“You needn’t use your foul language with me.”
“Come, lie down and I’ll spread the hair away from your head. You haven’t done it right.”
She could feel his warm breath on her cheek, his long fingers stroking through her hair, pulling out the wet ripples as he fanned it out. “There,” he said, sounding bored. “Go to sleep now. I’m tired. You’ve quite exhausted me with your recklessness.”
What to do, Alex asked herself again and again, indeed, the question plagued her until she fell asleep beside her husband in the gamekeeper’s bed.
Douglas awoke feeling very hot and very aroused. His member was hard, uncomfortably so, and for an instant, he was disoriented. Never had he felt such intense desire, a desire so urgent, a desire that was pushing him, prodding at him, making him forget who he was, where he was. He realized that Alexandra’s cheek was pressed against his bare shoulder, her bare right leg was resting on his bare belly. The linen shirt she wore was up around her waist and he felt every exquisite female inch of her. He wanted to touch her breasts, to feel their texture, their softness. He saw her standing there beside his chair, naked, her arms at her sides, her hands fisted for she was set on her course, and he, well, he had humiliated her thoroughly.
It hadn’t been well done of him. But what was he to have done? To have taken what she offered would have admitted that he’d given in and accepted her, that she’d won, that her damned father had won, and all because she’d stripped down to her lovely white skin and let him look at her? She’d offered herself to him. He cursed now but it didn’t help. His sex hurt, actually hurt with want. Well, why not? She was very nearly naked now, pressed up against him. Why shouldn’t he feel lust? He was a normal man, wasn’t he? He gave it up. None of it seemed to matter now. It was dark, they were alone, the rain was lashing heavily against the single windowpane and thudding loudly upon the roof. Everything that was real, everything that was solid, everything that mattered, everything that shrieked for decisions and consequences, was blessedly far away. It could all be ignored for a good long while.
He turned slightly toward her and his hand caressed her breast. She moaned. The low soft sound froze him, then made his heart pound frantically. He wanted to come inside her right this instant. Damn her, he hurt. He cursed again even as his hand cupped her, but only for a moment. He quickly unlaced the front of her shirt. He pulled it off her, shoving the shirt to her waist. Why didn’t she wake up? He could barely see her, but he knew her breasts were magnificent. He wanted to touch her now, kiss her now, taste her. He didn’t think, didn’t consider a single consequence of his actions, merely lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth. She tasted hot, so incredibly hot, and so sweet he couldn’t bear it. He was in a sorry state, and he knew it.
He raised his head a moment, and again she moaned and then moaned again, her head falling to the side. He kissed her throat, as his fingers caressed her breast. He wanted her mouth. He wanted her to groan into his mouth, to fill him with the passion he was rousing in her. When his mouth closed over hers, he was aware again of the immense heat of her. So very hot she was, hot with passion, hot for him. Again she moaned.
He was nearly frantic now, his body surging, his sex swelled against her thigh. Why the hell didn’t she wake up? “Let me get this ridiculous shirt off you.” She moaned again and he paused, frowning down at her. Surely she should only moan if what he was doing to her made her feel passion.
“Alexandra,” he said softly, and lightly tapped his palm against her cheek. Heat.
For a moment he simply didn’t want to believe it. She moaned again, twisting away from him. Dear God, she wasn’t moaning because she wanted him; she wasn’t moaning to seduce him; she was moaning because she was burning with fever.
He felt like an animal; he felt guilty as hell, then he wanted to laugh at himself for his conceit. He shook his head, the seriousness of it washing over him. She was ill. She was very ill. He got hold of himself. His lust died a quick death. He saw then the many men bathed in fevers after battles. So many had died. Too many. But at least he knew what to do. It was still raining hard. There was no way to fetch a doctor. It was up to him. Douglas quickly rose and went into the front room.
“Tom,” he said quietly.
“Milord, there be a problem?”
“Aye, Her Ladyship is ill. I need you to make her some herbal tea and I’ll bathe her with cold water to bring down the fever. Have you any special potions that would help her?”
Tom had no potions, but he had his dear mother’s excellent herbal tea.
When Douglas returned to Alexandra, a lighted candle in his hand, he realized he hadn’t even noticed that during his conversation with Tom he’d been quite naked. He shook his head at himself, set the candle down on the small table next to the bed, and quickly pulled on Tom’s pants. He touched his palms to her cheeks, then to her shoulders. She was soaked with sweat. He pulled the damp linen shirt off her. Within moments Tom brought a bowl of cold water and a soft cloth.
Douglas straightened her arms and legs. He began methodically to wipe her down, long steady strokes from her face to her toes. When the cold wet cloth returned to her face, she tried to twist away, but he held her, saying quietly, “No, Alexandra. Hold still. You’re the one who is now ill. Hold still.”
She couldn’t understand him, he knew. He wiped her face, holding the cold cloth still for several moments. She turned her face against his palm, trying to burrow into the cloth.
“Yes, you’re hot, aren’t you? No, I won’t stop doing this, I promise. I know it must feel good. I know you’re burning up. Trust me in this, at least.” The cloth went down her throat to her shoulders. He lifted the cloth then and realized it was hot. The fever was heavy upon her.
He eased her onto her stomach. Again and again he stroked the cloth over her. He tried not to look at her, tried not to assess how he felt as he looked at her, tried not to acknowledge that his sex was swelled even though she was ill and not ready for him, that she probably wouldn’t want him even if she wasn’t ill.
“Alexandra,” he said. “Listen to me now. You’re ill but I fully intend that you get well and very quickly. Do you hear me? Stop this foolishness now. Open your eyes and look at me. Damn you, open your eyes!”
She did. She gazed up at him, her eyes clear. “Hello,” she said. “Does your head pain you, Douglas?”
“Who gives a damn about my head? How do you feel?”
“I hurt.”
“I know you do. Does this feel good?” He wiped the cloth over her breasts and down her belly.
“Oh yes,” she said, and closed her eyes.
Douglas continued until Tom knocked on the door with his mother’s special tea.
Douglas covered her and propped her up on the pillows. He sat beside her and held her up against his arm. “Wake up again, Alexandra. I want you to drink this tea. It’s important that you drink liquids or you’ll dry up and blow away. Come now, open your mouth.”
She did. She choked on the tea and he slowed i