Scandalous (4 page)

When he did not awaken, she prodded his shoulder tentatively. His skin felt like fire. “Sir? Please, wake up.”

His eyelids fluttered open, and he turned his head. His gaze was hazy and unfocused. “What?” He ran his tongue over his parched lips. “I'm so hot. Where am I?”

“Evermere Cottage,” Priscilla replied evenly. “I told you before. Don't you remember?”

He shook his head slightly and wet his lips again. “Thirsty.”

“I know. You need to drink some water. But first you need to drink this. It will help you feel better. Can you sit up?”

He nodded, but made it only up onto his elbows. Priscilla put her hand behind his head to help steady it and raised the glass to his lips. He drank greedily, then pulled back, grimacing.

“What the devil! Are you trying to kill me?”

“No. It's a tonic for your fever. You need to drink it. I know it tastes wretched, but you really must drink some more.”

“The hell I will!” he retorted belligerently.

Priscilla set her jaw and gave him a steely gaze. She hadn't dealt with two lively boys all these years for nothing. “Yes,” she told him firmly. “You have to. Now open up.”

“I want water,” he replied with equal stubbornness, and the mutinous look on his face was so much that of a young boy that Priscilla almost had to laugh.

“And you shall have some…as soon as you take your medicine.”

He stared at her in silence for a long moment. Priscilla returned his gaze with calm determination. Finally he grimaced, saying sullenly, “All right.”

He drank the whole draft, then fell back on his bed,
his mouth twisting expressively. “Tastes like poison. Who hired you? Father?”

“No one hired me. I am trying to help you of my own free will, but I must say, at the moment you are making me reconsider my decision.”

He smiled faintly at her retort, and she left to get him a glass of water. By the time she returned, his eyes were once again closed. She set the glass down on the small dresser and returned to his bedside. He was sweating profusely and had once again thrown his blanket almost completely away. Priscilla straightened it, then brought up the stool that sat in the corner of the room and sat down beside him. She washed his face with the rag, soaked it in the bowl, then washed his face again.

The cool water on his face seemed to make him a little more peaceful, but he continued to move his head and mumble something now and then, and several times he thrust the blanket down impatiently. His fever continued to rise.

When the boys ran a really high fever, she had usually sponged their chests, as well, Priscilla remembered, but she felt a little odd about doing that to a strange man. However, after a while, she decided that she had no choice. His fever was simply too high. So she dipped the wash rag in water, squeezed it out and began to bathe his chest with it, slipping it behind his head to cool his neck, as well. She brought the rag down his chest to his stomach in long, rhythmic strokes, and when it grew warm from his body heat, she dipped it in the cool water and started all over again.

The rag was thin, and through its dampness she could feel the firm shape of his muscles, the hard ridges of his ribs and collarbone. A flutter ran through her abdomen,
and her breath came a little faster. She found herself watching the pulse in his throat, thinking about touching it. Finally she did, reaching out and placing a finger gently on it. His skin was blazing; it was also soft and vulnerable there, in contrast to the strength of his body, the force that she had felt in him earlier, when he pulled her back against him. His pulse beat against her finger, firm and fast; it made her own pulse accelerate to feel it.

She pulled back her hand, swallowing, amazed at the strange sensations coursing through her tonight. She had never felt a tingling quite like the one she felt when she dragged the cloth across his chest; she had never known the heat that flowered in her abdomen. It was all very peculiar and exciting and enjoyable, all at once.

She brought the cool rag from the water to his chest again and began a long, slow sweep down his body. Her finger passed over his flat masculine nipple, and she thought that it felt much harder and more pointed than it had before. Her patient moaned and turned toward her, kicking off his blanket once more. Priscilla shook her head, and was leaning down to pull it back up to his waist when her eyes fell upon the same member at which she had sneaked a peek earlier. She stopped in midmotion, staring.

It was different.

