The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [55]
She awoke in the dark of the night. She was cold, so very cold that she knew if she breathed too deeply, she would shatter, just as the beautiful vase that had fallen off the mantel in her bedchamber had shattered and was no more. She, too, would be no more. She held herself stiff, but not for long. She began to shiver, her teeth chattered, and she simply couldn’t stop it. The worse it became, the more fiercely the pain rippled through her. It dug deep, and she moaned with it.
“It’s all right, Mary Rose, I’m here.”
“Tysen,” she whispered. “Is it really you? Oh, my, I’m so glad it’s you. I don’t feel very well. I’m sorry.”
“You have a fever. I will deal with that, don’t worry.”
“I hurt—all the smacks and blows from those bloody boulders. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll deal with that, too. Now, I want you to lie as quietly as you can for just a moment, not more than three more minutes. Can you do that?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that. Just try to breathe deeply. I’ll be right back.”
It was a bit longer than three minutes, but then he was beside her again, his sleeves rolled up. He’d lit a six-branch candelabra and set it near the bed. He was surrounded by shadows, but the lines of his face were strong and calm and intent.
“I’m going to wipe you down with cold water. My nanny did it to me several times when I was a boy. It knocked the fever right out of me. I’ve done it to my own children. First, here’s some laudanum to ease the pain.”
He lifted her, and she drank the water laced with laudanum. “Good, you drank it all.” He added as if to himself, “I must remember to keep you drinking.” He paused a moment, his hand on the covers to pull them back. When he’d examined her before, she’d been unconscious. But now she wasn’t. “Please just think of me as a physician, all right?”
“No, I can’t,” she said, and shuddered. “You’re Tysen. You’re something else entirely. This is very difficult.”
“I know, but I won’t hurt you, ever. Please trust me, Mary Rose.”
“I trust you,” she said, then closed her eyes. She didn’t move.
He’d felt people’s trust in him before, felt it as a burden or as a pleasure or as a simple obligation or duty.
It was not at all uncommon a thing, but those words coming from her mouth, words he knew she meant to her soul, made something shift deep inside of him, something that was warm and boundless, something that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It should have scared him to his toes, but it didn’t. “All right, then,” he said, and pulled the covers off her. He carefully eased her out of his nightshirt. Then he turned her onto her stomach and began wiping the wet cloths down her back and hips, over her legs, even to her arched feet. One of her toes was crooked. She’d obviously broken it many years before. His fingers closed over that toe for a moment.
Over and over he swept the wet cloth down her, then up again, feeling it grow warm from the heat her body was giving off. He dipped it into the basin of cold water once, twice, more times than he could count. He had to keep it cold. When he turned her onto her back, her eyes were open. She was looking up at him, saying nothing, just looking at him. He saw no signs of pain on her face, no fear, just that limitless trust. He smiled at her, covered his hand with the cloth, and began rubbing it up and down her body. Over her breasts, her belly. He closed his eyes. She was ill. He was a man of mature years, not a randy boy. He could deal with this. He knew well the demands of control. He would not dishonor her, would not shame himself by allowing his body to harden with lust. But of course his body did just that. He wondered briefly why God wasn’t helping him here, but then he wanted to laugh at himself. Why would God concern Himself about a man’s simple and inevitable reaction to a woman’s body? Dear heavens, but she was beautiful. No, he wouldn’t think like that. He kept rubbing her down. Wiping back up her body, he found, was harder. He tried closing his eyes, but