sound. ‘Why don’t I believe that?’ Without waiting for an answer he picked her up as though she were a child and demanded, ‘Where were you going?’
Fighting the debilitating desire to surrender and just let him look after her, she struggled to answer, finally dredging the words from her confused brain. ‘Ahead—in house.’
He set off silently and smoothly, but by the time they reached her door Hani’s entire energy was focused on holding herself together long enough to take her medication before the fever crashed her into nightmare territory.
‘Where’s your key?’
‘B-bag.’ Her lips felt thick and unwieldy, and she said it again, but this time it was an inarticulate mutter. Dimly Hani heard him say something else, but the words jumbled around in her head.
Chills racked her shaking body as she whispered, ‘Cold…so cold…’
Unconsciously she curled into the man who held her, striving to steal some of his warmth. Kelt’s unruly body stiffened in automatic recognition and, swearing silently, he took the bag from her limp fingers. His arms tightened around her and he said, ‘It’s all right, I’ll get you inside.’
She didn’t appear to hear him. ‘B-bedside,’ she said, slurring the word.
She was shivering so hard he thought he heard her teeth chattering, yet she was on fire—so hot he could feel it through his clothes.
Kelt set her on her feet, holding her upright when she crumpled. He inserted the key and twisted it, picking her up again as soon as he had the door open. Once inside the small, sparsely furnished living room he found the light switch and flicked it on.
The woman in his arms stiffened, turning her head away from the single bulb. Her mouth came to rest against his heart, and through the fine cotton of his shirt he could feel the pressure of her lips against his skin.
Grimly, he tried to ignore his body’s consuming response to the accidental kiss.
Guessing that the open door in the far wall probably led to a bedroom, he strode towards it. Through the opening, one comprehensive glance took in an ancient institutional bed. A rickety lamp on the chest of drawers beside it seemed to be the only illumination.
He eased her down onto the coverlet, then switched on the lamp. Hannah Court gave a soft, sobbing sigh.
His first instinct was to call a doctor, but she opened her eyes—great eyes, darkly lashed, and yes, they were green.
Even glazed and unseeing, they were alluring.
‘Pills.’ Her voice was high and thin, and she frowned, her eyes enormous in her hectically flushed face. ‘T-top drawer…’
Kelt’s expression lightened a fraction when he saw a bottle of tablets; although he didn’t recognise the name of the drug, the dose was clearly set out, headed rather quaintly For the Fever.
He said harshly, ‘I’ll get you some water.’
When he came back her eyes were closed again beneath her pleated brows. She’d turned away from the light, rucking up her skirt around her hips to reveal long, elegant legs. Setting his jaw against a swift stab of desire, Kelt jerked the fabric down to cover her.
‘Hannah.’ Deliberately he made his tone hard and commanding.
Still lost in that region of pain and fever, she didn’t answer, but her lashes flickered. Kelt sat down on the side of the bed, shook out the right number of pills, and repeated her name. This time there was no response at all.
He laid the back of his hand against her forehead. Her skin was burning. Perhaps he should call a doctor instead of trying to get the medication inside her.
Medication first, he decided, then he’d get a doctor. ‘Open your mouth, Hannah,’ he ordered.
After a few seconds she obeyed. He put the pills onto her tongue and said in the same peremptory tone, ‘Here’s the water. Drink up.’
Her body moved reflexively, but she did as she was told, greedily gulping down the water and swallowing the pills without any problems.
She even managed to sigh, ‘OK—soon…’
Kelt eased her back onto the pillow and slipped the sandals from her slender, high-arched feet. She wasn’t wearing tights, and her dress was loose enough to be comfortable.
To his surprise she made a soft protesting noise. One hand came up and groped for him, then fell onto the sheet, the long, elegant fingers loosening as another bout of shivering shook her slim body with such rigour that Kelt turned away and headed for the door. She needed help, and she needed it right now.
He’d almost got to the outer door when he heard a sound from the room behind him. Turning in mid-stride, Kelt made it back in half the time.
Hannah Court had fallen out of the bed, her slim body twisting as guttural little moans escaped through her clenched teeth.
What sort of fever took hold so quickly?
When he picked her up she immediately turned into him, unconsciously seeking—what? Comfort?
‘Hannah, it’s all right, I’ll get a doctor for you as soon as I can,’ he told her, softening and lowering his voice as though she were a child.
‘Hani,’ she whispered, dragging out the syllables.
Honey? A play on Hannah, a pet name perhaps? She certainly had skin like honey—even feverish it glowed, delicate and satin-smooth.
His arms tightened around her yielding body and he sat on the side of the bed, surprised when the close embrace seemed to soothe her restlessness. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the intense, dramatic shivers began to ease.
But when he went to lie her down she clutched weakly at him. ‘Stay,’ she mumbled so thickly it was difficult to make out the words. ‘Stay. Please…Raf…’ The word died away into an indeterminate mumble.
Rafe? A lover? Surprised and irritated by a fierce twist of what couldn’t possibly be jealousy, Kelt said, ‘It’s all right, I won’t let you go.’
That seemed to soothe her. She lay quiescent, her breathing becoming more regular.
Kelt looked down at her lovely face. His brother Gerd would laugh if he could see him now. This small, stark room couldn’t have been a bigger contrast to the pomp of the ceremony he’d just attended in Carathia, when their grandmother had presented Gerd, their next ruler, to the people of the small, mountainous country on the Adriatic.
His brother had always known that one day he’d rule the Carathians, and Kelt had always been devoutly thankful the fishbowl existence of monarchy wasn’t his fate. His mouth tightened. His own title of Prince Kelt, Duke of Vamili, had been confirmed too. And that should put an end to the grumblings of discontent amongst some of the less educated country people.
Last year their grandmother, the Grand Duchess of Carathia, had come down with a bout of pneumonia. She’d recovered, but she’d called Gerd back to Carathia, intent on sealing the succession of the exceedingly wealthy little country. The ceremonies had gone off magnificently
