Authors: Anne Gracie
To Catch a Bride (26 page)
Unlike many physicians, this one recommended fresh air. Ayisha agreed; she already had the two portholes open. The air was warm, salty fresh, and clean; it had to be good.
The physician recommended bleeding in the early stages of certain fevers, but only under certain conditions. She grimaced. She hated bleeding—the doctor had bled Papa copiously, and she had bad memories of it.
But if she had to, if it would save him, she would . . . Thankfully these were not the stated conditions. Yet.
She read that in some cases of plague a roasted onion soaked in olive oil had been used to soften the buboes—that was the medical term for the swellings in the groin, neck, and armpits—which were then lanced to release the putridity. The book didn’t say if it worked, just that it had been done by others. Did they live or not? Still, if it was in the book the physician must have thought it was worth saying . . .
She swallowed. Very well then, if buboes formed, she would do that. Rafe’s razor would be sharp enough to lance anything.
They hadn’t tried that with Mama and Papa—perhaps if they had . . .
A positive attitude, she reminded herself. There were no buboes yet. In the meantime she would try to bring his fever down.
He stopped shivering after the first hour and threw all his bedclothes off, tossing and turning weakly. “Hot . . . hot . . .” he gasped. “Water . . .”
Gently she sponged his body with water and vinegar, smoothing the cool, astringent dampness over the broad planes of his chest and stomach and down his arms and legs.
She tried not to stare at his body, but she could not help herself. His chest was broad and firm, rising and falling now in jerky, uneven breaths. She stroked his damp skin, willing his strength to return. Thick bands of muscles, relaxed now in his unconscious state, twitched under her palm as she smoothed the sponge over him.
He was a rich man, and yet there was not an ounce of fat on him. A man of bone and muscle. Was that good or not? she wondered. She had some idea that a fatter man might fight a wasting fever better.
She lifted his arms and bathed him with vinegar and water, feeling again for swellings, but there were none.
She sponged down his body, following the wedge of hair that narrowed to his belly button, bisected his stomach, and merged with the thick tangle at his groin. His male parts were soft, and she drizzled cool water over them, and felt cautiously on either side for buboes. Nothing.
She glanced at his face and saw his eyes were open, watching her. She felt a leap of hope.
“Nothing there, no swellings,” she told him. “There’s nothing to worry about. You’ll get well soon. Just sleep.”
He made no sound, no sign that he understood, and she realized he was staring at her with blank, fever-ridden, unseeing eyes.
She sponged down his long, hard-muscled legs, lightly covered with hair. He moved them restlessly under her hands, and started tossing his head back and forth. His big fists clenched and unclenched.
She fed him some willow bark tea and he quietened again.
If she’d never met this man before, she’d still know he was a warrior, she thought as she sponged the big, hot, restless body. He was covered with nicks and scars.
He’d had several nasty, life-threatening wounds. A long silvery gash with puckered edges stretched from just under his arm to right across his ribs; a deep slash from a sword, she guessed. A miracle he’d survived that one.
He had a small, round hole in his shoulder and a matching one on his back: a bullet that had, seemingly, passed right through him. Another miracle.
There were scars on his jaw and one high up near his temple, she discovered when she was smoothing back his damp hair. Several small scars were recent: Gadi’s uncle and friends, she thought guiltily.
She finished sponging him and stood back. So many scars should look ugly; instead he looked beautiful.
But right now he was weaker than her kitten.
Her eyes filled with tears. She dashed them away. Think positive, she told herself fiercely. Think
positive
!
positive
!
He was staring at her again, his blue, blue eyes burning through her.
She knelt down beside the bed and smoothed his hair back, murmuring soft words of comfort.
Through the day she bathed him repeatedly, smoothing positive thoughts and strength into him with every touch. She fed him willow bark tea and Peruvian tea and barley water containing something called spirit of nitre, which the book had mentioned and was in the medical box.
He tossed and turned and muttered and mumbled, and all the time his fever rose and rose. She’d sponge him with vinegar and water, or cover him with cool, wet cloths, and they seemed to give him comfort, but then suddenly he’d be shivering, his body racked with spasms and she would reach for the covers again and tuck him in.
And all the time she prayed.
Several times in the day Higgins returned, asking after the patient, bringing with him hot water and checking to see if there was anything Ayisha needed.
He brought her meals, which she didn’t want, but he stood outside, insisting she ate to keep up her strength—and he was right, she knew, so she ate. Tasting nothing.
In the late afternoon Higgins brought all Ayisha’s belongings. Mrs. Ferris was worried about infection, he told her and had refused to have them—or her kitten—in the cabin any longer.
The Reverend and Mrs. Payne were looking after the kitten. And praying for Mr. Ramsey. And for Ayisha.
Night fell, but the fever did not subside. Instead he felt hotter, despite everything she could think of to do.
Through the porthole she could see the curve of the moon hanging low in the sky. It shone on Cairo, too, she reminded herself. How were they getting on there? She missed Laila, missed her wisdom and experience. Laila would know if Ayisha was doing the right things or not.
Ayisha didn’t. All day she’d poured medicine into him, but he seemed only to be getting worse. She felt so helpless, so frightened. What if she couldn’t keep him alive?
How would she bear it if he died? She’d only just found him . . .
He shivered desperately. “Cold . . . cold . . .” he muttered.
She had every possible covering over him. The portholes were open, but the air outside was warm and balmy. She couldn’t think of a single thing she could do to make him warmer. Except one.
She stripped down to her chemise and climbed into bed, slipping under the covers until she was touching him. Lord, but he was hot, his body was like a furnace, yet he shivered and muttered, “Cold, cold.”
