Lyn Stone - The Wilder Wedding

“The mal de mer abates, oui? ” He continued, “I am Dr. Louis Grillet, at your service.”

Laura swallowed again and held out her hand. The handsome rascal kissed it! Lingeringly. She shot a glance at Sean. He was frowning ominously at the physician’s gesture. Lord, he looked jealous.

“ Enchanté ,” she announced sweetly just to further gauge her husband’s reaction. He stepped nearer. If the doctor had not been leaning against her bedside already, Laura thought Sean might have pushed between them.

Something inside her did cartwheels, and it had nothing to do with her formerly unsettled stomach. “You were kind to come so quickly,” she said to Dr. Grillet, “but it looks as though I don’t need you after all. As you can see, I am fine. Appetite restored,” she said pointing toward her half-empty tray of food, “and no lingering effects. I suspect my husband and I may have overreacted.”

“Perhaps a more thorough examination is in order, nonetheless,” Grillet suggested with a sly smile. “If you would wait outside, Monsieur Wilder?”

“I think not,” Sean growled menacingly. “If she says she is fine, then she is fine.” He handed the doctor several bills, neatly folded. “For your trouble. Good night.”

The curt dismissal prompted a Gallic shrug from Grillet and an inner squeal of delight from Laura. She hugged her arms over her chest to calm her heart. Her husband acted like a smitten lover. She didn’t even mind if he was pretending. The very fact that he troubled himself to assume such a role told her that he cared.

“You were wonderful!” she said once the doctor had gone.

“More like ridiculous,” he declared, sinking onto the bed and pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

Laura started to reassure him, but when she leaned forward away from the pillows, her head spun dangerously. He noticed when she swayed to one side and righted her with his hands on her shoulders. “Lie back. And don’t worry, it’s just the effect of the laudanum. I promise that’s all it is.”

“Laudanum!” She bolted upright and nearly screeched the word.

“I had the cook add a bit to your tea. It will calm your stomach and allow you to rest well tonight.”

“I will not be drugged! Not ever! ” Laura fumed. “How dare you lace my tea without so much as a by-your-leave? Don’t you understand? I want awareness, Sean. Every single moment, I want to know exactly—”

“Oh, Laura,” he said, shifting nearer and sliding his arms around her loosely. “Never again, I promise you. Damn it all, I should have known better. I didn’t think.”

“Will you hold me?” she asked, burying her nose in the soft wool of his jacket and pulling him closer. “I was afraid today,” she whispered the words, barely hearing them herself. “I hate being afraid!”

“I know,” he answered. She thought she heard a slight catch in his voice. “Everything will be all right,” he added. “You’ll see.”

“You won’t leave when I sleep, will you?” Laura hated herself for clinging, but the night ahead frightened her witless. What if she simply drifted off into nothingness and stayed there forever?

“I won’t leave you,” he promised fervently. His lips pressed against her temple and hovered there as he spoke. “I vow I won’t leave you, Laura. Not even for a minute.”

With a sigh of relief, she let the reality of his strong embrace bear her into a world of dreams where nothing else dared touch her.

Chapter Four

Sean knew he could have left Laura last night and she would never have known the difference. He could have seen to their bags, which were no doubt stacked in some corner belowstairs awaiting his instructions. He could have ordered a late meal for himself so that his stomach wouldn’t be growling now like a bear just out of hibernation. But a promise was a promise.

“Where is it?” she mumbled, squinting up at him.

“What?”

“The cat.”

“What cat?”

“The one that slept in my mouth,” she muttered. “I know I have fur on my tongue.”

Sean laughed softly and pulled his arm from beneath her neck. He propped on his elbow and raked the length of her body with his gaze. “If there is a cat, it’s probably lost in the wrinkles of your skirts. We’re both a mess. I should have undressed us.”

He wouldn’t discuss with her why he hadn’t done that. He could not have borne holding her with nothing between them. The pain of their closeness, even fully dressed as they were, had nearly killed him. The powerful urge to give comfort with, as well as to, his body would have wrecked his resolve if he hadn’t left the fabric barriers exactly as they were.

Laura shifted and rubbed her eyes with her fists as a child might do on waking. He brushed the loosened strands of her hair back from her forehead and kissed her brow. “How do you feel?”

She laughed softly and shook her head. “Fuzzy. Could we have some breakfast?”

“Certainly!” he said, rolling off the bed and trying to straighten his clothes. “Right away.” Then he stopped what he was doing and braced one hand on her shoulder. “Will you be all right while I go and order?”

“Of course. Go ahead. I’m quite recovered.” She marched to the washstand and began splashing her face in the water. He watched her for a time to see how steady she was. Then, satisfied she told the truth, Sean left her to her ablutions while he arranged their passage on the train bound for Paris.

A little while later, they sat in the dining room of the hotel drinking the café au lait he had promised her.

Sean thought she looked a bit washed-out. He hoped that was only the result of the medicine he had ordered last night and her earlier bout with the nausea on the ship.

“So, tell me about our business in Paris,” she demanded with a bright smile.

“ Our business?” he asked with a quirk of his brow.

“You don’t think for a moment I’m going to let you prevent me playing investigator! Now, tell.” She threw him a saucy wink over the edge of her cup.

Sean fought the urge to embellish his current case, to offer her some trumped-up derring-do to take her mind off her other problem. No, he wouldn’t lie. After all his insistence on honesty, she deserved better than that. Still he found himself tempted.

“My—our—employer is Mr. Frederick Burton, director of the National Gallery. He has set me the task of examining a painting offered for sale by a Monsieur Charles Beaumont. If the provenance proves legitimate and it is what he says it is, I—we—are to purchase it with the funds provided and take it safely home.”

“And?”

“That’s it,” he declared, noting her frown of disappointment.

“I thought it would be something more—”

“Dangerous? Yes, I knew you expected that. But it needn’t be so dull. If you like drawing, then you must be interested in art. This Monsieur Beaumont may have a fine collection as yet unseen by the public. He’s claiming a Rembrandt, at any rate. Won’t you find that interesting?”

She looked distracted. “How will you know if this picture is the real thing and not fake?”

Sean allowed his pride to show. He didn’t often do that, but he wanted her approval. Enough to boast a bit. “I know Rembrandt. I’ll wager I could tell you how many hairs in each brush he used in every known painting he produced. No one knows him as I do. I’ve already discovered two forgeries formerly attributed to him. That’s how I landed this case.” He grinned at her astonishment.

“You said you never studied painting.”

“Art history,” he admitted wryly. “Rembrandt was always my favorite. I’ve read everything ever written about him and his work. Later, as I traveled, examining his paintings and his technique in museums became something of a hobby. More like an obsession, really. I’ve seen them all. At least those not in private, inaccessible collections such as Beaumont’s.”