Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews! I love when readers write long reviews - I use them as learning experiences. :)


Brigands served her breakfast alone the next morning.

"He's not coming, is he?" She picked up her spoon, keeping her eyes downcast to hide the hurt.

"No, my lady. He took his meal in his study and seems to be in a foul mood." He set a hand on her shoulder in a fatherly way for a moment. When she didn't say anything, he said, "Marriage has its storms, but they eventually pass, my lady." Then he left.

After breakfast, she went to the library and sat with a book. Heartache made the words exchanged last night play over and over.

Brigands walked in. "Lunch is served, my lady."

She blinked. The book still laid her in lap unopened. Apparently hours had passed. Taking the hand that Brigands held out to help her up, she cracked a sad smile when he offered his arm to escort. "He's not coming again, is he?"

A gentle smile in his weathered face offered compassion. "It has been too long since you've dined with us. Would you do us the honor?"

With a nod, she took his arm. "I'm not too proud to take a pity offer today," she whispered and swallowed back the tears.

"Mistress, if I may be bold enough to say, he seems as miserable as you. Should you go to him, he might talk."

She heaved a sigh from the depths of her soul. "I should think he'd bite my head off and kick me out." Tugging his arm to stop him at the doorway in the privacy of the library, she met his eyes. "I need a friend right now." Tears blurred everything.

"My lady, I am always here if you need to talk. What is troubling you?" He offered a handkerchief.

"Thank you." She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes. "I love him, and he's never misled me but made it clear many times that he'll never love me because he loves Anna. I thought I could do this and it wouldn't hurt, but it does. So much. I don't know how...I don't even know what I'm trying to ask."

He took her hand and patted it. "But do you not see?"

"See what?" Her voice cracked from more tears threatening.

"He has loved you for a long time. When he came home and found you were kidnapped, he panicked. Not the panic of a nuisance in danger but the panic of something precious that could be harmed. In prison, did you not see him light up the moment he saw you? Or how he smiles again after not smiling for years? Perhaps he feels guilty to admit it even to himself yet - he took the wedding vows to Mistress Anna very seriously. But, he's seemed to forgotten the 'until death do us part.' He believes he must be faithful to Mistress Anna, God rest her soul. But I think he is also realizing that he made the same vows to a wife who is very much alive. It conflicts him as a man who is very loyal."

"Brigands, he no more loves me than he does a chair. He would miss the chair for a few hours should it disappear, but he would most readily forget about it after a few days."

"With all due respect, mistress, I must disagree. I wish you could've known Mistress Anna. You're very much alike but also very, very different. You..." he looked away for a moment, as if searching for the precise words, "have a strength that cannot be shaken. Mistress Anna was not a strong woman by any means. I see the Marquess sometimes have no idea how to react to that strength because it is very foreign to him. I saw the burden on him when things would get hard and he'd have to handle it all on his own. In the hard times, a man is grateful to have a strong woman standing beside him. He struggles with his leg right now, and I see him push you away at times because..." he released a sigh like he regretted his next words, "she would've loved him still, but not in the same way. He would've fallen in her eyes. I'm not saying it's right, but he is waiting for you to see him as less too."

"But that's what I mean - I will always be in her shadow, Brigands." A heartbroken smile touched her lips. "Sometimes for no other reason than because I wasn't the one he loved first. He provides for the babe and I and doesn't beat me, which is more than what most wives have. He offers conversation and a small degree of companionship, for which is not common in arranged marriages."

"He does love you."

Squaring her shoulders, she sniffled back tears and returned the handkerchief. "Brigands, I think we both know that will never happen. I'm being ungrateful. I'm blessed to have a man who was willing to marry a woman stationed so far beneath him, much less fallen from Society. Come, lunch is waiting." She took a step.

He caught her arm, his eyes red with unshed tears. "Mistress."