It was bigger and longer, and it seemed to be rising upward. Blinking, she drew her hand back. Automatically she began to wash his chest again, while her mind considered what she'd just seen. As she moved her hand down his chest and onto his stomach, she saw his shaft move. She stopped, amazed, then tentatively stroked
his stomach again with her cloth. Again his manhood twitched and seemed to grow.

She glanced back up at his face. He was still asleep, his eyes closed, but his face looked somehow looser, and his mouth was open slightly. His breath rasped in his throat. Priscilla felt her own throat closing up, and something beginning to pulse deep between her legs. She squeezed her legs together tightly, surprised at the sensation.

He licked his dry lips again. Priscilla watched him. Then—she wasn't sure why—she dipped her forefinger into the glass of water she had brought him earlier and touched it to his lips. He pressed his lips to her finger. His hot breath seared her hand, and her stomach was fluttering as if butterflies were warring within it.

She dipped her finger back into the water and trailed her damp finger across his lips. This time his tongue snaked out, scooping the water from her finger. It was soft as velvet, hot and firm, and heat surged in her loins.

His eyes fluttered open, and he looked at her. His eyes were glazed and vague; there was no recognition, no questioning, as there had been earlier. His lips curved upward in a way that did strange things to her insides.

“Nice,” he murmured. His hand came up and curved over her cheek. “How much?”

“I beg your pardon?” Priscilla looked at him blankly. The touch of his hand on her face, faintly rough and searingly hot, made every thought fly out of her head.

“For the night,” he went on in a low voice. “For you.” His hand slid down her throat and onto her chest, cupping her breast. “Mm…Madam Chang always knows how to pick them.”

Heat flooded Priscilla when she realized, from his graphic gesture, exactly what he was talking about. He thought she was a woman of the night! Someone whose favors he could buy!

“Sir!” She pushed his hand away and started to rise, but he clamped his fingers around her wrist and held her still.

“Wait. Don't go.” His other hand went to the back of her neck, cupping it and pulling her down toward him. “Don't you understand? You're the one I want.”

“No! Wait! You are mistaken. You've—you're delirious.” Priscilla braced her hand against his chest, but he seemed to feel the gesture was a caress, for he smiled and murmured something and pulled her even closer, until she was only inches from his face.

Then his lips were on hers, hot and demanding. She had never been kissed like this before in her life. In truth, she had been kissed only three times, and those had been mere pecks, a brush of the lips. There had not been this heat, this demand, this pounding need, radiating from the man, as there was now. His lips pressed hungrily into hers, opening them, and then, astounding her, his tongue was in her mouth, searching. She stiffened, making a surprised noise, but he did not pull away, only kissed her more fervently. Both his arms were around her now, pressing her into him. Priscilla's senses were whirling; she felt her muscles going limp as his heat invaded her. She no longer pushed herself away from him; instead, her fingertips dug into his flesh eagerly. Her lips moved tentatively against his.

He groaned deep within his throat and broke off their kiss. His lips trailed fire across her cheek to her ear.
“Take down your hair,” he panted. “I want to feel it all around me.”

His fingers fumbled at the knot of her hair, sending hairpins flying, and her heavy tresses tumbled down, flooding around them. He combed his fingers through it, surrounding their faces with the veil of her hair. He took the lobe of her ear between his lips, worrying it gently and sending shivers of delight all through Priscilla's body. His teeth teased at it, and she was flooded with heat. She sucked in her breath.

“No, wait,” she began weakly, but his lips covered hers again, stopping her words—and all thought, as well. For the next few moments, she was lost in the sweetness of his mouth, drowning in the heat and hunger.

His hand came up once again to her breast, cupping it through her clothes and squeezing gently. The intimate touch sent excitement sizzling straight down into her loins, but it also jolted her back into reality. This stranger was touching her in a way no man should touch her. And, as if that were not bad enough, she was responding like a trollop!

Shame flooded her, and she jerked away from him. Her movement was so swift and so unexpected that he was not able to hold on to her. He lay there, looking befuddled, his arms stretching out emptily for her.