She spooned her body around his, holding him protectively, willing her health, her strength into him. She placed her palm against his naked chest, over his heart. She needed it there to feel any change in the night.
She lay curled against him, feeling the thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat, willing it to stay steady and strong. She would
not
let him die, she would not. She repeated it over and over in her mind. She wasn’t sure if she was praying or not.
not
let him die, she would not. She repeated it over and over in her mind. She wasn’t sure if she was praying or not.
Exhausted, frightened, woken by any movement or change in him, she drifted in and out of sleep.
T
he second day was worse. He was hotter, weaker, more distressed, more restless. Three times a day she fed him boiled water with willow bark, and Peruvian bark three times a day in between times. At other times she gave him barley water with honey and sponged him or packed him with blankets, depending on whether he was complaining of cold or heat.
he second day was worse. He was hotter, weaker, more distressed, more restless. Three times a day she fed him boiled water with willow bark, and Peruvian bark three times a day in between times. At other times she gave him barley water with honey and sponged him or packed him with blankets, depending on whether he was complaining of cold or heat.
A dozen times a day she felt for buboes and each time she breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever it was, at least it wasn’t plague. Yet.
All day she listened to him talking.
It went almost nonstop: shouting, or a constant mumbling delirium. It only stopped for short periods when he was asleep. Or unconscious.
But she came to dread those silent periods. They terrified her. At least when he was talking he was alive, even if he didn’t make sense.
In the silences she hovered over him, watching each breath, ready to pounce on him if he should die. She had no idea what she would do if he did—force him to live, somehow—she wasn’t sure how.
“You’d better be only sleeping,” she’d tell him in the silences. “Dying is not an option.”
Or, “You promised my grandmother you’d take me to her; you said you
never
break a promise, dammit, so don’t break this one!”
never
break a promise, dammit, so don’t break this one!”
But most of the time she was quietly saying, “Breathe . . . Breathe . . . Breathe.” And breathing each breath with him, for him.
Sometimes when he talked she learned things about him. Many didn’t make sense. Some did.
He relived parts of his life. She could tell when he thought he was back in the war, she could hear him muttering disjointed orders, interspersed with thoughts, interrupted with shouted warnings. Sometimes his arms flailed around, or his fists bunched, as if he were fighting.
She curled up beside him on the bed, smoothing his forehead and making soothing, calming sounds. And again, she slept the night spooned around him, her palm pressed over his heart.
T
he third day was worse still.
he third day was worse still.
As she changed the sheets, she stared at his naked body spread-eagled on the bed. Muscles she’d caressed on the first day now looked somehow . . . stringier. Had they shrunk? She couldn’t tell, but she thought they had.
Could a big, tough body become wasted like that? In just two days? Or was she imagining it?
She felt for buboes; still nothing.
He lay quiet, still, hot, his breath rasping irregularly in and out like a rusty bellows.
He said not a word. Now she missed the demented ramblings that had so distressed her before.
She talked to him, ordering him to live, assuring him he was getting better, berating him for not fighting it harder.
“You will not die, Rafe, do you hear me? I forbid it!
“You will get well.” Angrily dashing an unwary tear from her cheeks. “A positive attitude!”
She sent her meals back untouched, ignoring Higgins’s reproaches. She couldn’t eat with him lying so still and wasted. She would be sick.
She fed him medicinal tea, with barley water for strength, and he swallowed it, but barely. His lassitude frightened her.
As she fed him his last dose of willow bark for the night and slipped in beside him, she prayed fiercely for his life to be spared. She lay holding him against her, her hand pressed against his heart, feeling each breath rasp in and out, in and out. She was too frightened to sleep.
But in the wee small hours of the night his heartbeat and the rhythm of his breathing lulled her briefly to sleep against her will.
And in the faint light of dawn, she woke up cold.
She sat up with a jerk and a shout, “Noooo.”
And beside her, he stirred.
She blinked. Her chemise was wet.
She was cold because her chemise was wet and the breeze from the porthole was chilling her.
Her chemise was wet because he was wet. He was sweating. She felt his forehead. It was cooling under her fingers.
Oh God, he was sleeping normally, his breathing deep and even. She pressed her palm to his heart and felt the strong and steady beat.
The fever had broken. Tears ran down her cheeks unchecked. He was going to live. His fever had broken.
Thirteen
H
e slept for most of the day, and in the late afternoon she glanced up to find him watching her. His blue eyes were as clear as the sky now, no sign of fever. And ever so slightly . . . annoyed?
e slept for most of the day, and in the late afternoon she glanced up to find him watching her. His blue eyes were as clear as the sky now, no sign of fever. And ever so slightly . . . annoyed?
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“It’s all right, you’ve been sick.” She hurried over to the bed and felt his forehead. Blissfully cool and normal.
He looked up at her and caught her hand in his, frowning. “What are you doing?”
“Checking for fever. But there’s none. You’re going to be well again.”
He tried to sit up and fell back against the pillows. “Good God, I’m weak as a kitten.”
“Yes, you’ll need to rest for some time yet and regain your strength. You’ve been very sick. I . . . I thought you were going to die,” she said mistily.
“Nonsense, I’m as tough as old boots,” he said and tried to sit up again, succeeding this time, though at a visible cost.
“No, you’re as stubborn as old boots,” she corrected him. “Now stay put, please. I need to wash you.”
“Wash me?” The black brows snapped together. “You’ll do nothing of the sort!”
“Don’t be silly, you desperately need a wash. In case you haven’t noticed, you stink. When the fever broke, you sweated like a pig, and now I need to get you clean so you can recover in comfort.”
Black brows lowered as he peered under the sheet. His eyes widened briefly as he saw he was naked. He glanced at her, then cautiously sniffed himself. His head jerked back. “Faugh!”
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