A Taste of Desire(76)
“Regardless of how I feel about her, she is a guest in my home and under my care.”
“Good God, man, you practically ripped her from my arms. I think that’s taking your role a tad bit too far, wouldn’t you say?”
When Cartwright became fixated on a notion, he refused to let go, which meant Thomas would have to accomplish the task for him. “I am going to the study. I will see you at supper.”
As it was only nine in the morning and supper wouldn’t be served until eight that evening, Thomas’s message rang as clear as it was loud in the echoing silence that followed him as he exited the room.
At first, Amelia didn’t know what had awakened her. Her chamber was dark and silent. She felt hot and cold all at the same time. After several seconds, her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She perceived the presence just before she heard the movement at her side.
Her head snapped in the direction of the sound. A startled cry escaped her dry lips when she spotted a form reposed in the chair at her bedside. For an instant, she hovered between confusion and terror before recognition set in.
Thomas.
His head rested against the cushion of burgundy brocade, and the deep, rhythmic whisper of his breath indicated he was asleep.
Her fevered mind tried to rationalize his presence there but couldn’t quite make the enormous leap as to what it signified. She could only lower her head back onto her pillow and watch him silently, her gaze drifting along the shadowed planes of his face. There was a certain vulnerability in his restful state that made him appear younger. Tender even.
No more than a minute passed before he moved and slowly raised his head. Had he sensed her watching him? Suddenly, he bolted up straight in his seat, his form alert and his green eyes glittering bright in the sooty night as he focused on her. “Is something wrong? Should I call for the physician?” he asked in a tone that didn’t convey he’d been asleep only moments before.
Weakly, Amelia shook her head, now aware of a parched feeling in her mouth. “I would appreciate some water.” Her words were whisper soft and her voice hoarse.
He was out of the chair and at the dresser before she could fully comprehend he’d gone. Soon, light suffused the chamber in a dim glow, and the slosh of water filled the air. Thomas returned to her side with a glass in one hand and a candle in the other. He set the candle on the night table by the bed. Awash in candlelight, Amelia could now see the fatigue on his face. His fatigue did not, however, detract from his masculine allure. Even in her illness, she clearly saw that and felt the inexorable pull of his appeal.
Instead of handing her the glass, Thomas sat on the edge of the bed. She started when he gently slid his hand beneath her head and lifted it up. “Here, drink,” he said, tipping the glass to her mouth.
Amelia automatically parted her lips at his softly spoken command. The water was neither cold nor warm, but it felt like heaven sliding down her throat. She drank the glass’s entire contents before slumping back onto the pillows. Thomas didn’t remove his hand immediately. She felt the pressure of his palm, the weight of every finger with a keenness that had her skin tingling—a sensation not caused by her fever or body aches.
“Would you like me to get you anything else?” He stared at her with a quiet, disturbing intensity.
“No, I’m feeling much better now.”
“Your stomach is no longer paining you?” He removed his hand from beneath her head. Amelia felt the loss like a flower would miss the warmth of the sun on a frigidly cold winter day. But she wasn’t to be bereft of his touch for long. He placed the back of his hand against her forehead. “Hmm, while you’re not as hot as before, you’re still a little warm. But I am glad to see you’ve improved.”
Perhaps tomorrow, she would tell herself her weakened state had left her vulnerable to a bedside manner every physician should endeavor to emulate. But it wasn’t tomorrow, it was tonight, and her pulse pounded erratically. His nearness, the masculine scent emanating from his very pores, had her dragging in air as if it were a scarce element of nature.
“Yes, my—my stomach is much improved,” she said, her voice above a bare whisper. Her throat was no longer dry and she wasn’t feeling as poorly as she had been earlier, but it appeared she now suffered a different sort of sickness—one that could be every bit as dangerous to her as another bout with scarlet fever. Thomas Armstrong.
He removed his hand from her forehead, and he asked, “Are you certain? You look somewhat distressed. Are you not comfortable?” His hooded gaze skimmed the length of her body outlined beneath the counterpane and bed sheets. Amelia didn’t think she could have been more conscious of her body had she laid there naked.