‘Let me,’ she said, cleaning his face with a damp cloth. When his blurry vision cleared, she was just as he remembered, lovely, smiling and holding a pap boat to his lips.
Remembering the medicine he tried to pull away.
‘Just water this time,’ she said.
He drank eagerly, not stopping until the cup was empty, and watched as she set it aside. He cleared his throat, then said, ‘Who?’
‘Your nurse.’ She reached for a pitcher and poured another drink.
Did she smile thus for all her patients? He hoped not. He wanted to believe that the light in her eyes was all for him. ‘Your name?’
‘Cassie, Your Grace.’ She offered a respectful bow of her head, but her hand remained steady on the boat and he drank again. When she took it away, she asked, ‘Do you think you might be able to take nourishment?’
‘Please,’ he said. What she offered was hardly food at all. Beef tea with oats in it would not keep a man alive. But she followed it with oranges, which were refreshing, and a good red wine which she said would build up the blood. And she fed each mouthful to him, as if he was an infant.
It was embarrassing. He did not like any woman to see him in this state, as weak as the bouillon in the cup. Especially not a woman as lovely as this one. ‘Madam, I can manage for myself,’ he said, trying to sit up and show her.
‘As you wish, Your Grace.’ She put a spoon in his uninjured hand and it shook, clattering against the cup and slipping from his fingers.
She nodded as if to say she’d told him so, took away the spoon and offered him the cup. ‘You will be yourself again, soon,’ she assured him. ‘You are through the worst of it. The wound is draining and has begun to heal.’ She pressed her hand to his forehead. ‘The fever has broken.’ Her fingers pressed against his throat. ‘Your pulse is stronger than it was yesterday. We must be cautious, of course. You are still weak. But I am pleased with your progress. Tomorrow, or the next day, perhaps, you will have no need of me.’
‘No.’ He hadn’t meant to say it aloud. But she should not be talking of leaving when they’d barely met.
The corners of her mouth twitched, threatening to turn her polite smile into something warmer and more real. ‘That isthe goal, Your Grace. To grow strong enough to hold your own spoon and wipe your own bottom.’
He laughed; a sound that was almost as weak as his voice had been.
She listened to it and nodded. ‘Your lungs are clear. That is good news. Now you must rest. I will wake you in an hour or two and perhaps you can have a bit of egg with your gruel.’
‘I can hardly wait,’ he said, trying to keep his tone as light as hers was. He did not want to rest. He wanted to keep her talking, just to hear the sound of her voice. ‘Read to me, Cassie, and ease me into sleep.’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’ She picked up the Bible that sat on the table next to her and began to read.
It was quite appropriate, he supposed, for a ministering angel to read from a holy book. But now that he had gotten a good look at her, he was not in the mood for salvation. She had large, clear eyes, and rich mahogany hair that was pulled back from her face in a plain bun. Not a single curl escaped from it.
Her dress was equally plain, brown cotton without so much as a pearl button to lessen the severity. It made no attempt to flatter, but could not disguise her high, full breasts and trim waist. The hands at the end of the long sleeves were soft and gentle. He had felt the touch of them often enough in the last few days and cherished the memories.
When he was well, in a day or maybe two, he would not let her get away. He would have her unpinned and unraveled before she knew what was happening. Then they would discuss a more permanent position in his household. Something that did not involve sick beds and pap boats. He would be the one stroking her temples and feeding her on peeled grapes and champagne ice.
It would be paradise.
But his fantasy faded a little as he paused to listen to her words which were full of love more spiritual than physical. He needed to do something to put her mind on more earthly pursuits. When she finished the psalm she was reading and turned the page to start another, he held up his good hand to stop her. ‘You have a lovely voice, my dear. But perhaps we could enjoy something a little less…’ He grimaced.
‘Holy?’ she said with a smile.
‘Formal,’ he replied.
She set her Bible aside. ‘Very well. What would you prefer?’
‘There is a book in the drawer of the bedside table that I have already started. My page is marked.’
‘If that is what you wish, I am happy to oblige.’ She turned to the table beside her, opened the drawer and took out the volume, turning to the marked page. Her eyes scanned down the text.
‘He is now in bed with me the first time, and in broad day; but when thrusting up his own shirt and my shift, he laid his naked glowing body to mine…’
The book snapped shut and she stared at him, shocked. ‘I cannot read this. It is…’
‘Just getting to the good part,’ he finished for her. ‘Why don’t you come sit on the edge of the bed so we might read it together.’
