Earl of Baxter (Lords of Scandal 8)

Her eyes widened as she pushed up looking down at her sleeping husband.

His skin was pale and clammy.

Fear trickled down her back as she lifted her hand to touch his forehead. He was burning hot.

“Mason?” she asked, wrapping an arm about him. Was she warming him or trying to control her own trembling which had begun deep in her core and was spreading through her body? “Mason. Can you hear me?”

He moaned softly, his head sliding back and forth across his pillow.

She let out a soft sob. She’d made a terrible mistake. She should have never allowed the wedding and certainly not their activities after.

But she’d wanted him to be happy.

She loved him.

And he’d wished to be with her.

Her earlier thoughts came back. His almost fatalistic attitude. Like he expected this to be the end.

Was he planning to leave her? Or had he just known that infection was coming?

She winced. She should have seen this fever coming. And she should have done more to protect him.

This was why she hadn’t wanted to marry. She never could get it right.

She choked back a cry as she rose from the bed and tucked Mason tight in the covers. Then she hurriedly dressed and stoked up the fire. Working quickly, she got fresh water and slowly dripped some into his mouth.

Gently, she sponged down his face, ridding his skin of its clammy appearance.

She wanted to check his wound, but she’d wait until the room was warmer.

But waiting made her insides frantic and so she sat down at the dressing table, tapping her toe as she stared at him. Her mind worked through everything he’d told her. About his father wishing him dead. About his own attempt to throw his life away on the battlefield.

His choice to dedicate his life to her.

It was almost as though he were throwing his life away now that he’d accomplished the one goal he’d set out to do.

Though he said he was over his father’s words, Clarissa wondered if Mason actually valued his own life.

She straightened. He was going to start caring for himself, not just her.

Because she’d never forgive herself if he died.

She clenched her fists. If he wouldn’t live for himself, he’d live for her. She stood again. It was time to make her husband well.

Working through the evening, she kept him warm and dry and hydrated as best she could.

At one point, he partially woke, and she had him sip a tea infused with ginger root to aid in bringing down the fever.

She heard the clock strike one in the wee hours of the night when she climbed into the bed next to him and pressed her body to his.

He was still hot but as she touched his forehead, hope bloomed in her chest. He was cooler than he’d been this afternoon, and this was often the time of day when fever was the worst.

There was hope.

With that in mind, she pressed closer, wrapping her arm about his chest. If there was a problem, she’d feel it.

With that in mind, she closed her eyes.