Free Tempting the Marquess by Sara Lindsey Page B

his dark hair and eyes, he was a tiny replica of his father, though his features still had the softness of youth. He was too pale, though, and the labored rasp of his breathing sent icy tendrils of fear spiraling through her. A fit of coughing wracked his slight frame, and Livvy took an involuntary step backward. She had no experience with sickness of this magnitude.
    The realization left her feeling helpless and adrift. What was she doing there? Not just in the marquess’s bedchamber, but here at Castle Arlyss. What madness had possessed her to believe she , Olivia Weston, could help the marquess or his son? She was about to run back to her chamber when a sense of calmness settled over her, and she suddenly knew what to do. She didn’t know if the knowledge came from some deep-rooted instinct, or whether it came from outside her. Maybe it was a gift from the spirits residing outside space and time—a healer and a mother—who watched over the castle’s inhabitants. Wherever the knowledge came from, she was grateful.
    Olivia imagined that the boy’s panic over the attack was contributing to it, feeding it in a vicious cycle. She needed to distract him. She saw that the boy was looking at her curiously. If he was focused on her, he would think less about being scared. She also imagined he would not be so frightened if he was not alone.
    Livvy was also a firm believer in the healing power of touch. Whenever she fell ill, her mother’s touch seemed to alleviate some of her misery. She wasn’t Edward’s mother, but perhaps any nurturing presence would do.
    “Shall I climb in beside you and tell you a story, Edward? Would you like that?”
    “I really don’t think—” the marquess began, but he stopped when Edward nodded and scooted over in the bed. The rasp of the boy’s labored breathing filled the room.
    Olivia hoisted herself into the enormous bed and drew Edward to her side. He nestled trustingly into her body as she pulled the quilts up over them. The marquess stalked over to a chair by the fireplace, seated himself, and crossed his arms over his chest, his expression inscrutable. She ignored him and focused on Edward.
    “Once upon a time,” she began, stroking the boy’s silky hair, “there was a young prince—Prince Edward was his name—with a very special talent. He could talk to dragons. . . .”

    Jason didn’t know what to think as he listened to Miss Weston’s nonsensical tale. He couldn’t approve of the way she had barged in and taken charge of the situation. She had ignored his concerns, which were well-founded, and in doing so might have made Edward a great deal worse.
    On the other hand, the chit clearly had a way with children. Her silly story was just the thing to distract Edward, and already his breathing sounded a bit better. The tension in Jason’s shoulders lifted a little. Unexpected tears of relief sprang into his eyes, and he braced his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.
    Sometimes he wondered if having to stand by helplessly and watch his son suffer was a sort of penance for his wife’s death. Laura’s accident could have been prevented.
    If only he had been more strict . . .
    If only he hadn’t let his pride get in the way . . .
    If only he had insisted . . .
    If, if, if, if, if . . .
    “If ifs and ands were pots and pans, there would be no need for tinkers’ hands,” he muttered to himself, quoting one of his father’s favorite sayings.
    He didn’t want to think of the dead any more tonight. He focused, instead, on Miss Weston’s voice. By degrees he felt himself relax. His last thought, before he drifted off to sleep, was that perhaps he had been too hasty in dismissing her storytelling skills.
    “My lord?”
    Jason ignored the voice. Surely whomever it belonged to could see he was resting.
    “My lord.”
    The voice came again, a bit louder and firmer this time. Damnation, couldn’t a man even dream undisturbed?
    The slight pressure of a hand on