Midnight's Wild Passion

Curse Ranelaw, he turned her life topsy-turvy. If anyone should be furious, it was she, not he.

She remembered how he’d looked when she’d left. Not angry, although there had been anger in his touch.

He’d looked utterly devastated.

The ache in her heart sharpened. Stupid to want to heal him, redeem him. Especially when he intended her nothing but ill.

As she crept past, Cassie’s door was shut. It was still early. Hard to believe, after all she’d been through this morning. Luckily the gentlemen were shooting rabbits in one of the estate’s far corners and the ladies hadn’t emerged yet.

Antonia was pinning her hair and telling herself she’d had a fortunate escape, when Bella rapped on the door and barreled in without invitation.

“You must come,” she said breathlessly, for once not subjecting Antonia to a critical inspection. Thank heaven. Antonia had already changed out of her stained and torn riding habit, but even a cursory glance would reveal Miss Smith was unusually flushed and dewy eyed.

Antonia set down the brush and turned to the maid. “What is it? Is it Cassie?”

Bella nodded. “Yes, miss. She’s awful sick.”

Sick? Guilt choked Antonia. While she’d been in Ranelaw’s arms, Cassie had fallen ill. It was illogical, but she couldn’t help connecting the two facts and blaming herself for her absence. “When I checked on her, she was sleeping peacefully.”

“Well, she’s not sleeping peacefully now.” A hint of waspishness crept into Bella’s voice. “You didn’t check on her too well, did you?”

The maid’s jockeying for position was too familiar for Antonia to pay attention. Instead she swept through the door into Cassie’s room, her heart racing with trepidation.

The curtains were drawn and the room was dark. Antonia took a few moments to distinguish Cassie huddled in the chair by the blazing fire. The girl had wrapped a shawl around her white cambric nightdress but even sitting so close to the hearth,

she shivered.

“Cassie, darling,” Antonia said softly, moving closer and peering through the gloom. “What’s the matter?”

“Antonia, I feel awful,” she said, and burst into tears. Antonia dropped to her knees and drew Cassie’s quivering body into her arms.

“You’re burning up,” she said in dismay, glancing at Bella, who looked as bewildered as Antonia felt.

“But I’m c-cold,” Cassie stammered, her teeth chattering. “So cold.”

“Let’s get you into bed.” Carefully she helped her cousin to rise before turning to Bella. “Bella, get the maids to bring towels and water. We need to bathe Cassie and lower her temperature.”

For all her dislike of Antonia, Bella looked relieved that someone took control. As Antonia supported a failing Cassie back to her tumbled bed, she worried that the maid’s confidence was misplaced. This illness had come on so quickly and seemed so virulent, she felt helpless against it.

The next days blurred into sickroom duties. As Cassie’s illness worsened, Antonia snatched what little sleep she could, leaving her charge under Bella’s watchful eyes. Otherwise she was at the girl’s bedside, cooling her fever, forcing liquid into her dehydrated frame, supporting her when she retched, talking to her with soft encouragement when she could do nothing else.

Around her, the household disintegrated into chaos. Whatever ailed Cassie was contagious. Most of the guests were confined to their rooms, and the few healthy staff were run off their feet. It was fortunate Antonia and Bella remained well enough to nurse Cassie.

The local doctor visited on a regular basis and every time, pronounced the illness a pernicious fever. Which meant precisely nothing. Antonia did learn, however, that a large number of local people had also been struck down.

Through wrenching anxiety—an anxiety that verged on panic when Antonia heard from a maid that three people in the village had died and more hovered at death’s door—and weariness, she spared an occasional thought for Lord Ranelaw. Was he sick too? He seemed too invulnerable to succumb, but what did she know?

She plucked up courage to inquire of a maid how the other guests fared, hoping to garner news of him. But the girl was distracted, doing the work of several servants, and only informed her most of the household was sick, something Antonia already knew.

Perhaps Ranelaw had left. Any unaffected visitors had departed once the disaster’s scale became obvious.

Perhaps she wouldn’t see him again. If Cassie’s recovery was slow, or—dear God, make it not so—if she didn’t recover at all, Antonia had no reason to return to London and Ranelaw’s wicked temptations.

She should be relieved to banish him from her life. It was a sad reflection on her character that her reaction wasn’t so uncomplicated.

Because she operated in a haze of exhaustion, her days occupied with Cassie’s care, those torrid moments by the stream receded, became like a dream. As if they happened to someone else or she’d witnessed them in a play. Compared to her struggle to save her cousin, even the passion and regret of that encounter lost their sting.

However Antonia slaved and fretted, Cassie’s grip on life eased with every faint breath. How could such a young, vital woman sink so fast? This mysterious, seemingly invincible illness flooded Antonia with futile, acrid rage. Her rage was all that bolstered her strength as day trudged into day and Cassie became weaker and weaker.