“Honey, don't go,” he said plaintively. “What's the matter?” He rubbed a hand over his face, wiping away the sweat. “Damn!” His eyes wavered and closed. “I've got the money,” he persisted faintly, his words growing more and more slurred. “Around here somewhere. Just wait. I'll—Where's Madam Chang? She will tell you.”

He mumbled a few more unintelligible words before
he lapsed into silence. Priscilla remained standing a cautious distance from him. She put a trembling hand up to her hair. It lay loose and full all about her shoulders; just the feel of it reminded her of his fingers in her hair, his passionate words. Even now, it made her feel like melting wax inside.
And his kiss!
She had never imagined that a kiss could be like that; nothing she had ever experienced or heard about had prepared her for it. The fact that it was a stranger who had kissed her so fully, so intimately, so…delightfully made it seem all the more unreal. Surely such a kiss should pass only between those who loved each other.

There were too few hairpins for her to put her hair up again, so she pulled it back with shaking fingers and braided it, tucking the coil up into a tight bun with the two pins she found still tangled in her hair. She had to admit to herself that the fault was more hers than his. Though he had pulled her to him and kissed her forcibly, he at least had been in the throes of a delirium dream and thought she was someone else. She, on the other hand, had known full well that he was a stranger, nothing to her, yet she had kissed him back fervently. Priscilla could not imagine where this wanton streak had come from.

To make it worse, she knew that she should be deeply shamed, yet her thoughts kept running back, not to how shameful it was, but to how wonderful it had felt. She could still taste him on her lips, still smell his scent in her nostrils, and it made her shiver. Was this the way her heroines should feel about the heroes in her novels? How very odd. What she had imagined for them seemed quite tame right now.

She went into the kitchen and splashed water on
her face. It was cool against her heated skin, and she smoothed it down her face and onto her neck. She remembered his hand there, sliding like silk, like molten fire. Priscilla closed her eyes. This was not helping much. Sternly she straightened, opening her eyes, and wiped the water from her face.

She had to be practical, she reminded herself. The man in the other room was sick and needed her. She had to help him, not stand around thinking crazy things. He was a stranger to her, as she was to him. What had happened was a product of his delirium, nothing else. He had not even known who she was; he had thought she was someone else, no doubt someone from his past. Why, he hadn't even thought she was a decent woman; he had obviously thought she was a woman of the streets—talking about paying her and calling her one of some madam's girls.

Priscilla walked back to the door of his room and looked in on him. He was curled up into a ball, the blanket pulled up to his shoulders, and he was visibly shivering. His fever had turned into the chills again.

Priscilla hurried into the room and spread two of the extra blankets over him, pulling them up to his shoulders and tucking them in. He said nothing, just continued to shiver so hard his teeth were chattering. His eyes were closed, and now and then he let out a small moan. There seemed nothing dangerous about him now; his size, and the firm swell of his muscles, only made a mockery of his strength. Priscilla hovered close, frustrated by how little she could do to help him.

But it was not long before he was pushing the covers aside again, sweating and mumbling incoherently as he tossed and turned. Priscilla managed to keep him on
the cot and covered most of the time, but it was a tiring task. In his delirium, he continued to try to get up, no matter how many times Priscilla planted her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down on the bed. But at least he no longer thought she was one of the occupants of a brothel.

She poured him another draft of the tonic. It was a bitter battle getting it down him, and finally he knocked it out of her hand and sent it crashing onto the stone floor. While she was cleaning it up, he got out of bed and staggered around the room for a while before she was able to persuade and cajole him back into bed. It was a relief when he fell back into a chill and huddled in upon himself on the cot.

So it went the remainder of the night, with her patient passing from fever to chills and back again, and Priscilla worriedly watching him, forcing him as best she could to drink the draft and trying to keep him covered, as the long hours passed. Finally, when dawn was first beginning to appear on the horizon, Priscilla awoke with a start and realized that she had fallen asleep sitting up in the chair. She turned immediately to her patient.