Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

Frances heard his voice, but she felt too miserable and too ill to move, much less respond.

“Frances,” Hawk said, leaning down over her. “What is wrong?”

She felt his hand on her shoulder, felt his fingers pull back her braid.

“I’ll be all right,” she said between gritted teeth, and promptly proved herself wrong. Her body shuddered and heaved, but there was nothing left in her stomach.

“Just a moment,” Hawk said, now seriously worried. “I’ll fetch Grunyon.”

But Grunyon was already standing in the open doorway, his face a study of appalled concern, his nightcap askew on his bald head.

“My lord—”

“She’s ill. Can you help her?”

“Leave me alone,” Frances said. She managed to pull back from the champer pot and come up on her knees. She sent a bleary look toward her husband, then a cramp seized her, and she moaned, wrapping her arms around her stomach.

Grunyon dropped to his knees beside her. “My lady, did you take anything? Any medicine for your headache?”

Frances managed a nod.

“What was it?”

“Laudanum, I thought, but now I’m sure it was something else. I’m all right now ... no I want to die.” She shot a brief look at her husband, who was standing quite close, his eyes narrowed with worry. “Just leave, please.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Hawk said shortly. He leaned down and pulled her to her feet and then into his arms. “Grunyon, get me some water and a clean cloth. She’s sweating like a pig.”

Frances felt too awful to take more than a passing exception to his words. Another cramp seized her, and she twisted in his arms.

“Shush,” he said. “You’ll be all right, Frances.” He laid her on the bed and covered her shaking body with the blankets. Grunyon handed him a wet cloth and he wiped her face. If anyone could look colorless and green at the same time, she did. Her eyes were tightly closed, her lips pressed firmly together.

“My lord,” Grunyon said from behind her, “here’s the vial, but I can’t tell the contents.”

Frances couldn’t bear to have this stranger, this husband/man staring down at her as if she were some sort of freak. She forced her eyes open and saw him take the vial from Grunyon and sniff the contents. She turned her face away and said, “I think it was a medicine I packed for colic.”

“Colic?” Hawk asked blankly. “Why the devil would you pack something like that?”

“Horses get ill. It’s a special mixture of herbs, I didn’t want to forget it.”

Dear God, Hawk thought, stiffening. What the hell was it? He said, without thinking, “We must rid your system of it. Come, we—”

“There’s nothing left in my system,” Frances said, gritting her teeth against another cramp.

“I think tea, my lord,” said Grunyon, hovering beside the bed. “Lots of strong hot tea.”

Frances groaned.

“Fetch it now,” said Hawk. He watched Grunyon’s nightcap slide off his head as he rushed toward the door.

He continued wiping Frances’ face with the damp cloth. He said more to himself than to her, “So, you were really ill with a headache after all.”

Anger at him fought with nausea and the anger won for the moment. “You thought I wasn’t? You believed me a liar?”

“Yes,” Hawk said honestly, “but not a liar exactly. I just thought you’d do anything to keep me from bedding you.”

“You’re right about that,” Frances said. The nausea faded and she allowed herself to relax. She sighed deeply, but still kept her face averted. She wasn’t wearing her spectacles. That, she decided, in a moment of irony, would have been the final touch. She could imagine what she looked like. Heavens, with the spectacles, he would probably have left her hanging over the chamber pot and escaped the room without a word.

He realized she was on the verge of feeling a bit better and remembered well enough that distraction was a good thing for a sick or wounded soldier. For anyone, he supposed. “But why?” he asked after a moment, wanting to distract her, but also utterly serious.