She shook her head and forced a smile. "The babe and I would be dead. He saved us from starvation. He gives us food, clothes, shelter and luxuries. He's good to us. I have no right to complain of not being loved. It was an ungrateful moment of self-pity. Please forget that I said anything." Unable to keep her voice steady for another moment, she turned the corner. And almost ran into Mark's chest.

He stood there, searching her face without any expression.

Her cheeks burned hot. He surely heard her complaints. Her eyes dropped to his chest. She had made him a promise and refused to guilt him into saying words that he'd never mean. "I assume you heard." She stared at his chest for courage. "I had a lapse in tongue. I won't speak such nonsense again, my lord," she whispered and then darted around him before the tears fell.

Never had it occurred that it would be a painful sacrifice to love a man who would never love in return.


Lunch offered enough distraction to forget about the heartache for a bit. She stepped out of the kitchen when someone knocked at the front door. As she reached for the knob, Mark limped out of the study. She opened the door to a man about Mark's age who smiled.

"So it is true. My, he's outdone himself this time." The man removed his top hat.

"John," Mark said from behind her, his voice light. "Come in."

She looked over her shoulder at Mark and stepped aside. It must be a business meeting.

"Tanya, this is an old childhood friend, Counselor John Manchester. John, my wife Tanya." He shut the door and then set his arm around her waist like he was proud to introduce her.

Tom took her hand and bowed. "A pleasure. I only have a moment, Mark, but I came across something. I didn't believe the papers that you wed, so I had to come see myself. Whatever possessed you?" The man chuckled. "She's quite lovely."

"Really, John," Mark sighed.

The men seemed to be having some inside joke. "Mr. Manchester, may I offer you refreshments?" She asked just as Brigands hurried out and offered to take the man's hat and cloak.

"No, ma'm, er, my lady." He burst into giggles that would seem absurd from any other man. "You're keeping old Mark in line, I trust?"

She gave a polite smile but glanced up at Mark, not sure what to make of the lawyer's odd behavior.

Mark's hand rubbed her hip. "Yes, I remarried. Get on with your business, John." He sounded exasperated.

"I must say, this is not at all like you to buy a woman and child. She is a looker, though." He gave a cheerful wink to her that took away the sting of his words.

Mark, however, bristled. "She was not bought, for Christ's sake. And you can leave if you're going to gawk at her. Did you have any purpose to your call?" He barked the words in a way that would've offended anyone. Except John.

"I do! I'm here to..." He dug in his pockets. "By golly, where are they? Ah!" He pulled out some papers. "I'm here to say that I found records of your wife being sold about two months before your marriage. Such papers for the county pass through my desk."

Her heart stopped. She grabbed Mark's sleeve when her knees threatened to buckle. Somehow this stunt from Papa didn't come as a surprise.

"What?!" Mark sounded like he might kill Mr. Manchester. His grip on her tightened as he and Brigands eased her onto the bench near the door. Then he ripped the papers out of the man's hand and skimmed them. Brigands patted her shoulder and then returned to the kitchen to give them privacy.

"There's no harm done really. The man didn't come to claim her before you married, so you can keep her."

He threw the papers back at John, who caught them. "She's not a damn horse! Since when the fuck is it legal to sell a woman?!"

The man held up a finger. "Because this agreement was made prior to your marriage, there was a breech. I talked to the man, and he's willing to not take the matter to the King if he's reimbursed his...losses."

"Goddamn sale, you mean." He braced his legs so he was able to cross his arms over his chest while holding the cane. "Her father sold her to another man the night that I agreed to marry her. I paid him off. Now there's this one. I'm not paying anyone. She's my wife by law and I'm not paying anyone so I can keep her. If he wants to take it to the King, be my guest. You can tell them that I didn't show up because they can kiss my ass!"

Mr. Manchester cleared his throat and mumbled, "I don't think you can tell the King to kiss your ass."

Mark slammed the end if his cane down in a temper. "Last I checked, selling a woman is illegal!"

"Yes, but - "

"I don't fucking care!"

"Actually, you should." He ran a hand through his hair, serious for the first time since arriving. "May you and I speak privately?"

