It would wear off, once he recovered, and got to know her better, of course. Though for now, why shouldn’t she bask in his apparent need? It felt good. Since there was nobody here to tell her how she ought to behave, and think, and feel, she could make up her own mind.
She decided that even though he was a rake, whose mere glance could send heated shivers down a woman’s spine, there was no harm in just sitting holding his hand while he was asleep. Besides, she was so tired. All she wanted to do was just sit and rest for a while.
So she sat there, her hand in his, half-drowsing, until a knock on the door heralding the arrival of Madame le Brun, with a tray of food, jolted her awake.
Sarah let go of his hand to stretch and yawn as Madame placed the tray none too gently on the bedside table.
‘That smells good,’ croaked Tom. ‘What is it?’
Sarah glanced at the contents of the tray. ‘Some broth and some bread. And wine.’
‘Nectar.’ He sighed.
‘Ah! He is awake,’ said Madame, ‘and wanting his dinner.’
‘That is a good sign, isn’t it? It must mean he is getting well.’
‘Yes. But he is a strong one, that one,’ said Madame, casting her eye over his naked torso with what looked like feminine appreciation. And for the first time, Sarah looked, too. At least, for the first time since the battle, she permitted herself to look at him as a man, not just a patient.
She’d thought him handsome before. When she’d seen him in the park, fully clothed. But she’d never run her eyes over his torso, the way she was doing now. With appreciation of his muscled beauty.
She blushed at the inappropriate turn her mind was taking. She was his nurse. She was supposed to be convincing Madame le Brun that he was her brother. She had no business going all gooey-eyed because he had the kind of body artists would want to sculpt in marble.
‘Will you help me to sit him up?’ she asked Madame with what she hoped sounded like brisk efficiency. ‘Then we can feed him some broth.’
‘I can do it,’ he grumbled.
But he couldn’t. So between them, Sarah and Madame le Brun propped the Major up on a mound of pillows and fed him soup until his eyelids started to flutter closed.
‘Weak as a kitten,’ he muttered in disgust as they helped him lie down again.
‘But now you are eating and the fever has gone, you will be up and going around in no time,’ Madame chided him gently as he drifted back to sleep.
That was good news. Before much longer he wouldn’t need Sarah any more. He would be up and going around, as Madame so quaintly put it. She wouldn’t need to sit over him, alternately sponging his overheated body, or covering him when he shivered.
She would be able to leave, like as not, before anyone discovered she’d had anything to do with him at all. And her reputation would remain intact. She would be safe.
So why did she feel like crying again?
Stupid, stupid thing to do. Sit crying over... Sarah shook her head. She wasn’t too sure actually what she was crying about.
She was turning into a regular watering pot.
With a growl of self-disgust, she got up and went to the desk. Rather than moping, she would do better to reply to all the letters which were piling up.
Gussie first. She’d wronged Gussie. Wished she could put it right. But most of all, she didn’t want Gussie to worry about her.
Dear Gussie, she wrote. Then paused, chewing on the end of the quill. She couldn’t very well write, I’ve brought a notorious rake home with me and have been living with him. He has such a dreadful reputation Justin wouldn’t introduce him to me, even though he is an officer.
She rested her head in her hands for a moment or two. There must be a way to allay her sister’s concerns without telling an outright lie.
I am in Brussels, she wrote, with a defiant tilt to her chin. She didn’t want to keep her totally in the dark, the way her husband was so determined to keep her in the dark. It simply wasn’t right!
But neither could she tell the whole truth.
I think I went a little mad when Blanchards told me Gideon was dead. Of course, I know, really, that Blanchards wouldn’t lie to me about something like that, but then, he might have been mistaken, mightn’t he? The report might have been sent in error, or something. Anyway, I felt that I couldn’t believe it, the way you both did, without proof. I ended up going as far as the battlefield to search for answers and stumbled across Justin instead. He is gravely ill and needs constant care.
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