Instant Father. Lucy Gordon
to aid us.”
Hagar watched her for a long, silent moment, then nodded, indicating the container on the table. “I’ve brought ye this broth, and will be back when the sun rises.”
Rowena bowed her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you. I am grateful for your care.”
Hagar left the cottage without further conversation.
Rowena sighed. Since her mother died she had spent much time alone. Though she loved the villagers who had taken her and her mother in, she was also fond of her solitude.
She glanced back toward the bed. She tried to tell herself that the sick man would give her little trouble, but knew it was not true. Although she had decided that she would not allow herself to care about the outcome of his illness, she did indeed care. Again she told herself it was because of those who might await him.
It was with a decided determination to think of something besides the sadness engendered by this thought that she began to make herself a pallet on the floor near the fire. She did not mind so very much, as she had also slept there in the last few weeks of her mother’s wasting illness.
The task was too soon completed, as well as her other preparations for sleep. Cocking her head, she listened for any stirrings from the bed. There was nothing but the sound of the man’s deep breathing, which seemed to have grown somewhat raspy.
Rising, she went to peer down at him by the light of her candle. Though his face was very pale and drawn, that was no change from before. His forehead was cool to her touch.
The sound of his breathing had definitely changed. Determinedly she told herself not to become alarmed, for it could be caused by nothing more than a dry throat. When she fetched and spooned a bit of cool water into his mouth, the harshness did seem to improve somewhat.
Slowly she sank down on the bench beside the table and took a bit of the rich broth Hagar had placed there. Although it had grown cold, the flavorful liquid was welcome.
Several times Rowena reached up to rub her eyes, which felt gritty and tired. It had been a long and wearisome day.
Once the cup was empty she rose and went to her pallet. There was no telling what tomorrow might bring, and she would be well served to try to get some sleep.
She knew not how long she had actually been asleep when she opened her eyes again. Wondering what could have wakened her, she became aware of the fact that the man’s breathing was ragged again. That soft raspiness seemed to have grown harsher, shallower. Frowning, she rose and moved to look down at him.
That handsome face was flushed with heat, and though he slept on, he moved his head restlessly from side to side.
Rowena put her hand to his forehead. It was hot—too hot.
Chapter Two
Fever.
Rowena quickly went to the fire and put the water back on to heat. Because of the likely inflammation in his lungs, she made a mixture of horehound and honey. Then she placed a combination of sorrel and marigold into her mixing bowl to treat the fever. While she waited for the water to heat, she fetched a shallow wooden bowl, filled it with cool water and removed a soft clean cloth from the chest beside the foot of the bed.
Then she stepped toward the bed, placed the bowl upon the narrow table and dipped the cloth into it. When she’d wrung out the cloth, she hesitated, her gaze fixed on his face, handsome in spite of the illness that had robbed it of color and animation. She should not have told Hagar to go.
With a sigh of impatience, Rowena told herself that this was completely foolish. She had performed this very task more times than she could count. To hesitate with this man was madness. He was nothing to her, and utterly unaware of her at any rate.
Her suspicion that he might be a noble, a man who came from the world of her father, made him no different from any other man who lay ill in her care.
Nonetheless, she took a deep breath as she smoothed the cloth slowly across that wide brow, her fingers brushing the thick, dark brown hair Hagar had washed. The stranger stirred slightly and Rowena stiffened. But he did not open those blue eyes and she forced herself to relax.
Yet as she ran the cool cloth over his high cheekbones and lean jaw, she found herself thinking that this man was the most handsome she had ever seen. There was a deep strength to his face that was belied by that one look she had had of his blue eyes, eyes that had seemed so surprisingly gentle. That gentleness was echoed in the softness of his mouth, which was now parted as he took in quick, shallow breaths.
Suddenly she realized that though this man was a stranger, completely unknown to her, she wanted to know him. To know something of the world he came from, the world of her father. It was a world she and her mother had lived in, at least for a time.
She wanted to know why the stranger had come to Ashcroft, and whence he would be going when he left.
Her mother had told her that the nobles valued their lands above aught else. But the look in his eyes when he had spoken of the unknown Rosalind…
If there was a Rosalind. What if it was all mad ravings?
Frustrated with her own whirling thoughts, Rowena drew the bench close to the bed and set about her task with renewed purpose. She grew increasingly aware of the intimacy of their situation. She was touching this man in a way she would never dream of doing if he were well, learning the smooth contours of his face in a way she did not even know her own. Gently she bathed the corded column of his throat, his powerful shoulders, wondering at the sheer masculinity of him, and feeling a more intense awareness of her own femininity.
When he groaned and tossed the coverlet from his chest, her gaze went to that wide expanse, which glistened with perspiration.
Her own breathing seemed more shallow, her chest tight. Although she knew it would help to cool him were she to bathe him there as well, Rowena dared not do so.
Thus she put all of her attention and energy into doing what she could—working on without ceasing, yet never growing less conscious of him as a man, even when her heavy lids sagged with exhaustion…
Rowena lifted her head from her arm, realizing she had fallen asleep. A low groan came from the bed beside her.
Instantly her gaze went to her patient’s face. The light from the fire was dim but she could see the beads of perspiration on his upper lip. He groaned again, his head rolling on the pillow.
Hurriedly she dipped the cloth into the cool water and wiped it across his brow. The moment it touched him he sighed, raising his hand to rub his throat, though it was clear he had not regained consciousness.
Again she wet the cloth, this time applying it to his lean jaw.
Without warning, his eyes flew open and he grabbed her, pulling her against the burning heat of his chest. “Rosalind…must find her…”
Instantly Rowena leaned back, but in his fever her resistance only seemed to fuel his determination to hold her. His arms were like iron bands, pressing her to him, to the heat and strength of his body, the body she had not dared to touch.
From somewhere there came a response in her own body, a hardening of the peaks of her breasts that shocked her even as a shaft of inexplicable pleasure raced through her blood.
Then, just as suddenly as he had taken hold of her, she was released and he fell back, unconscious once more. Quickly she crossed her arms over her aching breasts, her gaze focusing on the smooth tanned skin of the stranger’s chest as she wondered how touching it could have brought such a reaction from her.
She looked into his face. He was oblivious to her.
Of course he was. He had never thought of her at all. It was this unknown Rosalind who consumed him to the point that worry for her had fought its way up through the depths of his illness.
Rowena could only wonder in horror that she would react to this man as she