"No! It's about her, so she can hear it!" Mark's eyes could've shot arrows at the man.

"Take a look again." He handed Mark the papers and pointed to something on the page.

Mark's face drained sheet white.

"But we can fix it."

He looked at her. "Stay out here so the babe doesn't upset." He limped to the study with the lawyer.

"Why do you have a knee brace?" Mr. Manchester asked.

"Shut up. I hate the messenger right now," Mark growled.

The man just chuckled and patted Mark's back as he shut the study doors.

Mark's voice filtered through the door angry a few times but the words too mumbled to comprehend. The men finally came out a bit later.

"I'll send you a copy of the signed papers." Mr. Manchester took her hand again and bowed over it where she sat. "Marchioness, a pleasure. Do not fret. You shall keep your home here and husband."

Mark heaved a sigh. "Really? Is that necessary, John? There's nothing for you to be concerned about, Tanya."

He turned and shook Mark's hand. "I should enjoy to come by and get to know your lady love." He gave her a wink. "Takes a unique one to put up with his sharp tongue. Good luck to you. Call me if he needs a beating to keep him in line."

Mark rolled his eyes. "I recall you being the one with black eyes. Goodbye," he said pointedly.

The man frowned. "You never did take well to disagreements."

"You never knew when to shut your mouth up. Being a lawyer suits you. Now get out - my house isn't a courtroom."

"Then perhaps your handsome wife would accept my calls." He gave a wink, letting her know he was goading Mark. "I daresay your nose is in ledgers all day, leaving this lovely dove lonesome. Do you prefer roses or tulips, my lady?"

"Get out." He pushed the man toward the door.

"Take my calling card!" The man tossed it her way as he was shoved out. "I shall count the days, my lady!"

Mark snatched the card off the ground, balancing on one leg well in his temper, and threw it out the door. Then he slammed the door shut.

She covered her mouth to stifle the laugh. The man knew how to get Mark riled up.

A tap on the window to the right. Mr. Manchester grinned, but his expression turned to one of a lovestruck man as soon as Mark stomped over. The man laid a hand over his heart. "I shall write poses of your beauty every day!"

Mark flipped a finger at him and snapped the curtains closed.

"Mark!" She giggled, quite enjoying him showing some jealousy.

"Damn ape comes in and starts pawing at you. I'll riddle his poses with verses of my own - bulletholes, the damn ass," he grumbled. Then he limped to the study.

Her smile faded and she cocked her head at his back. "Poses give a man a pardon for being sentimental. How special to earn a man's admiration to the depth that he'd risk putting even a line of his sentiment on paper." Perhaps if he knew how precious it would be to receive some kind of intentional display of affection that he couldn't blame on being 'caught up in the moment' and recant...

He turned in the doorway, his face hard. "Such idiotic notions are nothing but love letters," he spat. "Get in here so we can discuss what his call was about."

She stood and forced a small smile as tears burned. "And no one could possibly wants to give me love letters?"

"I didn't say that," he seethed.

"I don't much care to hear what I assume was another way my father found to sell me for his gain. I'm tired of being a forced obligation on everyone, something no one wants to take or keep." She headed for the staircase.

"Would love letters be received?" The quietness of his words didn't carry far.

Stopping at the bottom step, she turned and met his eyes. "They would be kept for always."

The man limped forward, his cane tapping on the marble floor, and he stopped a hairs breath away. He reached out, the back of his fingers caressing her cheek. "I'm going to get things wrong more than right." Then he took her hand, his expression like a nervous schoolboy. "I don't mean to compare you to Anna, and I never want you to feel like you're not good enough."

She forced a brave smile, the unshed tears making her voice come out no stronger than a whisper. "But you remind me every day that I'm not."

His chest stilled and he stared, as if realizing the truth of her words. "Because I'm a goddamn idiot," he snarled. Then his kiss sent all coherent thought out the window. The room spun by the time he broke the kiss. "You will sleep in my chambers tonight."

