She sat on the side of the bed, dipped a cloth into the water, and wrung it out. She ran the cloth over his forehead. The linen quickly became warm. Her mouth dried considerably. Would she really be able to care for him adequately herself? When she lifted his head and ran the cloth across his nape, her hands were shaking again. She had no choice. She must care for him. Must do the best she could—no, better than her best. She couldn’t allow herself to fail.
Inspiration hit her. She took the basin and gently lowered the back of his head into it then left his hair wet to continue cooling his head. She fetched another basinful of water, then worked the cloth over the angles and planes of his body, again and again. Gradually his flesh felt less feverish. She put a hand over her stomach and tried to rub away a sudden empty ache. She needed to eat, to remain strong for the gentleman’s sake. Jeanne pulled the coverlet over his nakedness then hurried away to gather some food.
The cold, stale tea washed over her dry gullet like pure bliss. Day-old bread and hard cheese had never tasted so good. Hunger, thirst. They were such basic drives. Maybe that was what she needed to write the last story. Something drawn from the basics of life. Her mind ran through several scenarios. Each left her grimacing in disgust. Trite, so trite—every thought and idea she had was more ordinary than the last. It had once been so easy. What had happened?
Deep groans echoed.
She jerked around and looked to the bed. The large form under her covers startled her. Oh yes, the gentleman!
He would need something to drink. She took the pot, heated more water and steeped some elderberry tea. Then she filled a cup, grabbed the spoon, and hurried back to him. Settled on the bedside, she spooned small amounts between his lips. Aided his natural functions with the chamber pot. She’d played nurse many times for Papa. There was a resignation about the act. An acceptance that calmed her. It took her mind off the ever-present ache. The emptiness within her. The sense of having been denied and never being given any recompense. It was pure self-pity and enough to send a spiral of shame through her any time she admitted the true source of that inner aching. That pervasive frustration.
She couldn’t help it. She hurt inside, every moment of every day and every night.
She shook herself. He would need gruel. She’d better make some.
Like an automaton, she worked. Bathing his body until it cooled, feeding him sips of tea and watered gruel, and snatching bits of rest in between the times his restiveness and ravings wouldn’t allow it. He developed a rasping, dry, unproductive cough that alarmed her more than anything.
But by the morning of the third day, his body felt markedly cooler whilst she bathed it. Exhausted and dreamy minded, she found her strokes growing slower, lingering, as her fingers kept straying from the edges of the cloth to feather over his smooth, slightly moist skin.
The chiseled angles of his face, shadowed with a thick growth of black beard, caught her eye once again.
He opened his eyes. Wondrous, clear pools of emerald, framed by thick, dark lashes, gazed at her with lucidity.
Her heart skipped a beat. Then, hit by the beauty of those eyes, she sucked in her breath.
He touched her hand. “Who are you, darling?”
“Jeanne.” Goodness, her voice sounded almost as raspy as his.
The barest hint of a smile flitted across his dry, pale lips. “Jeannie.”
“Jeanne.” She repeated firmly. Papa had called her Jeannie, had screamed the name in his sleep, roared the name in rage. She sagged at the thought.
“Jeanne.” Her name spoken in his voice sent tingling warmth through her insides, chasing away bad memories.
She stared at him, a little bemused. She knew next to nothing about him, and yet she felt closer to him at this moment than she’d been to anyone in her whole life, except Papa.
He enveloped her hand with his. As she stared into his compelling eyes, it grew harder to think clearly. She glanced away and studied the lines of a crack in the plastered wall.
“And what is your name?” Perhaps she should have said “sir” but seeing as he was naked in her bed and she had already touched every inch of his body, she didn’t.
“David…” His voice faded. Wheezing resumed.
She glanced at him again. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open.
The warm, soaring energy building in her at his unexpected lucidness, at the sound of his voice, at his touch, suddenly disappeared and she was left weakened.
Her gaze drifted towards the rise and fall of his muscled chest. The strong, perfect lines of his nakedness. Her fatigue eased, replaced by a baser type of energy than a moment before. She was aware her mouth hung open. She was aware that she was ogling a helpless, unconscious man. But her greater worry was fighting the urge to run her hand down that expanse of fine dark hair and hard planes. The compulsion to watch his now flaccid, and rather sizable shaft, swell into throbbing life.