Chapter Twenty-Four
Cedric woke with a groan, his head pounding and his throat dry. He could barely tell that he was on dry land with the way his vision swam, but he knew the sounds of an English household. Knew, too, that he was in London by the distant cry of the hawkers.
He was probably in his cousin’s house, he thought, and slammed his eyes closed. Better to remain in the dream of when he and Lucy had first met than face the reality of his life now.
But the more he remembered the carefree whimsy of his first nights on boardThe Integrity, the more he realised what a fool he’d been. He’d imagined her a timid flower drifting on the world’s whim. In truth, she was a tiny, clever dragon, quietly gathering the world’s riches. She would lead a man to wealth beyond measure. If he weren’t dying, he’d move heaven and earth to marry her. But since he was, he planned to wish her well and expire with her name on his lips like a romantic figure of old.
Getting to see her one last time had been his singular focus for weeks now. Having achieved that, he could go to his final rest. He let all the strength go out of his body, allowed his lips to shape her name and dropped into death.
Right now.
He was dying…now.
Oh hell.
He was thirsty. He tried to ignore it. He’d gone without drink so much of the voyage. But to have clean water at hand and ignore it? That was a travesty. And he really wanted that drink.
He forced himself to sit up, his head swimming worse than in the storm that had cost them months to repair the ship. Too embarrassed to ring the bell for help, he reached for the water, but his hand was shaking too much. He was going to spill the precious liquid all over. Oh hell.
And while he was bracing his head and his hand, he had the errant thought that he might not be dying. What if returning to Mother England brought him back to life?
How terribly inconvenient.
If he wasn’t dying, he’d have to get strong again. He’d have to deal with his still crumbling estates, his dowerless sisters and his horrid parents. The very thought of that had him praying for death.
It still didn’t come, but something else did. Someoneentered the room and immediately began cursing.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed a female voice. It was spoken in Chinese, so he knew it was Lucy by more than the cadence of her voice. ‘I was gone for five minutes!’
‘I’m fine,’ he lied, though it sounded more like a grunt, so she could be forgiven for not heeding his words.
She plumped his pillows and helped ease him back under the covers.
‘Why didn’t you ring the bell for help? I set it right there beside the bed.’
Wasn’t the answer obvious? Proper English lords did not ring the bell when they were dying. They were supposed to already be surrounded by beautiful ladies who bathed them in their tears. And if they weren’t dying—which, apparently, he wasn’t—then proper boys got their own drink of water.
‘Don’t sigh at me like that,’ she continued. ‘I’ve been harassed for three days now by ladies inquiring after your health. You’re the talk of theton, and I’m in the envious position of getting to spoon broth into your mouth as I pray for your survival.’ Her tone was sarcastic, but not cruel.
Had she been spoon feeding him? God, that was tedious work. He’d done it himself with ill sailors. Did he remember her by his bedside? Maybe, but it was too much work to recall. Especially when the memory of their first meeting lingered in his thoughts.
‘You used to be shy,’ he said. It wasn’t an accusation. Merely a memory.
‘I’m frightened. My sister says I get shrewish when I’m frightened.’
He relaxed against the pillows, his body sagging like a sack of meal. ‘I don’t mean to be a bother,’ he muttered.
‘A lie if there ever was one,’ she retorted, a teasing note in her voice. ‘You enjoy being the centre of attention.’
That wasn’t true. Or it wasn’t exactly true. He liked it when people noticed him. And if he couldn’t be a jolly good fellow, then he was a jolly awful bother. Good God, his thoughts were a jumbled mess.
A string of Chinese words melded into his thoughts, confusing him even more. And then she spoke, her voice a great deal more tender.
‘How do you feel now? Are you hungry? You really need some food.’
‘Did you pray for me?’ Where had those words come from?
‘I did,’ she said as she rang the small bell at the side of the bed. ‘I prayed that you would choose one direction or the other. Life or death.’ She cupped his face and gently lifted his chin until his gaze met hers and she smiled that radiant smile of hers. ‘I am pleased you chose to live.’