That had been the best. That would always be the best.
“Do you want more water?” Honoria asked.
He did, but he wasn’t sure he had the energy to swallow it properly.
“I’ll help you,” she said, placing the glass to his lips.
He took a tiny sip, then let out a tired sigh. “My leg hurts.”
“It’s probably still sprained,” she said with a nod.
He yawned. “Feels . . . little fiery. Little poker.”
Her eyes widened. He couldn’t blame her. He had no idea what he meant either.
She leaned forward, her brow knit with concern, and she once again touched her hand to his forehead. “You’re starting to feel warm again.”
He tried to smile. He thought he might have managed it on at least one side of his mouth. “Was I ever not?”
“No,” she said frankly. “But you feel warmer now.”
“It comes and goes.”
“The fever?”
He nodded.
Her lips tightened, and she looked older than he’d ever seen her before. Not old; she couldn’t possibly look old. But she looked worried. Her hair looked the same, pulled back in her usual loose bun. And she moved the same way, with that bright little gait that was so singularly hers.
But her eyes were different. Darker, somehow. Pulled into her face with worry. He didn’t like it.
“May I have some more water?” he asked. He couldn’t remember ever being so thirsty.
“Of course,” she said quickly, then poured more water from the pitcher to the cup.
He gulped it down, once again too quickly, but this time he wiped the excess water away with the back of his hand. “It will probably come back,” he warned her.
“The fever.” This time, when she said it, it wasn’t a question.
He nodded. “I thought you should know.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, taking the glass from his trembling hand. “You were perfectly well when I saw you last.”
He tried to raise a brow. He wasn’t sure if he was successful.
“Oh, very well,” she amended. “Not perfectly well, but you were clearly mending.”
“There was that cough,” he reminded her.
“I know. But I just don’t think . . .” She let out a self-deprecating snort and shook her head. “What am I saying? I don’t know anything about illness. I don’t even know why I thought I might be able to take care of you. I didn’t think, actually.”
He had no idea what she was talking about, but for some inexplicable reason, it was making him happy.
She sat in the chair next to him. “I just came. I got the letter from Mrs. Wetherby, and I didn’t even stop to think about the fact that there was nothing I could do to help you. I just came.”
“You’re helping,” he whispered. And she was.
He was feeling better already.
Chapter Nine
Honoria woke the following morning in pain. Her neck was stiff, her back ached, and her left foot had fallen completely asleep. And she was hot and sweaty, which, in addition to making her uncomfortable, made her feel remarkably unattractive. And possibly fragrant. And by fragrant, she meant—
Oh, bother, she knew what she meant, and so would anyone else who came within five feet of her.
She’d closed the window after Marcus had dozed off. It had nearly killed her to do so; it went against all common sense. But she was not confident enough to defy the doctor’s instructions and leave it open.
She shook out her foot, wincing as tiny needles of pain shot through her. Blast it all, she hated when her foot fell asleep. She reached down to squeeze it, trying to restore her circulation, but this just made her entire lower leg feel as if she’d set it on fire.
With a yawn and a groan, she pushed herself to her feet, trying to ignore the ominous creaking in her joints. There was a reason human beings didn’t sleep in chairs, she decided. If she was still here the next night, she was taking to the floor.
Half walking and half hobbling, she made her way over to the window, eager to pull back the curtains and allow at least a little sunshine in. Marcus was sleeping, so she didn’t want to make it too bright, but she was feeling a rather urgent need to see him. The color of his skin, the circles under his eyes. She wasn’t sure what she’d do with this information, but then again, she hadn’t been sure of anything since she’d entered his room the night before.
And she needed a reason to get out of the bloody chair.
She pulled back one side of the curtains, blinking in the flood of early morning light. It couldn’t be too much past dawn; the sky was still hung with wisps of pink and peach, and the morning mist was flowing softly across the lawn.