Blythe wrapped an arm around his waist and tightened it for a moment to assure him that she would allow this. And this time, it was Orlando who smoothed his hand over her hair, inhaled her lilac scent.
He did not sleep again but held Blythe through the rest of the night, memorizing everything about her, each curve, each gentle breath and the warmth of her hand upon his heart.
Beneath it all, however, was a current of panic. The realization that they would soon be at war and the bliss he currently shared with Blythe would come to an end.
Chapter Twelve
When Orlando arrived shortly before dinner the next day, Blythe noted his exhaustion immediately. Of course, he had suffered nightmares the two nights prior, but his eyes were also etched with worry and his mouth tight, grim.
“What has happened?” she asked once they were alone.
“It has been a trying day,” he answered without providing specifics.
“I would understand if you would like to make an excuse to return to your tent.”
“I would rather make an excuse to avoid dinner and the other guests,” he grumbled.
A smile pulled at her lips. “I can claim that you are not feeling your best and request a tray,” Blythe suggested. She wasn’t certain if the proprietor of the inn would allow such an indulgence, but it did not do any harm to ask.
Besides, she had traveled and stayed in inns previously and often took meals in her room.
“It would not be a lie,” Orlando assured her. “I am far from being my best.”
“Then let me see what I can arrange.”
She slipped out of the chamber before he could stop her and found Mrs. Desmit, the wife of the owner, cook and laundress.
“Is all well, Mrs. Valentine?”
Blythe blinked at her because she had not even uttered a word, let alone made a request.
“I noticed your husband when he entered. He did not appear well. He barely greeted anyone and that is not like him, so of course, I am concerned.”
“He is not feeling his best,” Blythe responded. “It is the reason I came down. Would it be possible to dine in our chamber this evening? I promise to return the dishes right away.”
“I will have my husband deliver a tray as soon as it is prepared.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Desmit.”
“Think nothing of it, dear. Now, you go see that your husband is rested. We cannot have an army surgeon become ill right before there is need of him.”
When she returned to the chamber, he was on the bed, pillows stacked behind his back and head so that he could sit up.
“A tray will be delivered.”
“Thank goodness.” He sat up to remove his boots and set them by the side of the bed, then returned to his repose.
“What was particularly trying about today?” she asked.
“Sir James McGrigor has been appointed Director General of the Medical Department. He is giving directives to all medical staff to prepare for the upcoming campaign. We have been organizing at his instruction.”
“Do you have an objection to him?” she asked.
“No. Not at all. He has been responsible for many improvements in the medical departments, but we are not prepared for what is to come and only half of the surgeons here have had surgical war experience.”
“Is that not enough?” Blythe asked.
“I fear twice as many may not be enough,” he offered grimly.
