Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [348]
“Best take care, Highness,” MacDonald advised somewhat caustically. “You may catch Mr. Fraser’s ailment.”
“One could wish to have half Mr. Fraser’s complaint,” murmured Francis Townsend, with no attempt at concealing the sardonic smile that made him look like a fox in a hen coop.
Jamie, now bearing a strong resemblance to a frostbitten tomato, rose abruptly, bowed to the Prince with a brief “I thank ye, Highness,” and headed for the door, clutching me by the arm.
“Let go,” I snarled as we swept past the guards in the anteroom. “You’re breaking my arm.”
“Good,” he muttered. “As soon as I’ve got ye in private, I’m going to break your neck.” But I caught sight of the curl of his mouth, and knew the gruffness was only a facade.
Once in our apartment, with the door safely shut, he pulled me to him, leaned against the door and laughed, his cheek pressed to the top of my head.
“Thank ye, Sassenach,” he said, wheezing slightly.
“You’re not angry?” I asked, voice somewhat muffled in his shirtfront. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“Nay, I’m no minding it.” he said, releasing me. “God, I wouldna ha’ cared if ye’d said ye meant to set me on fire in the Great Gallery, so long as I could leave His Highness and come to rest for a bit. I’m tired to death of the man, and every muscle I’ve got is aching.” A sudden spasm of coughing shook his frame, and he leaned against the door once more, this time for support.
“Are you all right?” I stretched up on tiptoe to feel his forehead. I wasn’t surprised, but was somewhat alarmed, to feel how hot his skin was beneath my palm.
“You,” I said accusingly, “have a fever!”
“Aye well, everyone’s got a fever, Sassenach,” he said, a bit crossly. “Only some are hotter than others, no?”
“Don’t quibble,” I said, relieved that he still felt well enough to chop logic. “Take off your clothes. And don’t say it,” I added crisply, seeing the grin forming as he opened his mouth to reply. “I have no designs whatever on your disease-ridden carcass, beyond getting it into a nightshirt.”
“Oh, aye? Ye dinna think I’d benefit from the exercise?” He teased, beginning to unfasten his shirt. “I thought ye said exercise was healthy.” His laugh turned suddenly to an attack of hoarse coughing that left him breathless and flushed. He dropped the shirt on the floor, and almost immediately began to shiver with chill.
“Much too healthy for you, my lad.” I yanked the thick woolen nightshirt over his head, leaving him to struggle into it as I got him out of kilt, shoes, and stockings. “Christ, your feet are like ice!”
“You could…warm them…for me.” But the words were forced out between chattering teeth, and he made no protest when I steered him toward the bed.
He was shaking too hard to speak by the time I had snatched a hot brick from the fire with tongs, wrapped it in flannel, and thrust it in at his feet.
The chill was hard but brief, and he lay still again by the time I had set a pan of water to steep with a handful of peppermint and black currant.
“What’s that?” he asked, suspiciously, sniffing the air as I opened another jar from my basket. “Ye dinna mean me to drink it, I hope? It smells like a duck that’s been hung ower-long.”
“You’re close,” I said. “It’s goose grease mixed with camphor. I’m going to rub your chest with it.”
“No!” He snatched the covers protectively up beneath his chin.
“Yes,” I said firmly, advancing with purpose.
In the midst of my labors, I became aware that we had an audience. Fergus stood on the far side of the bed, watching the proceedings with fascination, his nose running freely. I removed my knee from Jamie’s abdomen and reached for a handkerchief.
“And what are you doing here?” Jamie demanded, trying to yank the front of his nightshirt back into place.
Not noticeably disconcerted by the unfriendly tone of this greeting, Fergus ignored the proffered handkerchief and wiped his nose on his sleeve, meanwhile staring with round-eyed admiration at the broad expanse of muscular, gleaming chest on display.
“The skinny milord