The huskiness in his voice still held on, sending her heart into palpitations. She cleared her throat and let go of his dinner jacket that she must've grabbed to keep from melting to the floor, speechless for once. A rakish smile curled up the corner of his mouth and he left her staring after him.

Hope fluttered. Then she hurried after him as he disappeared into his study. "Mark?"

He stopped near his desk and turned, leaning both hands on his cane and the slight smile still on his lips.

"Um, what happened with Mr. Manchester?"

In an instant, his smile fell flat. "We'll discuss it in a few days after it's resolved."

Her brow furrowed. "But you said we're partners, that I should know what it was because it's about me."

A deep sigh escaped and he eased into his chair. "Come sit." He seemed worried. He patted his lap so she sat. His hand rested on the babe. Those blue eyes met hers. "It was a bondservant agreement."

"What is that?"

The man looked ill. "Like an indentured servant. With how distraught your father was when he asked me to marry you, I can only assume he was deep in his cups when he signed this contract." His hand rested on her back. "There's nothing for you to worry about."

"Are you just saying that?" She swallowed hard and her hand clutched his.

He raised her hand to his lips and brushed a kiss over it. He held her eyes. "You're my wife and aren't going anywhere. John is taking care of things. I promise you." She must've looked worried because he continued with what he looked reluctant to discuss. "The other party has agreed to void the contract if compensated for the debt. He does hold some legal ground being the contract was signed before our marriage was even arranged. Rather than risk it, we're settling it financially and offering incentive to do so."

"Bribing, you mean." Her voice quivered. It wasn't guaranteed.

"I ensured it's an offer he won't refuse." His voice didn't hold an edge, as if worried himself.

"If it doesn't work, how many years is it for? Isn't an indentured servant seven?"

"It will work."

"Mark."

His eyes searched hers, grief etching his voice. "Bondservant is for life. But I offered double the price to sweeten the deal."

Frightened tears welled and panic bubbled up. "If he doesn't take it, he owns the babe then too. He - "

He cupped her face in his steady hands. "Five thousand pounds will not be refused," he stated.

"Five thousand?" Her mouth fell open.

"I expect a counter, which we have the means to cover."

"What if others come forward with contracts?" Her hands wrapped around his wrists, needing so desperately to feel safe.

"If no others have been filed, they can be considered null." His eyes clouded. "I would never buy a woman, but in essence, I dont think there's another choice. John suggested that I leave today to see the King. If I explain the circumstances, he can seal the marriage so it can never be broken." Those blue eyes searched hers in all seriousness. "Divorce would never be possible. Do you want that?"

Her heart twisted. "You would do that for me?" When he nodded, tears splashed onto her lap. "Do you want to?"

His throat convulsed in a hard swallow. "If you wish to stay, I don't want to lose you."

Flinging her arms around his neck, she sniffled. "If you should have to resort to bondslave papers, I would not object to you owning me."

"If it should come to that, nothing else here changes. I would never take advantage of it." His arms wrapped around in a tight embrace. "John will be sending the signed papers back today and I'll be back within the week. We should check the babe to make sure you're both sound before I go." He patted her hip to get up.

A knock echoed on the bedroom door just after Mark finished declaring the babe sound. "Yes?" he barked, seeming a bit on edge since Mr. Manchester's visit.

"The seamstress is here, my lord. Shall I have her set up in the sitting room?" Brigands called through the door.

Mark buttoned up the back of her dress. "In Her Ladyship's chambers," he called.

"Yes, my lord." Brigands' footsteps faded away.

When he finished, he took her hand and led the way to her chambers.

The seamstress brought yards and yards of every fabric imaginable and had footmen piling the samples in a corner of the room. A young girl helped the seamstress set out supplies and set out a modeling stool for measuring the hemline.

"No stool," Mark ordered.

Everyone in the room spun around in surprise and offered a bow. "My lord." The seamstress offered a curtsey. "Madam Antoine," she said in a French accent. "We are honored to be of service."

