29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

When Jethro awoke, the room was dark. No, not quite. There was a dull light coming from somewhere nearby.

What time was it? How long had he been asleep? Why did everything ache so much? His head throbbed just trying to grapple with such simple questions.

He turned over in his bed, struggling to find a more comfortable position, and his nostrils were assailed with a scent that didn’t belong there. It was familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember why.

Lavender. Yes, that was it. His pillow reminded him of Cassandra. She always smelled of lavender.

He shifted again, inhaling deeply. Why did his pillows smell of his wife?

A hand reached out in the semi-darkness and mopped his brow. Oh, the coolness of the water felt so good.

Then the hand moved lower, spreading the coolness down his neck, over his shoulders and down over his chest. It was blissful.

As the heat faded from his body, he drifted once more into sleep.

When Jethro awoke again, the room was brighter. The shutters were part opened, letting in some light from outside.

Good heavens. What time was it? He needed to be in the warehouse, preparing for tomorrow’s shipment.

He tried to sit up, but fell back on his pillows as a gentle hand stopped him.

“I’m glad to see you’re awake at last,” Cassandra said, laying a palm across his forehead. “The fever has broken. I believe we have turned the corner. How do you feel?”

He dismissed the question as irrelevant. What did it matter how he felt?

“I’m needed down at the harbour.”

“You’re not going anywhere, Jethro.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is my house and—”

“I thought your docility could not last.”

Jethro scowled. What was she talking about?

“It is time for another dose of your medicine.”

“I don’t need it.”

Cassandra pursed her lips. “Don’t be difficult. If you won’t submit, I’ll get Wilkes to pin you down.”

“Ha! The man wouldn’t dare.”

“Wilkes.”

Jethro’s valet appeared from the dressing room. “Yes, madam?”

“Mr Hunt needs your assistance. Perhaps you could help him sit up while I give him this draught.”

“Very good, madam.”

Wilkes threaded his arms underneath Jethro’s and hauled him to sit upright in the bed. It was only then that Jethro realised his chest was bare.

He shot a look at his wife, but she was busy preparing the medicine. Had she…?

“Open wide,” she said, her eyes fixed on his mouth, but her cheeks tinged with colour, revealing her embarrassment.

Jethro was too shocked to refuse .

“I expect Mr Hunt would like you to make him more presentable, now that he’s feeling better. Perhaps a shave—and a fresh nightshirt,” she said, as she whisked herself out of his room.

Jethro screwed up his face and looked at his valet. “Just how did I—”

“It was your wife’s idea, sir. She asked me to remove your nightshirt while she fetched some extra pillows from her bedroom.”

Jethro chuckled to himself. Perhaps his wife was not quite so daring as he had thought.

“Thank you. I believe it was the coolness of the water on my skin that eased the heat and allowed me to sleep.”

“Don’t thank me, sir. I had no share in the nursing, though I would have been happy to have relieved Mrs Hunt. It was she who spent the night by your side, not me.”

Jethro had plenty of time to digest his valet’s words as his man shaved and washed him.

It was his wife who had cared for him throughout his illness. Who had mopped his brow and kept vigil till the fever broke.

Had she also caressed his face with her hand, or had that been a dream? He didn’t know.

But her devotion in nursing him single-handedly was touching, and made him wonder. Did she care so much for him she could not bear to leave his side?

When Wilkes tried to slip a fresh nightshirt over his head, Jethro objected.

“I need you to help me get out of bed, not keep me here.”

“Sorry, sir. I can’t allow that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs Hunt suspected you would make a fuss and told me if I had any trouble persuading you to stay in bed, I was to fetch her. Are you going to let me put this nightshirt over your head, or shall I call her to do it?”

Jethro realised Cassandra had outmanoeuvred him. “Very well, but I want to see my wife as soon as you’re done.”

“Of course, sir.”

Jethro slumped back against his pillows, waiting for Cassandra to return. It felt rather pleasant after the exertions of his ablutions. He was reluctant to admit it, but it had been an effort to sit up for so long. He would just close his eyes for a moment.

It was more than a few moments later that Jethro opened them again.

Cassandra sat in the chair by his bedside, working on a piece of embroidery .

“Do you still think you’re fit to get up?” she asked, laying her needlework aside.

Jethro growled, but his wife didn’t flinch. She grinned.

“Would you like to try some broth? It’s my own recipe,” she said, holding the dish under his nose.

He caught a whiff of chicken and his stomach grumbled. How long had it been since he’d eaten?

“Smells good.”

With his valet’s help, Jethro struggled into an upright position against the pillows and held out his hands to receive the bowl.

“Oh no. I’ll not have my chicken broth spilled all over the bedcovers. I’ll feed you.”

“No, I’m not a child. I’ll do it.”

“Jethro, do you want this soup or not?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll do it my way.”

