue. ‘I am searching for him because his grandfather—my great uncle—is ill and needs him home.’
‘Who told you he was dead?’
‘The Home Office sent a letter two months ago saying Philip was dead. But it isn’t true. I know it.’
‘Steady,’ Dev said.
Pippa took a deep breath and just barely kept her voice from catching. ‘Earl LeClaire suffers from apoplexy. He had a seizure just six months ago, and the letter nearly brought on another. The doctor has ordered complete bed rest. I fear that if I cannot find my t—cousin soon, the Earl will have another. One that might be the end.’ Only sheer will power kept her from more tears. ‘I have to find Philip. I have to.’
‘I will help you,’ Dev promised. ‘When I am able to walk we will go see Wellington. If anyone knows where an officer is, and I assume an earl’s grandson is an officer, the Iron Duke will.’
Gratitude overwhelmed Pippa. ‘Do you know Wellington?’
A lopsided grin eased the lines of pain around his mouth. ‘Not really. But he’s a crony of my father’s and my commanding officer. I think he will see me.’
‘Thank you so much.’ This man would finally get her into the illustrious hero of Waterloo. The barely checked tears flowed. ‘You must think me a sissy to be crying like this.’
‘I think you a young man who has carried too much responsibility and needs a good night’s sleep. Something I doubt you’ll get on that pallet.’
Pippa gave him a watery smile. ‘That’s where you are wrong. I am so tired I could sleep on a heap of rocks.’
‘Then go to bed,’ her patient said, ‘and let me get my rest.’
Pippa went behind the screen and sprawled on the blankets. Excitement made her pulse speed. Deverell was going to do for her what she had been unable to accomplish. He would get her into Wellington. But tonight she had to put the hope aside and rest.
The room was close and humid. The discomfort from the heat was intensified by the binding she wore around her breasts and the fact that she was still in her shirt and breeches. She had slept this way since Deverell had regained consciousness, but the lack of rest was finally wearing her down.
This constant crying was not like her, and she realized that if she did not get some rest, she would not be able to keep going. It was a thought she could not bear. Too many people needed her healing skills.
She had to undo her breasts and sleep in less restrictive clothing in the hopes of being cooler. But what about Deverell? Did she dare? What if he needed her in the night? She sighed. She could give him more laudanum.
‘Deverell,’ she whispered, ‘are you awake?’
‘Yes,’ he whispered back. ‘You need to sleep. I need to think.’
‘You are fighting the laudanum,’ she scolded gently. ‘I can give you more. You need rest.’
He snorted. ‘You have already given me enough to fell an opium eater. No, thank you.’
She heard him shift. ‘Do you need help getting comfortable?’
‘No, thank you again,’ he said. ‘Will you take a message to Wellington’s headquarters tomorrow? Tell him I’m alive and find out where Patrick is? Ask him to meet with us.’
‘Of course, if that will make you sleep tonight.’
‘It will certainly help.’
‘Consider it done.’
Now perhaps he would sleep so she could put on her loose nightshirt and be able to rest herself. Within minutes she heard his light snoring, a sound that strangely enough did not bother her.
