A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(54)

“You are heavy,” she muttered, straining to lift one of his massive boots from the floor and heave his leg onto the bed. Goodness, lifting him felt like lifting a statue carved of granite. Once she had the first leg in place, the second came easier. Badger leapt onto the bed and curled between his boots.

She leaned over him to place the pillow under his head.

“I can see down your bodice,” he remarked.

A thrill shot down her spine, leaving her body through the soles of her feet.

Really, Kate. This isn’t the time.

She laid the back of her hand to his forehead. Hot to the touch.

“You’re feverish. I need to strip the rest of your shirt, to cool your body and ease your breathing.”

She reached for the knife, wiped it clean of blood, and used it to make a notch in the neckline of his shirt. Then she grabbed both sides and ripped it straight down the front, pushing the halves to either side and working the remaining sleeve down his good arm.

When she’d bared his chest, she startled. He didn’t seem to notice her shock, and she wasn’t sure whether his insensibility was a fortunate thing or a very bad sign.

But since he didn’t notice . . . she openly stared. His chest was hard, sculpted muscle covered with tanned skin. She saw a liberal sprinkling of dark hair, a few healed scars . . .

And tattoos. Several tattoos.

Kate had heard of such things. She knew many sailors had patterns or pictures inked into their skin, but she’d never seen an example in person, to her recollection. Definitely not this close.

Not all of Thorne’s tattoos were patterns or pictures. There was an abstract design of some kind on his upper right chest, encircled by a medallion just smaller than her palm. On his shoulder was a tiny, crudely drawn flower—rather like a Tudor rose. A row of numbers marched up the underside of his left arm. And on the side of his rib cage, she found a pair of letters: B and C.

So primitive. So fascinating. She couldn’t help but lay her fingers to those letters and wonder what they meant. The initials of some former sweetheart, perhaps? She knew he’d had lovers, but the notion of Thorne with a sweetheart seemed absurd. Almost as absurd as the spike of jealousy twisting in her chest.

But when she touched his skin, the scalding heat reminded her of the larger task at hand. Keeping this immense, stubborn, tattooed man alive.

She tried to rise from the bed, but his good arm shot out to catch her. He still had some strength in him, apparently, and he used it to pull her close.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You smell so good.” His eyes were closed, and his voice was a low, rummy drawl. “Like clover.”

She swallowed. “I don’t even know what clover smells like.”

“Then you need a good roll in it.”

She laughed a little. If he was making jokes, he couldn’t be beyond hope.

Then his muscles seized and his eyes rolled back as he thrashed on the mattress. She put her hands to his chest and leaned all her weight on them, holding him to the bed.

He fell limp, panting. His hand found and tangled in her loosened hair. “Katie. I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying. Adder bites are rarely fatal. That’s what the book said. But I need to make you some salve, and a tea.”

He held her fast, forbidding her to move. “I’m dying. Stay with me.”

Desperation pressed on her, but Kate forcibly held it at bay. She reminded herself of what Susanna had once told her—big, strong men always made the worst, most infantile patients when forced to a sickbed. If they took sick with a cold, they moaned and complained as though they were at death’s door. Thorne was simply overreacting. She hoped.

She stroked a touch over his perspiring brow. “You’ll be fine. I’ll just go make you some—”

“You don’t know me.”

“I do. I know you far better than you give me credit for. I know you’re brave and good and—”

“No, you don’t know. You don’t recall me. But it’s best. When I first arrived, I worried. Feared you might place me. At times, I almost hoped you would. But it’s . . .” He drew a raspy breath. “It’s best this way.”

“What do you mean?” Kate’s every nerve jumped to attention. “It’s best what way?”

“You’ve done so well for yourself, Katie. If she could see you, she’d be . . . so proud . . .” His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes.

What did he just say?

She shook his arm. “Who? Who’d be proud?”

“Sing for me,” he whispered. “Your sweet voice will be the last thing I hear. I’ll carry a little echo of heaven with me, even when they drag me down to hell.”

She didn’t know what to make of any of his rambling. Perhaps he was simply delirious. That had to be the explanation.

“I have to pound the herbs,” she choked out. “There’s a salve you need, and then some tea.”

“Sing.” His grip on her hair went slack, and he pulled his fingers through her loosened curls. “Only not . . . not the garden. Not the blossoms so fair. Don’t sing that verse for me.”

She froze, stunned. “How do you know that song? When did you hear me sing it?”

“Always hated . . . hearing it from your lips.”