Hello Stranger (The Ravenels #4)(77)

Ethan relaxed and shivered slightly as blessed coolness was distilled all through him, and the stroking cloth paused. Groping for his father’s wrist, Ethan blindly urged the big hand back to his face. The soothing movements resumed, and Ethan’s tired mind threaded its way into quietness.

He awakened to the steady light of morning on his eyelids, while someone tugged at his bandage, peeling it away like the skin of a fruit. Burning liquid was applied to his shoulder in steady, measured drips. During the process, a man was talking. Not to him, but at him, in a light, aimless flow that required no response.

It was bloody annoying.

“. . . I’ve never had this much to do with another man’s body before. For that matter, I don’t think I’ve had quite this much to do with a woman’s body. I may have to become a monk after this.”

The man was winding a bandage neatly over his chest and around his back, leaning close to lift him slightly with each pass.

“. . . as heavy as a Hampshire hog . . . more muscle than other breeds, which is why they weigh more than they look. Take my word for it, you’d be a prizewinning baconer. I mean that as a compliment, by the way.”

With an antagonized grunt, Ethan shoved at the man, breaking his hold and sending him staggering back. After a swift glance at his surroundings, Ethan half rolled toward the table near the bedside and grabbed a metal utensil. Ignoring the vicious stabbing ache of his shoulder, he stayed on his side and glared at the man by the bed.

It was West Ravenel, who regarded him with a slightly tilted head. “Feeling better today, are we?” he asked in a tone of artificial cheer.

“Where am I?” Ethan asked hoarsely.

“Our hallowed ancestral domain, Eversby Priory.” West glanced at the bandage on Ethan’s chest, which had begun to unravel. He reached for the loose end. “Let me finish wrapping that, or—”

“Touch me again,” Ethan growled, “and I’ll kill you with this.”

West drew his hand back instantly, his gaze falling to the utensil in Ethan’s grip. “That’s a spoon.”

“I know.”

The corner of West’s mouth twitched, but he retreated a step or two.

“Where is Garrett?” Ethan demanded.

“After performing surgery, traveling to Hampshire and staying up for thirty-six hours to look after you, she was obliged to rest a bit. Your fever broke during the night, which will undoubtedly be welcome news when she awakens. In the meantime, I’ve been taking care of you.” West paused. “So far, I preferred it when you were unconscious.”

Ethan felt a flush of humiliation creeping over him as he realized this man had cared for him during his delirious ravings. Oh God . . . the dream about his father . . . the moments of paternal tenderness he’d always craved from the man who’d raised him. And the handholding—had he imagined that, or—

“Relax,” West said calmly, although his eyes twinkled with amusement. “We’re family.”

It was the first time he’d directly addressed Ethan’s connection to the Ravenels. Ethan glanced at him warily, refusing to reply.

“In fact,” West continued, “now that my blood is running through your veins, we’re practically brothers.”

Ethan shook his head, perplexed.

“Transfusion,” West explained. “You received ten ounces of Ravenel ’forty-nine . . . a fairly decent vintage, it seems, since it brought you back to life when your heart stopped after surgery.” He grinned at Ethan’s expression. “Cheer up, you might develop a sense of humor now.”

But Ethan’s intent stare wasn’t one of dismay or resentment . . . he was amazed. All he knew about transfusion was that damned few people survived it. And West Ravenel, the cavalier ass, had willingly gone through a remarkable amount of trouble, risk, and discomfort for his sake. Not only in donating his own blood, but also in taking Ethan to Eversby Priory and looking after him, in full awareness of the dangers of doing so.

As Ethan looked into the blue eyes so like his own, he saw that West expected an ill-tempered, ungracious remark. “Thank you,” he said simply.

West blinked in surprise and looked at Ethan more closely as if to assure himself of his sincerity. “You’re welcome,” he said, just as simply. After an awkward but not unfriendly silence, he continued, “If you like, I’ll try to make you presentable before Dr. Gibson sees you. Before you refuse, you should know that your beard is like steel-brush wire, and you smell like an Angora goat—and I know whereof I speak. If you’d prefer someone other than me to spruce you up, I suppose I could sterilize my valet. Although I’m not certain he’d hold still for it.”



Garrett awakened beneath a weight of numbness. Even before her mind was conscious, her body had perceived the awaiting catastrophe.

A full, sun-infused morning pushed insistently through the shuttered windows, spilling through the edges and between the slats. Dully Garrett stared up at the white nothingness of the plaster ceiling.

By now, the natural process of Ethan’s fever had proceeded to its logical end.

The pupils would be dilated and unresponsive to light. The body temperature would have dropped to that of the surrounding environment. She could hold the shell of him in her arms, but his spirit was somewhere she couldn’t reach.

She would never forgive West Ravenel for depriving her of the last few minutes of Ethan’s life.