Love, Come to Me(90)

“It was nothing.”

Lucy was undeceived by his indifferent tone of voice. Damon might try to hide his feelings, but she had witnessed his concern as they had brought Heath upstairs, and she had been aware of his gentleness with her. “I am grateful,” she repeated, wanting to say more but fearing the possibility of embarrassing him.

“I must be getting back to the paper.”

“Could I offer you something to eat or drink before you leave?” she asked, realizing that he had missed his lunch hour. “Some tea?”

“Thank you, but no. There are many things I have to do.”

“That sounds like something my husband would say.”

Her remark drew a smile out of Damon. “His fondness for overwork must be contagious.”

She chuckled ruefully. “Then be careful. We don’t want you to be ill, too.”

“No.” The dark smile in his eyes turned bittersweet as he looked down at her. “Please tell your husband something for me, Mrs. Rayne. Tell him not to worry about the Examiner. I’ll keep everything in order for him.”

“I know that he trusts you to take care of everything.”

“And you?” Damon’s expression hardened with self-mockery as soon as the question had left his lips. Lucy wasn’t certain why he had asked, and she had the feeling that he wasn’t certain, either.

“I also trust you,” she said softly. “Excuse me. I must go up to Heath. Sowers will see you out.”

Curious and confused, Lucy went upstairs without looking back at him. Her instincts told her that she had nothing to fear from Damon Redmond, but he treated her with such careful politeness, as if he were afraid she might discover a jealously guarded secret. He did not seem to want her gratitude, yet he had been here today like an unobtrusive shadow, taking care of everything and staying until he was certain that he was no longer needed.

She slept lightly that night, sensitive to Heath’s every movement, waking several times to coax him to swallow more tonic, and tucking the quilts more tightly around him as he shivered with cold. Weary from anxiety and lack of sleep, she allowed herself to take a short nap as morning drew near. She woke up to the horrifying discovery that the sheets were clammy and drenched with perspiration, and that Heath’s hair was wet from the roots to the ends. Her gown clung to her damply, infused with the coolness of early morning.

“Heath?” She pulled the covers up around him, trying to keep him warm until the bedding could be changed. His head moved on the pillow, and his thick lashes lifted to reveal a bright, slitted gaze.

“No, don’t,” he muttered, making an effort to push away the blankets. “Hot . . . it’s hot . . .”

“I know it is,” she said gently, placing her hand on his forehead. His skin seemed to radiate the heat of a coal. “Be still . . . please be still. For me.” He said something indistinct and closed his eyes, turning his face away from her.

Fortunately Bess, having once been married, was not squeamish about personal matters. She had an invaluable combination of efficiency and pragmatism. Lucy was grateful for her help in seeing to Heath’s comfort and changing the sheets to clean, dry ones. “The doctor said this would only last a day or two,” she said to the maid as they walked with armloads of fresh linen into the room.

“That’s good,” Bess replied, looking doubtfully at the still figure on the bed. Heath’s earlier restlessness had vanished with startling speed. Now he slept as if he had been knocked unconscious.

“Did you ever have to nurse your husband through something like this?” Lucy asked, pale and upset, and somehow terribly calm.

“Yes, Mrs. Rayne.”

“I suppose the fever is always this bad on the second day?”

“Not always.” As their eyes met, Lucy read the truth on the maid’s face, that Heath’s fever was worse than any Bess had seen before.

“I . . . I think we’ll try to tempt him with a little soup later on. One with a very clear broth,” Lucy said slowly, ignoring the inner voice that suggested the doctor had been wrong and Heath was seriously ill. No, he would be sick for a day or two, and then he would start to get better.

But the next day the fever had not abated. It was worse than before, and Heath was no longer coherent. Caught in an unceasing delirium, he was drenched with sweat one moment, shaking with chills the next, and Lucy endlessly repeated the cycle of sponging him down, changing the sheets and giving him medicine. She sent for Dr. Evans again, who stayed much longer this time than the first. He wore a grave expression as he led Lucy away from the bedside and spoke to her quietly.

“If it doesn’t break soon, we’ll have to pack him in ice. It’s dangerous for his temperature to be this high.”

They draped the mattress with vulcanized waterproof cloth, and packed snow and ice around him. But nothing they tried could break the fever.

Lucy sat alone with Heath in a darkened room, staring at a stranger whose mind wandered aimlessly in a delirium, whose lips formed names she did not recognize, who spoke with a touch of madness in his voice. This man who suffered and shivered so violently was not Heath, her golden-haired, laughing-eyed husband. Only during small fractions of time was he recognizable to her, and those moments were painfully few and far between. She spoke to him and he did not hear her. He asked questions but did not seem to understand the answers. He seemed to have gone back to a time when he had not known her, and it hurt to realize that he never uttered her name.