"This is my wife. As you see, she's in a delicate way. No stool shall be used lest she fall."

The woman offered her a curtsey too. "Of course. We shall make you dresses of the finest fashion in Paris."

Paris. Her heart beat faster with excitement and her eyes flew to Mark. He'd sent for a seamstress from Paris. "I don't need anything fancy here."

He simply smiled and looked at the seamstress. "My wife is modest. Convince her to spoil herself, Madam. See that she has a thick winter cloak and nightclothes that will accommodate the babe too. And any fripperies she desires. Funds are not an object." His eyes lit up, as if he found pleasure in being able to spoil her. "I'll return before I must depart." He looked at the seamstress. "I trust she'll be content in your hands." It was almost as if it served as a warning...like her reputation may've reached their ears.

The seamstress smiled. "Of course, my lord. My clients are always pleased."


His stomach twisted as he paced in his chambers twenty minutes later, ignoring the pain in his knee. Despite being very firm with the seamstress in his letters that Tanya was to be treated with respect, worry gnawed that they'd gotten wind of the rumors. Giving in to the stress, he limped down the hall to her chambers and knocked. Then he stepped in.

She stood in her chemise with yards of fabric strewn over her shoulder by the seamstress and a young woman - likely an apprentice - taking measurements. Her hair had been twisted up in a French knot to stay out of the way. He smiled at the chaos of a woman enjoying herself. "Are you finding it to your liking?"

Her head whipped around to him with tears in her eyes.

"Tanya, what's wrong?" He limped closer.

"We can add this," the seamstress said, seeming distressed herself. She held up a clump of cotton and pressed it up under a yard of satin. "See? It doesn't even show."

Tanya shook her head and the tears fell.

If the women had said anything to upset her, he'd have their heads. "What's going on?" he snapped at the seamstress. "Go in the hall while I talk to my wife."

The two women hurried out.

His voice softened and he took her hand. "Why are you crying?"

She burst into sobs, unable to speak for a moment.

"Shhh, it's alright." He gathered her in his arms.

"The, the materials...are s,so fine," she hiccupped. "They show everything."

He frowned. "What do you mean?" Then he dabbed at her tears with a handkerchief.

She picked up a red satin dress that the seamstress had whipped together as a rough outline of measurements. When she turned around with it on, something in his chest lurched.

The fine material clung to her bosom as it should, but it also revealed the disfigurement to her breast, gaping and puckering on one side. Those big brown eyes turned up to him, shining with fresh tears. "I didn't realize how bad it is." She hiccupped as more tears fell. "She's tried a bunch of things but they all show. What of it's worse after the babe is born?" Big eyes looked up at him, as if he could make it all better.

He swallowed hard, not sure how to break it to her. "It could be more apparent once you no longer are feeding the babe, but it also could be better because the engorgement will be gone." Odds would be the former. "Perhaps print materials would make you feel better about it." He grabbed a blue tiny flower print and stretched it across her chest. "See? No one will even notice." He smiled in encouragement. "If someone is looking at your bosom that close, I shall punch him anyways."

She looked up at him and a tear fell from the tip of her dark lashes. "But you'll know."

It was like both a slam to the gut and hole shot in the heart. He lowered the material. "Sweetheart, it doesn't matter to me any more than my knee scars matter to you." He cupped her breast, the weight and shape noticeably different from the other side. "This is beautiful to me because you didn't let him take your spirit. Do what makes you feel pretty in public. Alone with me, you won't hide your body." Brushing a kiss over her lips, he set aside the material and walked to the door.

"Mark?"

He turned.

"She said it's not the fashion, but may I have high necklines?"

"Tell seamstress however you wish your clothes to be made." He frowned. As if having the disfigurement wasn't enough, she was ashamed of the scar at the base of her throat too.

The woman blinked. "But the husband says how they're to be made, I thought."

Opening the door, he nodded for the women to come in. "The clothes are to be made to Her Ladyship's specifications," he ordered, his tone only allowing an idiot to argue. "In all matters." He gave the seamstress a pointed look.

