After the door had closed, Garrett reached for Ethan’s hand once more. It was strong and elegantly shaped, the knuckles and fingertips slightly roughened. His skin radiated heat, like stones baking under the sun. The fever was coming on fast.
Inside his veins and connective tissue, microscopic processes were taking place, unseen battles raging among cells, bacteria, chemicals. So much of it is out of my control, she thought helplessly.
Very lightly she set down his hand and laid her palm on his chest, over the blanket, measuring the quick, shallow motions of his breathing.
Her feelings for him seemed to unfurl in all directions.
Tentatively she let herself think about what he’d said to her before the surgery, the words he’d thought would be his last. She couldn’t fathom what it was about her, a practical woman with a scientific mind, that had inspired such passion.
But as she stood there with her hand on him, she found herself uttering words unlike anything she’d ever said or thought in her entire sensible life.
“This is mine.” Her fingers spread wider over his heart, collecting precious heartbeats as if they were scattered pearls. “You’re mine, you belong to me now.”
Chapter 19
By the next day, Ethan’s temperature had gone up to one hundred and three degrees, and the day after that, it reached one hundred and five. He had fallen into delirium, his fevered mind prowling through memories and blood-haunted nightmares that left him weak and agitated. He spoke gibberish, tossing and turning, and not even a dose of the strongest opiate could ease him. At times he would sweat profusely, burning up from the heat, but soon afterward would shake with bone-jarring chills.
Garrett left the sickroom for only a few minutes at a time to see to her own needs. She slept in a chair beside Ethan’s bed, dozing with her chin on her chest, waking instantly at the slightest noise or movement. She trusted only Mrs. Church to help her change the sheets and bathe Ethan’s body with cool antiseptic-soaked cloths. When his temperature skyrocketed, they packed him in waterproof bags of ice wrapped in linen. Garrett drained and cleaned his wound frequently, and bullied him into taking sips of water and purifying tonic. His injuries appeared to be healing, but even so, toward the third evening he seemed to retreat to a place where she couldn’t reach or soothe him.
“I’ve nine devils in my skull,” he muttered, struggling to rise from the bed. “Cast ’em out, don’t let me—”
“Hush,” Garrett said, trying to apply an iced cloth to his forehead, but he twisted away with a desperate sound. She was terrified that all his violent movement would start a hemorrhage. “Ethan, lie still. Please.” As she tried to press him down against the pillow, he shoved her in his delirium, and she staggered and fell backward.
But instead of careening to the floor, she found herself neatly caught from behind, a solid arm closing around her.
It was West Ravenel, his clothes scented of outside air and forest greenery and an earthy whiff of horses that Garrett ordinarily wouldn’t have liked, but at the moment seemed agreeably masculine and bracing. After steadying her, he went to the sweating, thrashing figure on the bed. “Ransom,” he said in a firm tone, instead of a quiet sickroom murmur. “No devils here. They’re gone. Lie back and rest, there’s a good fellow.” He put his hand on Ethan’s forehead. “Hot as hellfire. Your head must be splitting. Mine always is during a fever.” Reaching for a waterproof ice bag that had been dislodged from Ethan’s chest, he carefully set it against the top of his skull.
To Garrett’s amazement, Ethan subsided and began to breathe more deeply.
“Did you wash your hands?” she asked West.
“Yes. But believe me, any bacteria I may have brought in are no match for his.” His frowning gaze remained on Ethan, whose features were pallid and sharp. “How high is the fever?”
“One hundred and five,” Garrett said dully. “He’s in the worst of it now.”
West’s attention moved to her. “When did you last eat?”
“I had bread and tea an hour or two ago.”
“Twelve hours ago, according to Mrs. Church. And I’m told you haven’t slept for three damned days.”
“I have slept,” Garrett said curtly.
“I meant the kind in which one applies the body to a horizontal surface. It’s not sleeping if it’s in a chair. You’re about to collapse.”
“I’m perfectly able to assess my own condition.”
“You can hardly focus your eyes. You’ve worked yourself into a state of exhaustion, when there’s a bevy of female servants who’ve been waiting impatiently for a chance to soothe Ransom’s fevered brow. If we don’t let the head housemaid at least give him a sponge bath, she’ll hand in her notice soon.”
“A sponge?” Garrett asked in weary outrage. “Do you know what kind of harmful bacteria a sponge contains? There are at least—”
“Please. I already know far too much about bacteria.” West watched with exasperation as she headed toward the bedside chair. “Doctor, I’m begging you—with no lascivious intent whatsoever—go to bed. Just for an hour. I’ll look after him.”
“What nursing experience do you have?”
He hesitated. “Does a sheep with pasture bloat count?”
Garrett resumed her seat at the bedside. “I’ll be perfectly alert after a cup of strong tea,” she said stubbornly. “I can’t leave him now. He’s at the crisis.”
“You’re having your own crisis. You’re just too run-down to realize it.” An abbreviated sigh escaped him. “Fine, then. I’ll ring for tea.”
After summoning the housekeeper and conducting a brief murmured conversation at the door, West went to the bed. “How does the wound look?” he asked, curling an arm loosely around one of the corner posts. “Is it healing?”
“It appears to be,” Garrett said, “but there could be secondary sources of infection nearly anywhere in his body.”
“Are there any signs of that?”
“Not yet.” She sat in a state of nervous depletion, staring fixedly at the figure on the bed.
The tea was brought. Mumbling her thanks, she took the cup in her hands, not bothering with the saucer. She drank it all without tasting it.
“What are you using to dress the wound?” West asked, looking over the collection of bottles on the table.
“Glycerin and disinfecting drops, and a layer of oiled muslin.”
“And you’re keeping him packed with ice.”
“Yes, and trying to make him take a sip of water at least once every hour. But he won’t . . .” Garrett paused as a swoosh went through her head. She closed her eyes—a mistake—the entire room seemed to tilt.
“What is it?” she heard West ask. His voice seemed to come from very far away.
“Dizzy,” she mumbled. “Need more tea, or . . .” Her lashes fluttered upward, and she had to fight to keep her eyes open. West was in front of her, easing the china cup from her lax fingers before it could drop. His assessing gaze ran over her, and it was then that she realized what he’d done.