He huffed, but opened his mouth as Cassandra leaned over, lifting the spoon toward him. Perhaps it was not so bad being fed, provided it was his wife feeding him. It was strangely intimate.

She removed the empty bowl and brought him a mug of steaming liquid.

He took one sniff and wrinkled his nose. “What’s that?”

“Camomile tea.”

“Take it away.”

Cassandra moved the cup closer, and he glared at her.

“I’m not drinking that. It smells foul.”

“It tastes better.”

“No. I want a tankard of ale. I’m thirsty.”

He steadfastly refused to open his mouth, and at length, Cassandra gave up.

“Shall I read to you?”

Jethro rolled his eyes. “I’m not in my dotage. Send Crowley in to see me.”

“No.”

“I need to speak to him. We’ve got an enormous shipment coming in tomorrow and—”

“Today, Jethro. The ship arrived this morning and Crowley has everything in hand.”

Jethro’s jaw dropped open. “I slept for two days? ”

Cassandra nodded. “I was on the verge of sending for the doctor again when the fever broke. I delayed as long as I dared because I was certain he would ring a peal over my head for refusing to let him bleed you.”

Jethro threw aside the covers and put one foot on the floor when a small but firm hand pushed him back into bed.

“I need to get up, Cassandra. My business needs me.”

“I hate to contradict you, Jethro, but at this moment in time, it does not. Don’t you trust Mr Crowley?”

“Yes, but—”

“Do you?”

Jethro rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Yes, I trust him, but I’ve never left him in charge for so long before.”

“And yet, the shipment arrived and has been safely stowed in the warehouse without you lifting a finger.” She paused. “You must have trained your staff well. I asked Mr Crowley to bring me a full report. I can share it with you, if you insist, but I think it would be preferable if you trusted your manager to do what you employed him to do and concentrated on getting better.”

“Read the report. Please.”

Cassandra shook her head in despair and launched into Crowley’s account. He relaxed against the pillows as she read.

From under hooded eyes, he glanced up at his wife, who read the report as if it were the most interesting document on earth. Her mellow voice was pleasant to listen to—restful.

Jethro became calmer, his eyelids growing heavy as Cassandra continued to read. It seemed she was right. Crowley had everything under control. Perhaps he should look to delegating additional responsibilities to his manager. It would be pleasant to have more time to spend with his wife.

And with that thought in mind, he drifted off to sleep to the sound of her voice.

The next morning, Cassandra was there by his side again when he awoke. Jethro mused wistfully that he could get used to waking up to find his wife beside him.

“I hope you haven’t spent the entire night in that chair? ”

“And a good morning to you,” she said, putting the ever-constant embroidery hoop aside.

“Well? Did you?”

“I thank you for your concern, but no. I slept in my own room with the door ajar.”

“But you’re here now.”

“I have not deserted my patient completely,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “And I need to make sure he doesn’t try to get up.”

Jethro grunted. “Do you mean to keep me a prisoner in my own bed?”

“Just for a tad longer. If you suffer no relapse, I’ll let you get out of bed for a short while tomorrow. I thought we could try some more interesting reading matter today, seeing as your manager’s report sent you straight back to sleep.”

She picked up a book from the bedside table and held it up to him. “Have you read this— A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy ?”

“What is it?”

“A novel by Mr Sterne.”

“I don’t read novels.”

“Hmm. We’ll see. I think you might enjoy this. It’s based on Mr Sterne’s own travels. May I?”

“Very well,” he said, though he was more willing than he sounded. He doubted Sterne’s book would hold his interest, but if it kept his wife by his side, he would listen to anything.

“I can keep you prisoner no longer,” Cassandra said one evening, almost a week after his return to Weymouth. “Tomorrow, you may go back to your work.”

For the first time in Jethro’s adult life, his business held no appeal. He was unsure how many hours his wife had read to him over the past few days, but of one thing he was sure.

He enjoyed being with Cassandra, and he was loath for this time to end.

A thought danced around at the back of his mind, begging him to give it voice. Did it have to?

Jethro reached out to capture her hand with his own and squeezed it, bringing colour to her cheeks .

“Thank you for caring for me so well, Cassandra,” he said. “I know I was a rotten patient, but you bore with my surliness with the serenity of a saint. I never enjoyed being ill, but my mother always nursed me back to full health—just as you have.”

She leaned forward and kissed his forehead, making his pulse beat dangerously fast.

As she returned to her seat, she sent him a dazzling smile. “It was nothing. Who else should care for you but your wife? I was only doing my duty.”

Jethro’s sense of contentment faded with her words. Duty? All her kindness to him had been out of duty?

Because of the agreement. The wretched marriage contract. His duty to her. Her duty to him.

This intimacy between them was an illusion.

The kiss was not a sign of affection. It was a kiss of duty—and it hurt.