"Yes, my lord." The seamstress and her apprentice bobbed a curtesy.

"And the other item is to my specifications," he said under his breath to the seamstress on his way out. Already he couldn't wait to return home.


"I'm only a telegram away. You have my stops?"

She sniffled and nodded, holding up the paper of the towns he'd stop overnight at on the way to see the King. "You'll be home for Christmas?"

"The day before Christmas Eve." He brushed a kiss over her lips. "No more tears," he grunted. Her clingyness made it all the harder to leave her for a week. "Send for the surgeon if you need him. Brigands' wife is stronger now and looks forward to keeping you entertained. She has helped birth babes, so let her see to you until the surgeon arrives should the babe not be sound. Don't cry and upset yourself. Make sure you eat."

"Telegram when you get there?"

He cracked a smile, the feeling warming his heart. "I will. You have no need to worry about me - I'm too ornery to perish, remember?" Then he turned to Brigands beside her. "Look after her and the babe." Instead of an order, it came out more like a worried plea.

"I shall look out for them like my own flesh and blood, my lord. Cook is staying the nights so he can ride fast for the surgeon should she need him, as you requested. A telegram will be sent should she need you."

With a nod, he pushed down the nerves of leaving her and climbed in the coach.

Brigands and Tom stood on each side of her as she sniffled into a handkerchief. Something inside ached already, an ache he'd forgotten could exist - homesickness.


"Today is Tuesday?"

"Yes, for the third time," Teresa, Brigands' wife, sighed where she sat across the coffee table in the sitting room. "Focus and the time will go faster." The dear lady tried to teach her how to knit, but her heart wasn't in it today.

"I'm sorry. I miss him. I thought he'd at least write one letter after he sent his telegram."

"He has business, dear. Besides, his letter would arrive after he returns home."

"Oh." She sighed in disappointment. Pulling out his telegram from her pocket, she studied it for the thousandth time.

Here STOP Mark STOP

Stuffing it in her pocket again, she frowned. "It's so short. Do you think he's angry with me that he had to take the trip? Maybe his leg is hurting him. Oh, he shouldn't have gone!"

"Easy, dear. Each letter costs money in a telegram. Perhaps he wants to save it in case the horse throws a shoe or some emergency. He isn't angry and is a doctor to know how to care for his leg if it acts up."


The day before Christmas Eve. She sat at the window in his chambers that offered a long view down the drive. Her stomach twisted tighter with each passing hour. Glancing down at the telegram in her hand from three nights ago, she chewed her lip.

Done STOP On way home STOP Mark

"My lady, he'll come." Brigands' footsteps creaked across the wood floor.

"No, something is wrong. I can feel it." She didn't tear her eyes from the snow-covered drive.

"Perhaps the roads aren't as clear North. Don't fret," he cooed. "You should finish your plate and then get some rest. You don't want to be tired and ill when he returns for Christmas Eve."

The next day she convinced Brigands and Tim to take her to town and send telegrams to all of Mark's scheduled stops. He traced half way home to an inn where he departed two days ago. He never made it to his next stop.

No one matches description STOP Road robbery on near highway yesterday STOP Will send news if fatalities STOP

She rubbed her belly and paced for an hour.

"Sit and rest that babe, or I'll take you home," Brigands ordered.

So she sat and another two hours passed. Then the response came.

Gun shots STOP No known fatalities STOP Injured taken to Chesterton STOP

A telegram went to Chesterton and returned minutes later.

Man beaten and shot STOP Unconscious STOP No identification STOP Brown hair STOP Thin build STOP

Her heart started beating again. "It's not him." But no one knew where he was.


Sitting in the windowseat in his chambers the next night, she opened the window and looked up at the Christmas star, her breath coming in tiny cloud puffs through the silent air. "Please let him be safe," she whispered. "I know you've blessed me with so much, but please bring him home for Christmas." Snowflakes floated from the clouds.

