Keep Me (Sinful Manor #1)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

“Supper is ready, Mr. Barclay,” Martha says from the kitchen as I close the door behind me. I somehow lost track of time and didn’t realize how long I had been out at the farm on the edge of the property. The groundskeeper lets me lend a hand during the planting season, and I can often get lost in time out there. With nothing but the earth under my fingers and the calming silence of the glen, I find it therapeutic.

“Thank you, Martha. Let me just get cleaned up then,” I say as I tear off my coat. “Have you seen Sylvie?”

“Still upstairs in the library,” she calls after me as I jog up the stairs. I don’t bother tiptoeing now. Although I probably should have because when I find her in the library, she’s no longer at the desk typing away. She’s in a restful sleep on the lounge while the fire crackles in the fireplace. The room is warm when I walk in, but as I rest a hand on her fingers, clenched at her chest, I find them cold.

Grabbing the blanket off the back of the sofa, I delicately drape it over her, tucking her in with care. She stirs slightly from my touch but drifts back off immediately.

As I stand up, I notice the typewriter still sitting on the desk. But instead of just a few pages strewn about the surface, there’s a thick stack now. Frowning, I cross the room and pick them up, reading the title at the top of the page.

Idle Hands.

Before I read any further, I turn back toward where Sylvie is sleeping. She hasn’t moved an inch since I laid the blanket over her.

It would be an invasion of privacy for me to read this, but also…this is a story directly from her mind. How could I possibly resist?

Gently sitting on the chair, I tell myself I’ll only read a few pages. But those first few pages fly by, and soon I’m five chapters in. It’s messy and poetic, much like she is. The story doesn’t resemble ours, and to my initial disappointment, the main character is not a mean Scottish drunk who lives alone in an old house.

But by chapter ten, I realize that’s a very good thing because the man in this story is god-awful. He is a famous musician who is loved by many, but behind closed doors, it’s revealed that the woman secretly writes his music for him. Regardless of that, he constantly dismisses her, never gives her credit, and makes her believe that she’s worthless.

With every page I turn, I grow more and more frustrated, at some points worrying that I’m the arsehole male character who treats her like she doesn’t matter. Is this how Sylvie sees me?

Do I dismiss her? Make her feel unwanted and worthless?

There’s a scene when another man flirts with her right in front of the boyfriend who does nothing . Even when Sylvie meant nothing to me, I couldn’t bear the sight of her with my friend.

Another hour goes by while I read, and my anxiety is never settled because the story is only half finished. And the heroine still hasn’t left that arsehole of a musician.

Setting the unfinished book on the table, I turn toward Sylvie, who is still sleeping peacefully. How could anyone let someone so perfect and brilliant feel worthless? Was it her idiot ex-boyfriend? Or her parents, who she has such a volatile relationship with?

Why won’t she just give me the chance to make up for everything they lack?

Staring at her now, I notice that her cheeks are redder than they were before although the fire has died and the room has grown cooler.

Standing up from my chair, I walk quickly toward her and rest my hand against her cheek. I’m instantly filled with dread as I realize how hot she is. It takes only a split second for me to feel incredibly useless and panicked.

I rush to the door, yelling over the banister, “Martha! Quick to the library!”

There’s a frantic pounding of feet against the floor as our housekeeper and cook run up the stairs to see why I’m so desperate.

“What is it?” she asks when she reaches the second floor, panting and breathless.

“Sylvie is burning up,” I reply in a frenzy.

Martha brushes past me into the library and goes straight to where Sylvie is out cold. She rests her hand against Sylvie’s cheek and forehead, making her wince in her sleep.

“It’s just a fever,” the woman replies. “Nothing to be worried about, sir.”

“What should I do?” I reply worriedly.

She lets out a clipped chuckle. “Let’s get her to her bed—”

“My bed,” I bark. “I mean… our bed.” I’m a stammering mess and trying to make sense without sounding out of my mind. The housekeepers know that Sylvie keeps her own room even though she’s my wife, but barely sleeps in it.

“Of course,” she replies, thinking nothing of it. “Help me carry her then.”

