Rescued By The Viscount's Ring. Carol Arens

Hopefully by dawn he would be able to leave her long enough to bring tea and the doctor.

      He did not allow himself to drift off to sleep in the event she woke, or in the event she did not.

      The latter did not bear thinking.

      This stranger in his arms was going to become his wife, just as soon as she was coherent enough to see the need and agree to it.

      Honour dictated it to be so.

      How would she react to the news? What kind of life would they have, for that matter?

      He could not even imagine since he knew nothing about her other than that she was willing to give away her passage to a desperate mother. She must be selfless, or at the very least exceptionally kind.

      There were men of his station who would know less of their brides than that.

      And there was something he did know about her, knew quite intimately. Something he would not allow himself to dwell upon until they were properly wed.

      All this was going to be a stunning surprise to her. One moment she had taken refuge in a lifeboat and the next—well, she would be wedding a man she’d never met.

      Entering a marriage she had no choice in was bound to be distressing, but nothing about this could be helped. The pair of them were sharing his bed. The fact that she was not in any way consenting to it did not change the outcome for either of them.

      He slid his open palm over the blanket, hoping to heat the wool even further. He was acquainted with the form of her limbs far better than he had a right to be.

      When a man knew the shape of the arch of a woman’s foot and the curve of her calf—if he’d memorised the way her hip curved under the blanket—he was quite obliged to marry her.

      By no misbehaviour on her part—or on his, to be honest—this lovely lady had been compromised even though his intention in lying down with her had not been seduction, but to save her life.

      For all that it mattered.

      The reality was, here they were. People were going to know it. Salacious tales had a life all their own. Rather mysteriously, Rees had always believed, gossip seemed to just know things.

      He would not shirk his duty towards the woman sharing his bed.

      And it could not be denied that marriage to this stranger would be a great boon to him.

      When he returned home already wed, his engagement to Bethany Mosemore would be voided.

      He would not be forced to ruin his brother’s life by marrying the woman Wilson loved. Of course, he would not have been put in the position of doing so had his brother and Bethany not kept their feelings for each other a secret.

      There would be a great scandal over it all once he returned home, but better that than his family in despair.

      For all that he knew nearly nothing about the woman he embraced, something—a gut feeling—told him she would be a better match for him than Miss Mosemore would be even if she were not in love with his brother.

      And, of equal importance, a better mother to his twin daughters.

      Had this angel not emerged from behind the crates holding that little girl’s hand? That had to mean she liked children.

      It could mean nothing else.

       Voices.

      Madeline heard conversation that she did not believe was from her imagination. The vague, quiet voices coming to her in the moment were feminine.

      But there had been another voice, one from her imagination that had been masculine. In her dreams it had spoken to her of heat—had described sunshine and roaring fires in great hearths. That voice, as she recalled the fantasy, had felt hot where it brushed her cheek.

      As dreams went, it was quite—odd! Deliciously, scandalously odd.

      The last lucid thought she could recall before this still-dreamlike moment was that she was dying and would never be able to tell Grandfather how bitterly sorry she was for betraying him as she had.

      And now here she was, warm as toast while listening to voices whispering over her.

      Soft flannel caressed her skin. Odd that, since she did not recall being in possession of soft flannel—or in possession of anything come to that.

      ‘It’s a wonder she survived,’ uttered a man’s voice. The speaker seemed to be sitting beside the bed. He was holding her hand.

      She tried to open her eyes to see who it was, but her lids felt sealed.

      Was he speaking of her? Probably, since she had not expected to and nothing was really making any sense in the moment.

      ‘I’d like to know how you pulled her through. What technique did you use?’

      ‘I simply warmed her as best I could. That’s the whole of it.’

      Funny, that last voice sounded familiar even though there was no reason for it to. She knew no one aboard the ship except for the family using her ticket and the young man who had shared his lunch.

      The thought of the bread she’d eaten made her stomach turn in an unpleasant way.

      It was true that she’d met the Captain, but he hadn’t spoken to her enough that she would recognise his voice. And there was the man who had directed her to the dining room. His voice had been—

      ‘But she hasn’t come round yet?’ The hand that squeezed hers had a gentle, caring touch.

      ‘No, not as much as lifted an eyelid.’

      Now would be the time to lift it, if she was able. In that moment she could not as much as moan.

      Whose voice was that? Familiar and yet not. Oddly, it calmed her, warmed her. She desperately wanted to know whom it belonged to.

      ‘I believe, Dr Raymond, it is time to remove the lady to more suitable quarters,’ a woman’s voice said and not without censure.

      Oh, dear, what unsuitable place was she currently occupying?

      Wherever it was, she was still aboard the ship. Her queasy stomach was not mistaken in that.

      ‘Not yet,’ said the man holding her hand—Dr Raymond it had to be. ‘She’s done well here and I recommend she not be moved.’

      Thank the good Lord. Moving anywhere in the moment seemed quite beyond her. Perhaps when she could manage to lift an eyelid, then she might be moved to more ‘suitable’ quarters.

      For now she wanted to drift back to sleep. To hide awhile from seasickness and maybe listen again to that other comforting voice.

      As confused as she was about things, Madeline thought the voice belonged to the person who must have rescued her from the lifeboat. Perhaps this was his room and that was why the woman rightly thought it was unsuitable for her to be here.

      But where was the poor fellow sleeping? She prayed it was not in a life raft.

      As soon as she recovered, and she now thought she might, she would find Grandfather and, once he forgave her, she would ask to have the generous fellow compensated for giving up his space.

      Growing drowsy without ever having fully woken, she heard the women’s voices again. They seemed distant and displeased, although she could not tell why. Broken words came to her while she drifted down.

      Common—not to be trusted, was it? Or trussed-up? Not a gentleman or a janitor.

      Nothing made a bit of sense except falling asleep. The last thing she had any awareness of was of her hand being held.

      Funny, how the texture of the hand holding hers changed. It was rougher now than before—the length of the fingers longer and the breadth