A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(44)
Author: Tessa Dare

She went back to the book. The next suggested remedy was to wash the affected area with salt and . . .

Urine.

Oh, good Lord. At least that substance was obtainable, but still. She couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly. Or perhaps she could, to preserve a man’s life. But she’d never be able to look at the preserved man again.

She sent up a fervent prayer that the third remedy would prove suitable to save both his life and their combined dignity. She read aloud with rapidity. “ ‘Lay a plaster to the area, with a salve made of calamint pounded with turpentine and yellow wax. And give the animal some infusion of calamint to drink, as a tea or mixed in milk.’ ”

Calamint. Calamint sounded perfect. If only she had some.

Kate went back to the medical kit and peered at all the contents of the bottles. She uncorked a vial stuffed with a dried herb that looked promising. When she held it to her nose and sniffed, she supposed it smelled as much like calamint as anything.

She looked around the room. There was a great deal to be done. Light a fire, boil water, melt wax, pound the salve, make a tea. And Thorne was tilting dangerously on that stool she’d given him. At any moment he’d topple the small pedestal table and crash to the floor.

She decided his wound had bled long enough. The extreme swelling had slowed the blood flow to an ooze, anyhow. She wrapped a bit of linen about his wrist as a loose bandage, then made her way to his good side.

“Up,” she directed, sliding her shoulder beneath his unbitten arm. “We’re going to take you to the bed.”

As she helped him to his feet, she could feel his eyes on her. His stare was heavy and intent.

“Am I causing you pain?” she asked.

“Always. Every time you’re near.”

She turned her face away to hide her wounded reaction. “I’m sorry.”

“Not what I meant.” He sounded drunk. With his healthy hand, he nudged her jaw until she faced him. “You’re too beautiful. It hurts.”

Wonderful. Now he was hallucinating.

Together, they shuffled toward his narrow bed. It was only a distance of a half-dozen feet, but it felt like miles. Her spine hunched under his formidable weight.

At last they reached the edge of the mattress. She managed to turn them so that when she removed her support, he sat down on the edge of the bed. Without much urging from her, he reclined onto his back.

There. That took care of head, shoulders, and torso. Now, to get his legs on the mattress, too.

“I feel strange,” he said dreamily. “Heavy.”

“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.”