Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels #1)(67)

“I came to see how our guest was,” Helen said, joining them.

Kathleen answered with a frown. “He has a fever and can’t keep anything down. Not even a sip of water. It’s very worrying.”

Helen glanced through the partially open doorway, into the shadowed room. She heard a quiet sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and the hairs on the back of her neck lifted.

“Shall I send for Dr. Weeks?” Mrs. Church asked.

“I suppose so,” Kathleen said, “although he stayed up most of the night watching over Mr. Winterborne, and he desperately needs a few hours of rest. Furthermore, if we can’t persuade our patient to take any medicine or water, I don’t know how Weeks could manage it.”

“May I try?” Helen offered.

“No,” the other women said in unison.

Turning to Helen, Kathleen explained, “So far we’ve heard nothing but profanities from Mr. Winterborne. Fortunately at least half of it is in Welsh, but it’s still too vulgar for your ears. Besides, you’re still unmarried, and he isn’t decently clothed, so it’s out of the question.”

A curse emerged from the depths of the room, followed by a wretched groan.

Helen felt a rush of pity. “The sickroom holds no surprises for me,” she said. “After Mama was gone, I nursed Father through more than one illness.”

“Yes, but Winterborne isn’t a relation.”

“He’s certainly in no condition to compromise anyone… and you and Mrs. Church are already burdened with much to do.” She gave Kathleen a pleading glance. “Let me see to him.”

“Very well,” Kathleen said reluctantly. “But leave the door open.”

Helen nodded and slipped into the room.

The atmosphere was warm and stuffy, the air pungent with sweat, medicine, and plaster. Winterborne’s large, dark form writhed on the bed amid tangled sheets. Although he was dressed in a nightshirt, with one leg encased in a cast from the knee down, Helen had a glimpse of swarthy skin and hairy limbs. The locks on his head were obsidian black and slightly curly. His white teeth clenched with pained effort as he tried to pull the bandages from his eyes. Helen hesitated. Ill though he was, Winterborne seemed like a feral beast. But as she saw the way his hands fumbled and shook, she was filled with compassion.

“No, no…” she said, hurrying to him. She laid a gentle hand on his forehead, which was as dry and hot as a stove plate. “Be at ease. Be still.”

Winterborne had begun to shove her away, but at the feel of her cool fingers, he made a low sound and went motionless. He seemed half delirious with fever. His lips were chapped and cracked at the corners. Bringing his head to her shoulder to steady it, Helen restored the bandage around his eyes, tucking in the loose ends. “Don’t pull at this,” she murmured. “Your eyes must stay covered while they heal.” He stayed against her, breathing in short, sharp bursts. “Will you try some water?” she asked.

“Can’t,” he managed wretchedly.

Helen turned her gaze to the housekeeper, who had remained at the threshold. “Mrs. Church, please open the window.”

“Dr. Weeks said to keep the room warm.”

“He’s feverish,” Helen persisted. “I think it would help to make him more comfortable.”

Mrs. Church went to the window. As she unlatched the casement and pushed it open, a rush of icy air entered the room, whisking away the sickroom odor.

Helen felt the movement of Winterborne’s chest as he drew in a deep breath. The heavy muscles of his back and arms twitched with relief, the ferocious tension draining. His head settled on her shoulder as if he were an exhausted child. Aware of his state of undress, Helen didn’t dare look down.

As she held him, she reached for the cup of water on the nightstand. “Try a few drops of water,” she coaxed. As he felt her press the cup to his lips, he made a faint protesting sound, but he allowed her to wet his lips.

Realizing it was the most he could do, Helen set the cup aside and whispered, “There, that’s better.” She continued to hold him while the housekeeper came forward without a word and began to straighten the bedclothes.

It was scandalous, Helen knew, for her to behave this way with any man, let alone a stranger. There was no question that Kathleen would have been appalled. But Helen had been secluded from society for her entire life, and although she was disposed to follow the rules whenever possible, she was also willing to discard them when necessary. Besides, even though Winterborne was a powerful and influential man in his everyday existence, right now he was suffering and very ill, and she could almost think of him as a child in need of help.

She tried to lower him to the pillows, but he resisted with a grunt. One of his hands clamped around her wrist. Although his grip wasn’t painful, she felt the strength of it. If he wished to, he could have easily snapped her bones. “I’ll go fetch something to make you feel better,” she said gently. “I’ll come back soon.”

Winterborne let her ease him down to the pillows, but he didn’t let go. Perturbed, Helen contemplated his large hand before her gaze traveled to his face. His eyes and forehead were obscured by bandages, but the bone structure beneath his bruised and scratched complexion was austerely angled, the cheekbones paring-knife sharp, the jaw sturdy and emphatic. There were no smile lines around the mouth, no touch of softness anywhere.