Jo Beverley - [Malloren] Read Online Free PDF

Her gentle touch merely reminded him of his mother, dead many years ago. Her soft voice would soothe him in fevered nights. Speaking in French, however. Was he French … ?
    No, surely not.
    “It’s just dark, sir,” the woman said, definitely in English. “It’s the middle of the night.”
    He was making a fool of himself. Here he was, doubtless in an inn with a doxy, suffering the hell of a drunkard’s head, and acting as if demons were after him. The pain, however, was real, and his stomach still churned ominously.
    “I seem to have drunk too much.”
    “Do you not remember, sir?”
    Oh, hell. Could he avoid letting her know that he didn’t remember her or the merry bedgames they’d doubtless shared? “I’m sorry. My head … It hurts.”
    “It’s all right.” She touched him again in that tender, devastating way, sliding her cool hands over his and easing them down off his head. “Try to go back to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
    “Is that a promise?” He even found a bit of humor for the comment, and that felt in character. But then the foulness bit at his throat and he rolled sharply away from her despite the agony in his head. “Going to be sick!” he choked out.
    He fought it, and by some miracle she was round the bed and had the chamber pot ready by the time his stomach overwhelmed his will.
    At least the racking, burning vomit seemed to take some of the agony with it. When he collapsed back onto the pillow, blades no longer stabbed through his skull. Only mallets hammered it.
    The stink fouled the air, however. This was possibly the most embarrassing thing that had happened to him in his adult life. “I do beg your pardon….”
    “It’s all right.” He heard humor and groaned. Quite the figure of fun he must be. Doubtless he’d been smooth enough last night when he’d coaxed her into his bed, and now here he was like a puling, sickly child.
    A damp cloth wiped his face. Then she raised his head slightly and cool glass pressed near his lips.
    “More,” he said, when he’d drained the water.
    He heard a chink, and the promising gurgle. He was grateful she was working in the dark, for the thought of bright light made him wince. In moments she presented another full glass, and he drank it, then sank gratefully back onto the pillows.
    Down pillows.
    Inns didn’t have down pillows.
    “Where am I?” he asked again. She’d answered before, hadn’t she? He’d forgotten.
    “Gillsett.”
    That didn’t sound like an inn. It sounded like a residence. A farm. Even a gentleman’s house …
    “What is your name, sir? Should we notify anyone?”
    At least he didn’t have to tell her he didn’t know. He was sliding back down into that annihilating void.

Chapter 3
    R osamunde straightened and shook her head. She planned adulterous wickedness and ended up custodian of foul chamber pots. Perhaps her dull life was not the result of her accident, but simply her fate!
    But at least she’d carried off the lie about where he was.
    She’d never been a convincing liar. She hated deceit, and her stumbling tongue and guilty blushes had given her and Diana away time after time. Tonight, however, she had told her untruth in a calm voice and darkness had hidden her burning cheeks. Perhaps she could carry this wild plan off after all.
    But not immediately.
    The plan would have to wait until he recovered, so she might as well continue with chamber-pot duty.
    She opened the window to freshen the air, then put on her dressing gown and carried the noisome pot away. She could hardly leave it to stink up the corridor, so taking the small nightlamp, she crept downstairs and placed it quietly outside the back door.
    She returned to her room, took the clean pot from under her own bed and going to his room, placed it by his side. Should she stay in case he was sick again? Well, she wouldn’t. The wretch had drunk himself ill, and he could puke himself sober without her help!
    Thoroughly disgruntled,