Little cottages dappled the distance as soft golden glows while families made merry. Shivers took hold in the icy air, and the clock struck midnight. Closing the window, she rubbed her arms and climbed into his bed. The babe slept sound as she cried herself to sleep.

Horses. Her eyes fluttered open. Hooves clip-clopped. Pushing herself up, she strained to listen. They drew closer. A glance at the clock said half past one. Then a horse whinnied outside the window. Shooting out of bed, she shoved aside the curtains. A carriage stopped at the front door. It was either Mark or someone come to deliver news of him. Without grabbing a robe or lantern, she tore out the door and downstairs.


He no sooner stepped into the house than Tanya flew at him out of the darkness. Her hair was loose and feet bare as she held her belly, throwing herself into his arms. Stumbling back a step, a smile broke free as he caught his burden. The woman burst into tears. "Tanya?"

"I was so scared what happened. I heard about a highway robbery and then you didn't make it to your stop." Her arms crushed in a hug and she sprinkled kisses over his face. Then she stilled and pulled back with wide eyes. Her hand pressed to his brow. "You have a fever." Her hands cupped his cheeks and then pulled off his gloves. "Your hands are like ice. Mark?"

"Let's go to bed and then we'll talk. Are you and the babe sound?" He shrugged off his cloak, transferring the cane between hands.

"Yes." She directed the footman to set his trunk in the hall. Then she set aside his cloak, top hat and gloves and led him up the stairs. "Should I send for the surgeon?"

"No. I saw a surgeon two days ago," he panted. The goddamn pain made it almost unbearable to climb the stairs. "A stray bullet went through the carriage during the highway robbery and into my bad knee, out of all the damn places. No money left to telegram you."

She took his arm to help at the top of the stairs. "Did you need surgery or did it go through?"

"He dug out the bullet, but I just wanted to get home."

"And now you're ill from infection." She slipped under his arm at the top of the stairs and draped it over her slim shoulders. Then she anchored an arm around his middle.

"Jesus, you smell good." A week had been too damn long without her.

"And I see the fever is making you delusional." She helped him sit on the edge of the bed and unbuttoned his shirt.

"I wish to hell I felt well enough to enjoy this," he mumbled, feeling weaker by the minute. "It's so cold in here."

"Because you're burning up, Mark." She said something, but her words grew harder and harder to follow.

Her gentle hands pressed against his chest, the effort too much to resist, so he laid down across the bed. She unbuttoned his pants. Sweet Jesus, this day would get a whole lot better if she was going to make love. Reaching up, it took a great deal of effort to target her arm. Then his fingers wrapped around the supple flesh and tried to pull her closer for a kiss. She, however, pulled down his pants. White-hot pain seared up his leg, the urge to vomit slamming as fast as all vision fading.


She ran a rag over Mark's brow, the effort probably futile but nonetheless something to do while her stomach ate itself. "He fainted the minute I pulled his pants over his knee. He's so hot."

"Surgery will nudge up the fever tonight and tomorrow, but it should improve after that now that we're getting the infection out." The surgeon on holiday from Scotland smiled.

The moment she glanced at the surgeon digging in Mark's knee, he pulled out some threads from pants that the bullet must've embedded. She drew a deep breath and looked away. Mark murmured something as he started to wake up.

"Hold on. Chloroform isn't a good friend with a fever. Almost done, lad." The surgeon's brow furrowed as he leaned in to clear out more infection. "Dearie, come sit on his thigh so he doesn't move."

Her heart pounded with nervous anxiety as she walked around the bed and eased her weight down to keep him still.

Mark flinched and gave a drugged-like groan of pain. His brow furrowed and breathing picked up as he began to awaken.

The surgeon whipped in sutures impossibly fast like that of a man with experience from the days before chloroform. He wrapped on a bandage and put his tools in a basin of hot water like Mark did after surgery. "There you are, lad. Now, let's see about that fever."

