Page 65 of When We Touch

Darby, Randolph behind him, came flying into the room. “What happened, sir?” Darby cried in distress.

“Maggie?” Jamie said, looking at her. She was shaking so violently now that it was amazing she was still standing.

She shook her head. Giant tears welled in her eyes. “He . . . he . . . he just . . . he just . . . one minute . . . then the next . . .”

“His heart,” Randolph suggested sharply.

Mrs. Whitley, in a robe, her gray hair hanging down her back in a long braid, made the next appearance, just as Jamie was saying, “Randolph, ride for his doctor, quickly, please.”

“Sir William Gull! The Queen’s own physician will see him,” Mrs. Whitley said.

“Randolph, go for Dr. Mayer,” Jamie said.

“The Queen’s physician will see him! Sir William Gull saved the life of the Prince once; he is excellent—”

“He is seventy and has had a stroke himself!” Jamie said irritably, then swore and added, “Randolph, go for Dr. Mayer. Darby, ride for Sir William Gull.”

The two coachmen left. Mrs. Whitley quickly came to Charles’s bedside, straightening the sheets, checking for a pulse, as well. From the corner of her eyes, she covertly stared at her employer’s new lady bride. There was venom in that look.

“We’ll see that you’re tended, dear Lord Charles!” Mrs. Whitley said. “Protected, aye, we’ll see to it!” she murmured.

That, apparently, sank through to Maggie’s mind. And it was as if a sudden fury awakened her, as if something actually snapped in her mind. She strode to the bed. “Mrs. Whitley, just exactly what are you insinuating?”

“Nothing, madam, nothing,” Mrs. Whitley said, her eyes falling. “I’ll get his daughter, Sir James.”

“No,” Jamie said. “Let the doctors come. There is no reason to disturb Arianna right now. Perhaps you could get some cool cloths, and we’ll soothe his forehead. And Mrs. Whitley, a brandy, please.”

“Do you think he can drink a brandy?” Mrs. Whitley asked skeptically.

“The brandy is for Lady Langdon,” he said.

Mrs. Whitley stiffened and pursed her lips, and appeared loathe to leave the room.

“Mrs. Whitley, if you will?” Jamie persisted.

The woman left the room. Maggie didn’t look at Jamie, but lowered herself to the bed by Charles. “He was fine,” she whispered. “More than fine,” and that sounded a little bitter. “Frisky, one might say. And then . . .”

“I believe it’s his heart,” Jamie said.

“Can’t you do anything?” she whispered.

“I’m not a physician. I can tie a tourniquet, remove a bullet, and manage a few stitches on a battlefield, but as to matters such as this . . .”

“What can we do?”

“Wait.”

She swallowed hard. He had never seen her in such a state of agitation and distress, so . . . lost.

But then again, he’d never seen her in a circumstance such as this. And still, she was customarily such a determined young woman, composed—hardened by the world, somewhat, one might have said.

Tonight . . . she looked young. Young and lost and . . . frightened. The smoking jacket left a deep V upon the ivory expanse of her flesh, nestling deeply between her breasts. The red-gold mass of her hair, streaming down her back in a wild cascade, was all too familiar. So were those eyes, cobalt blue and wide as they met his.

He wanted so badly to hate her. His beloved kinsman was at death’s door. And it was quite possible that she had, inadvertently, brought this about. Charles might well be lost to them. And yet . . . if so, it had been Charles’s hunger that had brought him to this state.

That thought was disloyal.

Yet true.