"What do you recommend?" June asked, her voice steadier than it had been all night.
"Rest," the physician said firmly, packing away the last of his instruments. "Warm broths, honey and lemon for the throat, mint oil rubbed on the chest to ease breathing. Avoid exertion until the cough has resolved completely." He extracted a small paper packet from his bag. "This powder, mixed with hot water, will help reduce the fever."
"Thank you, doctor," June said, accepting the packet. "Your prompt attention is most appreciated."
After the physician had departed, June sat on the edge of the bed and took Dominic's hand in hers. Her fingers were cool against his heated skin, and he found himself clinging to that contact like a drowning man to a lifeline.
"You heard him," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Nothing more than a cold."
"So it seems," Dominic replied, unable to keep the skepticism from his voice.
"You don't believe it?" June's amber eyes searched his face.
Dominic attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace. "I'm simply not accustomed to good news regarding my health. The Blake men aren't known for their longevity."
"Perhaps you'll be the exception," she suggested, squeezing his hand. "In any case, we will not continue our journey until you are better." Her tone brooked no argument. "Besides, the weather is turning cold with autumn giving way to winter. The roads will only grow worse."
Dominic nodded, forcing a more convincing smile this time. "You're right, of course. A few days of rest will do me good."
June's expression brightened, relief washing over her features like sunlight breaking through clouds. She rose, moving to the window to push aside the heavy curtains. "Look, the day is breaking. Shall I ring for some broth for you?"
"In a while, perhaps," Dominic said, watching as she arranged the curtains to let in the weak morning light. Her movements were graceful, assured—so different from the panicked bride of hours earlier. Already she was adapting, assuming her role as duchess with natural authority. Pride swelled in his chest, momentarily eclipsing his darker thoughts.
But as June busied herself straightening the room, Dominic's mind raced with worries he couldn't voice. The physician's diagnosis felt too simple, too convenient. A cold didn't explain the months of warning signs, the increasing frequency of episodes, the knowledge that ran bone-deep—the certainty that the Blake curse was circling ever closer.
He turned his gaze to the window, where gray clouds hung low in the morning sky. Outside, the world was draped in autumn's melancholy—trees shedding their leaves, birds winging south, the earth preparing for winter's cold embrace. A fitting backdrop for his thoughts.
June's face reflected visible relief as she moved about the room, humming softly to herself. But Dominic's private dread remained, silent and heavy as the clouds beyond the glass. The cold would pass, but what then? How much time remained before the next episode? Before the one that would prove fatal?
He stared at the gray skies, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Let June have her relief, her hope. He would carry the dread alone, for as long as he could.
Twenty-Four
Dominic watched as June moved about the small inn chamber with unexpected efficiency as she approached with a steaming bowl of mutton broth. The rich aroma mingled with the peat smoke from the crackling fire, temporarily masking the medicinal scents that had permeated the room since his collapse. She had transformed overnight from reluctant bride to determined caretaker, her chin set in that stubborn angle he was coming to recognize all too well.
"You must eat," she said, settling carefully on the edge of the mattress. "The innkeeper's wife assures me this broth has cured half the village of winter ailments."
Dominic attempted to reach for the spoon, but his hand trembled visibly, his strength not yet returned after the night's ordeal. Before he could make a second attempt, June's fingers closed over his, warm and surprisingly strong.
"Allow me," she murmured, guiding the spoon to his lips.
Pride warred with necessity as the rich broth touched his tongue. It was good—better than he'd expected from a country inn—but the humiliation of being fed like a child stung more sharply than his raw throat.
"I never thought I'd see the day when Lady June played nurse," he said after swallowing, his voice still rough from coughing.
She raised a single brow, filling the spoon again. "Hardly nursing, Your Grace—more like saving a Duke from starvation." The corner of her mouth twitched. "Though I admit, it's not a talent I ever expected to employ."
Dominic arched a brow, his mouth curving despite himself. "I'd sooner wrestle a boar than admit I need this."
"I don't doubt it." June pressed a damp cloth to his forehead, the cool moisture heavenly against his heated skin. "Men of your station rarely admit to needing anything, least of all assistance." She adjusted his pillows with brisk efficiency, her movements revealing a practical side he hadn't glimpsed in their previous encounters.
"And women of your station?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"We admit to needing a great many things," she replied, her amber eyes meeting his directly. "Society simply teaches us not to expect them."
There was no self-pity in her voice, merely statement of fact. Dominic found himself studying her as she returned to the small table by the fire, ladling more broth into the pewter bowl. The firelight caught the copper highlights in her brown hair, now loosened from yesterday's elaborate styling and secured in a simple knot at her nape.
By evening, his fever had abated somewhat, though a persistent cough still rattled his chest at intervals. June had spent the day making quiet arrangements with the innkeeper—extending their stay, sending word to Stone Manor about their delay, acquiring fresh linens and supplies. She now returned to their chamber with a leather-bound book tucked under her arm, her expression brightening when she found him awake.