Her eyebrows rose higher and higher as the surgeon pulled the sheets off Mark to leave him bare and then began rubbing vinegar on his feet.

"Get as much broth and water into him as possible the next two days."

"I thought for a fever you're supposed to not feed." How odd this man was.

"Don't look so skeptical, dearie. Your husband taught me these tricks, and I've seen remarkable improvement in patient recovery as opposed to bloodletting and starving them."

She frowned. "You've worked with Mark?"

"About ten years ago. I heard about a crazy physician in England whose patients survived things other physicians deemed incurable. So I followed him around for three months and couldn't believe my eyes. Do you know what they say about geniuses?"

"No." She cocked her head in confusion.

"They're often seen as insane." He waived a hand at Mark. "I wonder at times if he's simply ahead of the times. In fifty or a hundred years, science will probably say bloodletting is barbaric rather than the standard."

Sure enough, by sunrise the fever fell enough that Mark's eyes fluttered open.

"Top 'o the morning, lad!" The surgeon remained cheery even as her own back ached and her eyelids drooped with exhaustion.

Mark's brow furrowed, his cheeks still red with the fever.

"You're still confused, aren't you?" She scooted closer and took his hot hand.

His eyes shifted to her. "I couldn't sleep without you," he sighed. "Making love made my leg hurt...you be here." The words slurred in his haze and he gave a weak pat to his belly for her to climb on.

The surgeon choked on a laugh, and her face burned in embarrassment. He patted her back. "It's a good sign when a man feels well enough to be interested in the marriage bed. I shall be by at lunch to check on him. Remember to feed and water him."

Once the surgeon left, she climbed in bed. Contact with his hot body made her nightgown cling, so she sat up minutes later and stripped. He seemed to sleep peacefully enough, so she curled up to get some rest.


Late morning sunlight poured in, and she stretched in bed. Rolling over toward Mark, she opened her eyes. And blinked.

Mark propped up against the pillows and looked down at her, a tender look in his eye. The fever still burned in his cheeks.

"Do you hurt?"

"Not as much as last night." His words came out slow and soft, unlike his usual crisp, clear delivery. "It feels like there's an incision."

She frowned. "You don't remember surgery during the night?"

He grunted in disagreement.

Goosebumps skittered down - goosebumps that shouldn't happen next to a fevered body. Her eyes widened and heart stopped. Unless if the blankets had fallen. "I don't think I want to look."

The corner of his mouth curled up in a lopsided smile. "I've very much been enjoying the view." But he leaned forward and pulled the blanket up...from her thighs. His hand swept over the swell of her belly, and he slid down in bed with a soft grunt of pain. Then his arm slipped under and tugged her closer to rest her head on his shoulder. "I'm in need of a bath, but..."

She smiled. "But you need me more."

"Never said that," he growled and his other hand rested on the babe. He pressed a kiss to her hair.

"You seem to be feeling a bit better." Her fingers stroked over his hard abdomen. He still felt hot.

"Man improves with a naked woman."

WIth a frown, she looked back at him. He didn't speak or act like himself. "You were much too hot to sleep with last night."

"Remind me. No recollection." With one arm, he rolled her up to straddle his hips, leaving her completely bare and bracing her hands on his chest.

She gasped in shock and scrambled off, yanking up the sheets to cover herself. "You are most certainly still delirious with fever!"

He gave a lazy grin. "It's so goddamn hard sleeping next to your luscious body." His hands swept over her belly.

Her heart sank. "Mark, who am I?" He most certainly had a fever affecting him.

"My Tanya." The man guided her hand under the sheets and wrapped her fingers around him. His eyes rolled back with a sigh. "I've wanted you for so long."

Jerking her hand away, she sat back and held a nightgown over herself. "Mark, you're feverish and don't know what you're doing. You need the surgeon again." Her heart pounded in nervousness.

His eyes drifted shut and his words grew faded with slumber. "Shhh. Won't hurt you." He prodded her to lie down again. His hand rested on her bare belly once she settled. "Wish I deserved you."