Evening Star (Star Quartet 1)

“I’ll go fetch a doctor. The chamber pot is beside you if you need it while I am gone. For God’s sake, Giana, keep covered up and stay warm.”

She heard him moving about in the parlor, then heard the front door slam. She sat up and gazed about the dim room. She was no longer cold. She felt blessedly numb, except for the throbbing pain between her thighs. It brought her a measure of reason. You do not have to see a doctor, Giana. You can escape him. There are trains back to London.

She tried to lurch out of the bed, struggling with the heavy blankets. She wriggled off the side and slipped to the floor. She staggered to the parlor and looked down at her petticoats, her stockings, shoes, and undergarments scattered about the floor. Her fingers seemed like someone else’s, clumsy and stiff, as they forced the buttons of her gown to fasten.

To Alex’s supreme relief, he found a doctor but four houses away from the cottage. It was eight o’clock at night, and Dr. Preston eyed the disheveled gentleman on his front step with a sigh.

“My wife is ill,” Alex said, his American accent never before so obvious. “You must come quickly. I have tucked her into bed, but I fear she is quite sick with the influenza, I believe. She has fever, chills, and a headache.”

Dr. Preston thought fondly of his pipe, waiting to be stuffed with his Jamaican tobacco. “Very well. I will be along shortly. Your name, sir?”

“Saxton. Alexander Saxton. We are in the rented cottage, the white one that backs onto the beach.”

“I know it,” Dr. Preston said. “You are American, sir.” At Alex’s abstracted nod, he relaxed a bit. “Don’t worry, sir, your wife will be fine.”

A few minutes later, Alex walked quietly into the dim-lit bedroom. For a long moment he simply stared at the messed bed, refusing to believe that Giana was gone.

“Giana, where are you?”

He strode into the parlor and saw with a glance that her gown was gone, and her cloak. Her reticule and shoes were on the floor with her undergarments. He was on the point of bursting out the front door when he felt a draft coming from behind him. He whirled about and dashed to the small kitchen, through the back door that stood ajar, and down the shallow back steps to the garden.

“Giana.”

The garden gate was creaking in the wind on its rusted hinges. He pushed the gate open and found himself on the beach. A pale quarter-moon shone down on the water, silvering the gentle whitecaps.

“Giana.”

He saw a huddled splash of blue in the moonlight. She was lying on her side on the damp sand, her legs drawn to her chest, the softly hissing waves lapping gently over her bare feet. He ran to her side and fell to his knees beside her on the coarse sand. He lifted her into his arms, and she didn’t struggle against him, only gazed at him vaguely. He wanted to blister her ears with her stupidity, but he doubted she would understand him. He had barely time to strip off her cloak and gown and put her back into bed before a sharp rap on the front door announced Dr. Preston’s arrival.

Dr. Preston sat beside her, surpri

sed to find wet sand on her cheek. “She has been swimming?” he said sarcastically, casting a baleful eye toward Alex.

“I found her on the beach when I came back,” Alex said. “I assume that she became delirious and wandered out.”

“Mrs. Saxton,” he said to her, gently shaking her shoulders.

“Hello,” she said to the strange gentleman staring down at her.

Dr. Preston watched the young woman’s eyes close, then pulled back the covers to listen to her heart. He saw she was naked, and snapped, “Bring her a nightgown. She must be kept warm.”

He was in a biting humor when Alex reappeared, a flannel nightgown in his hands.

“This is your wedding night, I take it, sir?”

Alex stared at him.

“Blood. There’s blood on her thighs. Damnation, could you not have waited to consummate your marriage until your bride was well again? Have you no sense at all, man?”

“Very little, it would appear,” Alex said. “I will bathe her.”

Dr. Preston snorted. The lady wasn’t dangerously ill, in his opinion, but the influenza would keep her weak and fevered for at least two days. He wondered silently how the devil she could have been so out of her mind from the fever to want to set out for a stroll on the beach. Damned young people, anyway. Not a grain of sense in any of them.

“She’s sleeping now, which is for the best. I’ll leave a saline draft for her. Keep her in bed, sir, and you can keep away from her. She should be fit again in a couple of days. She’s young and strong, but she can’t withstand the influenza and your amorous attacks as well. Do you have a woman coming in to cook for you?”

Alex shook his head. He had intended the small cottage only for bedding Giana.

“Well, Mr. Saxton, then you will have to be nurse and cook.”