“Three days.”
“And you sat by my side? Managed the doctor?”
“The countess and I did.”
“Thank you.” It was all he had the breath for. He was rapidly tiring. A moment later, Li-Na brushed her hand across his forehead.
“You need to rest, Lord Daniel.”
What he needed was to see her painting again. But for now, he would sleep and pray that she was the one beside him when he woke.
Chapter Seventeen
“This pickled whitingis just the thing when yer under the weather.”
“It’s whelk ye need. Boiled till it ain’t nothing but bones, then drink the broth.”
“It’s tea, my lord. My special verbena, dog’s piss mixture. I have it right here.”
Li-Na laughed at the last one. Lord Daniel was in a feisty mood this evening as he mocked all the well-wishers who had brought gifts of one sort or another. Most were food, some were unguents, and his favorite so far was a fine bottle of smuggled brandy given by the ancient Lord Cardyn who lived on the southern side of Cornwall.
“You know I’ll have to try them all then remember who to thank for my miraculous recovery. And I’ll bet every one of them is better than this.”
He threw his spoon into the gruel he’d been allowed on this second day without a fever. Over the past two days, he’d given lots of special names to his unappetizing meals. Spackled clouds that tasted like angel’s piss. Fish-like lumps that deserved to die. And her favorite beige mystery added to brown meal made thin with brackish water. Something about the repeated “b” sounds made her giggle.
And that, apparently, was the point. He clearly loved making her laugh. He would sit up taller and, if it was a good laugh, would wink at her as if they’d just shared an even deeper moment.
She couldn’t deny that it was effective. Over the past two evenings, he’d managed to cajole her into talking about her life in China. She explained her daily life, how she started painting, and even who had been the subject—or the cause—of her early attempts. He learned about the oldest Zhong boy who had given her moon cakes and read her love poems. She’d taught the boy mathematics because he was dreadful at it. And together they’d shared a kiss.
Which is how she ended up in England when his father found out.
Lord Daniel, in turn, told her about his first kiss in the confessional at the local church. He and a tenant’s daughter had slipped into the dark recess to explore in the way teenagers do. “To this day, I cannot go in there without conflicting thoughts.”
Then he’d asked her what her favorite foods had been, and they shared a pleasant evening with her trying to describe what she’d eaten and guessing how it was made. She had no earthly idea. The Zhong daughter had not been interested in cooking, so they had not spent any time in the kitchen.
“Are you going to paint tonight?” he asked, after he’d told her about his favorite cream tea. That food was not tea at all, but clotted cream and jam on a fresh scone.
“The light is too poor, and you are faring better.”
“I won’t interrupt you. Paint to your heart’s content!”
She might have, but she was too new to evening conversation to want to interrupt it with painting. For two nights now, they had talked about any number of things, and she found it unexpectedly delightful. No one shared conversation like this at the Lyon’s Den. At least not with her and certainly not about Cornish mead and the teenage antics that resulted from an overindulgence in it. They both shared tales, and Li-Na found herself relaying things that she hadn’t thought of in years.
And the oddest thing about it was that as she told her stories, Li-Na felt like she was living them again. She went through her childhood—laughing at the funny parts, touching upon the sad bits, and even trembling again at the dangerous ones—feeling as if she were growing up again, but this time mixing it with the warm rumble of Lord Daniel’s voice or the rich sound of his laughter. He touched her hand when she talked about hearing that her father had died. The news had struck her as awful not because he’d died, but because she couldn’t remember him. And he, in turn, had spoken about his parents’ passing years ago while they’d been traveling on the Continent. It had taken a month for the news to reach him and his brother, and even longer for the legalities to be handled. They did not even have the bodies for the funeral.
She squeezed his hand at that revelation.
The next day he refused to stay in bed. Instead, he joined her in the workroom to write his correspondence. He was a talkative soul when he worked. He would laugh at the letters he received or mutter as he pondered the best way to respond. To her surprise, he posted letters to people all over the Continent, often in their own language. She already had an idea of the size of the estates he managed. She was working on the ledgers for them. But by mid-afternoon, she began to appreciate the scope of his business dealings in art.
Also his stubborn nature after his seventh yawn while sitting at his desk.
She set down her abacus. “I am going to take a walk.”
He frowned and looked at his pocket watch. “I hadn’t realized it was so late. You should have quit a few hours ago.”
She still thought it ridiculous to insist that she work on the ledgers no more than five hours a day, but knew she would not win that argument. So she looked out the window and admired the bright day. “I shall wander back to the water, I think.”
“I will go with you.”
