He coughed, hoping the sharp movement would disperse the pooling desire. “The sawbones says you’re going to be fine. I have the poultices.”
Edward picked up one of the two strips of cloth covered in a green, pungent paste and took it to her, grateful the smell was abhorrent enough to overwhelm his senses. Otherwise his body may have reacted to the scent of jasmine and honey that infiltrated his nose in the way it had infiltrated his mind these last five years.
Perching on the edge of the bed, he placed the poultice in his lap and motioned for her to lean forward. Thankfully, she complied without argument, but it meant she was within inches of him, her head almost resting on his chest.
Holding his breath, he gently felt for the bump, doing his best not to add to her pain. Once he found it, he gently separated her hair into two long ropes and began to knot them into braids.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Fiona asked, as he tied off the first one with a short ribbon that sat on her bedside table.
“You wouldn’t believe it to look at her, but my sister was a devil child when she was younger. Refused to let the nanny touch her hair, and our mother certainly wasn’t going to do it—that would require too much interaction with her children—so it fell to me.” He gently tugged at a knot, teasing the hair apart.
“Did she struggle with you?”
“Strangely, no. It became our evening ritual. Then she got older and my skills were no longer needed.” He’d felt the loss, when Charlotte had reached an age where she’d finally wanted a lady’s maid. “But apparently those skills are still there.” He tied the second ribbon and hung the braids neatly over her shoulders.
“It feels nice,” she murmured as she leaned back. “No one has done my hair since Mother died.”
Fi’s mother had died when she was only ten. Had it truly been that long since she had help getting ready? His already low opinion of Alastair McTavish dropped even further.
Edward applied the poultice to the back of her head, wincing as she winced. He wrapped it around her forehead loosely before tucking the edges into the side.
“Now give me your hand.”
There was no response. Her eyes were shut, her breathing settled. The doctor had been very clear.Do not let her sleep.He squeezed her shoulder. “Love, wake up.”
Her eyelids fluttered for a moment before settling once more.
With both hands, he shook her gently, but she still didn’t wake, so he took her chin in his hand and tipped her face toward his. “Love, wake up,” he said more sternly.
Still nothing. His pulse quickened. His eyes crossed to the pitcher of water by the bed.A terrible idea. Or is it?He poured a little—just a few drops—on her forehead.
Her eyes opened with a start and she lurched forward, raising her hand to her head as she did. “What? What?”
His heart rate resumed its normal rhythm. “You can’t sleep, Fi,” he said. “The doctor said you must stay awake for the next few hours.”
“But I’m so tired.” It was the tone one would expect from a child complaining about having to go to bed.
“I know, love. Give me your hand.” She held it out and he loosely wrapped the second poultice around it. “Sorry about the aroma.”
“It stinks?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Like Hades. You honestly can’t smell it?”
“Nae.” She shook her head and then yawned, wincing as she did so.
With no more excuse to sit so close to her, he dragged a chair from the dresser to beside the bed. “I brought a book with me. Something to keep you awake for the next few hours.”
***
Minutes shifted into one another and blurred into hours, only defined by the occasional tolling of the grandfather clock from elsewhere in the house. Fiona watched him as he read, taking advantage of how his gaze was trained on the pages in front of him. She let her eyes roam from the black curls that had escaped his queue to his aquiline nose to the soft pink of his lips. The way they curved and thinned and pursed as he spoke mesmerized her.
Every now and then he looked up to make sure she was still awake. Their eyes would catch, and she could feel her color rise. No, staying awake would not be a problem.
The resonance of his voice, the melodic rise and fall, bore with it memories of their time together in Abingdale, where they’d sat together in the back pew of the local church, empty on a Tuesday afternoon, and readConversations on the Plurality of Worlds.
Then, like now, she’d been captivated by his hands. She’d shivered as long fingers grazed the page edges, as though those same fingers were grazing her skin. When he absently touched a fingertip to his tongue before turning a page, her sex became warm and wet as she imagined that tongue caressing her neck, his breath hot in her ear.
“Fi? Are you with me?”