“I’ve got her,” I say as I easily scoop Sylvie off the couch.

She immediately wakes up and stares at me with a glossy-eyed expression of confusion. “What…are you doing?” she says in a sleepy, slurred tone.

“Take her to bed, and I’ll get something to bring that fever down,” Martha says, leaving the room—not nearly fast enough.

“You’re sick, mo ghràidh.” I kiss her forehead, hating how hot her skin is against my lips.

“I’m fine,” she stutters, trying in vain to climb out of my arms. She barely has the energy to lift her head.

“No, you’re not,” I say in a bellowing command. “You have a fever, and you need to be in bed.”

When I reach my room, I realize how cold it is, feeling bad that I just took her from a warmer space. After resting her under the covers of our bed, I tuck her in again. She curls onto her side and falls back to sleep in a moment.

Then I get to work building a fire in the fireplace. I don’t often have one going in here, but this will warm the room faster than the furnace.

By the time Martha returns with a tray, I have a warm blaze going. She sets the tray on the bedside table. There’s a pot of tea, water, some medicine, and a thermometer.

Then, she stands up and stares at me as if she’s waiting for further instructions.

“What now?” I ask in confusion.

“Take her temperature,” she replies, hiding her annoyance at my stupidity. “Anything over thirty-nine-point-four degrees, and you should call an ambulance.”

My eyes widen. An ambulance ?

“But don’t worry, she doesn’t feel that hot. Just keep her fever down with some aspirin. Make sure she gets lots of water and lots of rest.”

“Wait, wait, wait. I’m supposed to take care of her?” I ask in a panic.

The look Martha gives me can only be described as astonished judgment. “Well, you are her husband, Mr. Barclay. Who better than you?”

“But I don’t know what I’m doing,” I nearly shout in return.

Her face cracks with a smile. Then she pats me on the arm. “It’s a cold, sir. Just give her what she needs, and she’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” I reply with a nervous gulp. She makes it sound so simple. Give her what she needs. But how the hell am I supposed to know what she needs?

“We’ll be right downstairs until the end of our shift. You should really eat, sir.”

“I’m fine,” I reply stubbornly. I can’t possibly eat like this. My stomach is in knots, and Sylvie is still burning up in my bed.

The next thing I know Martha is gone and I’m alone with my sick wife. On the bright side, the room is warm now.

I hope it’s not too warm.

I shrug off my long-sleeve shirt and sit on the bed next to where Sylvie is sleeping. “Sylvie, I need you to wake up, darling.”

“Hmm.”

“I need to take your temperature.”

Her mouth opens as if she’s waiting. Quickly, I pick up the thermometer, press the button, and place it gently in her mouth. She closes her lips and we wait. When I hear the beep, I pull it out and read it.

Thirty-eight.

No need for the ambulance, then.

“I’ve got some medicine for you, mo ghràidh.”

With a look of discomfort, she moves herself into a half-sitting position. I quickly shake out two pills from the bottle and place them in her mouth and hand her the water. She gulps it down before falling back down to the pillow.

When she lets out a cough, I pause and stare at her with concern. But it was just a cough, and within seconds, she’s back to sleep.

Affectionately, I brush back her hair. Staring at her like this makes me feel as if my heart is suddenly outside my own body. How could she possibly understand the hold she has on me?

Sylvie is not perfect. She has flaws, but she wears them on her skin like scars. And it makes her so much more beautiful.

I have scars too, but I keep mine hidden behind humor and whisky. I stay locked away in my parents’ house and I lie to myself every single day, saying I could leave if I wanted to.

For her, I could be better. I could leave this house more. I could be a real man. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. If that’s what she needs.

Give her what she needs, and she’ll be fine.

I refuse to be like that man in the book.

Standing up, I tear off the rest of my clothes until I’m down to my boxers. Then, I climb under the covers next to my wife. She gravitates toward me, resting her face on my chest. It pains me to feel how hot her skin is.

But after a little while, I notice that the temperature slowly drops. By the time I drift off, she feels almost normal, so I feel as if I can rest. I know it’s just the medicine and the fever will likely be back in the morning, but for now we can at least sleep.

So, I do.