Regency Rogues Box Set

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Dr. Farrah came out of the bedroom and closed the door quietly. Oliver ushered him into his study.

“How is he?”

Dr. Farrah patted Oliver on the arm. “He’s fine. Exhausted and starving but otherwise quite well. He has something of a fever and I have left a draught that can be administered, but he is a strong young man. With care, I am sure he will come around.”

Oliver was so relieved it was hard to speak. “Thank you,” was all he could manage without betraying himself.

“How do you know him?”

“Army. One of the bravest men I know.”

Dr. Farrah scowled and shook his head. “Scandalous that he should be brought so low. I wish I could say he was the only one but he isn’t. So many…” He shook his head again.

* * * *

Oliver crept back into the room to find Simpson propped up in the bed and laid against several pillows. He was dressed in a clean nightshirt with his fair hair sticking up about his head. He looked like a fallen angel. Simpson’s eyes opened as he approached the bed.

“Doctor thinks you might live,” he said with a smile.

Simpson smiled back. “Good.”

They stared at each other for a moment and Oliver’s smile faded. “I wish you’d contacted me,” he said after a moment. “I would have helped.”

“I know.”

“I thought you were going home to your parents?”

Simpson fiddled with the sheet about his waist. “I did. They died. Fever.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I got sick, my left leg is…” He rubbed the offending limb. “I can’t manage manual labour and the money went…” Simpson sighed and closed his eyes.

Oliver sat carefully on the bed. “I never did get the chance to thank you properly for saving my life.”

“You would have been fine…”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Well, you’ve saved mine now so we’re even.” Simpson smiled up at him. Blue eyes met his and Oliver held his breath when Simpson reached up and squeezed his arm.

“Your hands are cold,” Oliver said with a frown. The man’s fingers were like ice. His cheeks were a little flushed too. “You need to take the draught the doctor left and sleep.” Oliver banked up the fire until it was roaring, added another blanket to the bed, and poured the draught down Simpson’s throat, laughing when the man pulled a face, but when Simpson sunk into the pillows and closed his eyes Oliver patted the man’s hand. “Sleep tight,” he murmured.

* * * *

A couple of hours later Oliver opened the bedroom door quietly. Simpson was fast asleep and so terribly pale. He moved quietly across the room, stood by the bed, and then pulled up a chair so he could sit and watch him. Candles cast a soft glow over the room and over Simpson’s pallid cheeks and struck gold from his fair hair. He was the complete opposite of his own dark hair and eyes. They looked like night and day together, a perfect complement. Oliver rubbed his face. He recalled the day of the battle at Waterloo. Riding high, he had thrown himself into the fray with Simpson not far from him, and they had fought like madmen. When his horse was blown from under him he had been thrown. With broken limbs and a crushed chest, he recalled little of laying in the mud surrounded by the dead, the taste of death and blood in his mouth. He remembered he had reached the point of giving up. He’d tried to shout but couldn’t and the frustration of that had almost killed him. He had been suffocating. Sinking. Dying. Then a voice penetrated the blackness, a voice hoarse from shouting, and then he was in Simpson’s arms. Strong arms. Oliver wiped the tears from his face and fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief. He rarely allowed himself to think of that day, but sometimes the sounds and the smell of blood haunted his dreams. He had scars all over, and a weakness in his legs, but that was all. Simpson had carried him to the camp doctors and looking at the slight figure in the bed wondered again how he had managed to move him.

“Simpson,” he said. Nothing. “Simpson, can you hear me?” Again, nothing. Oliver stood up and wiped the tears again. He reached out and stroked Simpson’s head. Once, twice, and then Major Oliver Thornley did what he had wanted to do since the first moment he had laid eyes on Daniel Simpson. He leaned over and kissed him. Not the kind of kiss he wanted to give him, but a kiss nonetheless. He kissed him on his cheek at the corner of his mouth and his breath stuck in his throat at the touch and the scent of the man. He kissed him again. Gently and tenderly. Kissed the man that he loved. The love of his life. It took everything he had to walk out of the room and leave him there. Oliver went to his own chamber and laid on the bed, fully clothed, and curled into a ball. He stared unseeing into the dark.

* * * *

Oliver finished his cup of tea and then headed to the guest room. What he found there chilled him. Simpson was wet through, his hair plastered to his head and his cheeks flushed. Oliver leaned over the bed and laid a hand to Simpson’s head. It was burning. He dragged the covers back to cool him and yelled for his valet. Dixon arrived and immediately left to bring some cool water and cloths. When he came back the water was fragrant with some herb, a recommendation from his housekeeper no doubt. He dismissed Dixon and gently bathed the patient. His nightshirt was stuck to him so he managed to manhandle him out of it and drew the cool cloth over his chest, his arms, his stomach. He bathed his legs right down to his feet. Simpson murmured several times and twitched when Oliver ran the cloth back up his leg. He felt a cad staring at the man’s crotch while he was ill, but he needed to get him cool. He let the water dry on his body as he ran the cloth over his face. He sponged his cheeks, his lips, and smoothed his hair as he did so.

“Major?” Simpson murmured.

“I’m here.”

“Thank you.” He whispered. “Thank you so much.”

Oliver swallowed the lump in his throat. “My pleasure, old chap. My pleasure.”

He managed to get him into a clean nightshirt and held him up while he poured more of the doctor’s draught down his throat. Simpson moaned, screwed up his face, and coughed. Oliver replaced the glass and patted him on the back. To his amazement, Simpson leaned a little and slid under his arm, placing his head on Oliver’s shoulder. Oliver shifted so that he could hold the man and tentatively slid his arms around him. Simpson sighed and settled against him. His breathing slowed and Oliver could tell he was asleep, so he carefully settled them both back against the pillows and rested his cheek on the top of Simpson’s hair.