Thank You, Lord. She couldn’t help but smile as she sat back, watching him drift off to sleep again.
An hour later, the clock chimed four, and Emeline popped open her eyes to find Blake staring at her from his bed.
Blinking, she shook off her sleep, embarrassed. “I must have drifted off.”
“You are beautiful when you sleep.” His voice emerged muffled, yet stronger than before.
Ignoring how his compliment warmed her, she was more astonished to see that the color had returned to his face. “No doubt you are still delirious with fever.”
He smiled. “I’m feeling much better.” His brow wrinkled. “You healed me, didn’t you?”
“Me? Nay.” She shook her head. “God healed you. I prayed for you, ’tis all.” Moving close, she laid a hand on his forehead. Warm. “You still have a fever. Now rest. ’Twill be light soon.”
“A drink?” He struggled to sit, rubbed his head, and then dropped back to the mattress. With a mighty groan, he attempted it again. This time, she gripped his arm and helped him until he sat and swung his legs to the floor. His necklaces dangled over his bare chest, the skin of which still glistened with sweat.
Grabbing a glass, Emeline handed it to him, and he took it, his hand shaking.
“Easy, Blake.” She helped him drink, then took the glass. “You should lie down. You almost died last night.”
“Did I?” He leaned forward on his knees, drawing in deep breaths as if to stave off any further visits by the grim reaper.
Moments passed in silence with naught but the rush of wind outside the window and the distant call of a gull.
Emeline should leave. With Blake improving, she need not watch over him, and being alone with the man, being this close to him, was not good for her heart.
“I killed my father.”
He said the statement as if he were announcing the weather—emotionless, sober.
Taken aback, Emeline stared at him. “What did you say?”
“I sliced him through with my blade,” he added, not looking her way.
Clearly the man was still overcome with fever.
“Shh. You must be dreaming.” She nudged him back, but he resisted.
“Would that it was a dream.” He sighed, his gaze finally snapping to hers. “Does that frighten you, my little sugar bird?”
She studied him, wondering why he divulged such a secret. A pain she could not fathom burned in his eyes. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“He deserved it.” He lowered his gaze once again. “He beat my mother. Over and over. Year after year. Treated her as he did one of his slaves on his plantation on Barbados.”
Emeline nodded. ’Twas more common than one would think for men to treat their wives thus.
Raking back his hair, Blake dropped his head into his hands. Dark strands fell across his jaw that rolled and bunched tight with anger. “Many nights as a child, I’d hear his drunken shouts, hear her screams, and finally her endless sobbing.”
He rubbed a finger over the black cross around his neck. “As I told you, she was a religious woman, believed in the God you espouse. Lot a good it did her.”
“Then why do you wear it?”
“To remind me that God comes to no man’s rescue.” His tone was full of spite.
“He came to yours this night,” she dared to say.
Which only got her a disbelieving grunt. “I could not defend her. Could not help her at all. Not for many years. But then I grew tall and strong, and by age sixteen, I was as large as my father.”
Emeline swallowed down a lump of emotion, guessing the rest of the sad tale.
