Sweet Surrender (17 page)

What were the benefits?  What were the risks?

She never intended to marry, so she would miss many important experiences by shunning the wedded state.  Women’s lives revolved around marital behaviors, but Grace had never engaged in them, so there was much she didn’t understand about the human body. 

Her role as a healer had her curious.  Shouldn’t she try some of the conduct that got so many of her female patients into trouble?  Shouldn’t she learn for herself what all the fuss was about?  It would be an interesting experiment.

The notion tantalized her, and she shook her head at her folly.

From the moment Jackson had collapsed in the garden, she hadn’t left his side.  She was exhausted by her efforts, and if she was actually considering an affair, she was much too weary to be making decisions about anything.     

They were in his bedroom suite, and he was lying—naked—on the bed, a sheet draped over his private parts.  The worst was over, his fever lower, his delirium waning.  He was actually sleeping peacefully for a change.

There was a fresh pitcher of water on the nightstand.  She poured some into a bowl, dipped a cloth, and sat on the edge of the mattress, stroking it across him.

Over the grueling hours, she’d come to know every inch of his marvelous, masculine anatomy.  The wide shoulders, strong arms, slender fingers, and long legs.  In her work, she’d seen many male torsos but none so fine as his.  It was not a chore to bathe him.  Not a chore, at all. 

She took her time, reveling in the task.  His muscles were taut and firm, his skin bronzed from the sun. 
All
of his skin was tanned, and she wondered about his exotic life in Egypt.  Did he occasionally walk about without his clothes?  Did he bathe outdoors?  Did he lounge—unclad—and let the sun’s rays color him darker than he should be?

How else was she to explain the odd discovery?

A thrill tickled her belly.  She envisioned a piercing blue sky, a pristine pool, tiled floors and walls, waving palm fronds, and Jackson Scott—nude and magnificent—rising up out of the water like a mythical sea creature.

The image was so riveting that her cheeks heated, and she dipped the cloth again and used it to cool her own face.  Then she leaned to Jackson, a hand on his chest.

"Jackson," she softly called, "are you there?"

She was certain he could hear her.  He frowned, but couldn’t force himself to awaken.

"I think you’re better," she murmured.  "Why don’t you talk to me and tell me how you’re feeling?"

Still, she received no response, but she conversed with him about Michael and Georgina, about Eleanor and her hopes for her sister’s future.  She told him about the letter that had been sent to his mother, how Grace wanted him recuperated before Beatrice rolled in like an unpleasant hurricane.

The mention of his mother seemed to do the trick.  His eyes fluttered open.

"Hello, you," she said. 

"Grace?"  Scowling, he peered around.  "I’m in my room?  What happened?"

"We were in the garden.  You fell ill."

"Oh…"  He was quiet for awhile, then he asked, "What day is it?"

"It’s about to be Thursday morning.  Dawn should break any second."

"I’ve been out for only four days?"

"Yes."

He wasn’t particularly shocked by the news.

"You’ve had this previously?" she inquired.

"Many times."

"Is it malaria?"

She’d never treated a case of the tropical disease, but she’d read about it.  It recurred in a person, popping up without warning, and it could be fatal, but he appeared to have survived without any major complications.

"No," he replied, "I’m told it’s not malaria."

"But similar to it?"

"Yes.  Years ago, I sailed down the Nile with a group of British explorers.  We spent months in the jungle, and I was sick when I returned to Alexandria.  The deuced plague keeps coming back; I can’t stop it."

"It could be anything, I suppose." 

The brief exchange exhausted him, and he dozed off. 

She watched him, realizing that her nursing him had been exceptionally destructive to her peace of mind.  She felt that they were intimately attached.  She recognized that an increase of sentiment could occur with a patient, and she’d been cautioned to fight it.  Apparently, she’d ignored all her training.

She laid her hand directly over his heart and whispered a prayer of thanks that he’d improved.

Suddenly, he roused again and proclaimed, "I’m starving."

She chuckled.  "A sure sign that you’re on the mend."

"Is there anything to eat in this blasted room?"

"Just cool water."

"But I want steak and eggs and potatoes and—"

"Hush.  You’ll have water for now and broth when Cook is up and in the kitchen."

"Broth!" he huffed.

"Yes, broth.  Doctor’s orders."

"You’re too cruel, Grace."

"I like having you at my mercy and under my control."

"You would.  Have you been here the whole time?"

"The whole time."

He glanced down.  "I’m naked."

"You certainly are."

"Who undressed me?  Was it you?"

"With the help of some footmen."

"And you’ve been alone with me?"

"Yes."

"Have you peeked under the sheet?"

"Yes," she said again.

"You wicked scamp!  Who could have guessed that you had lecherous tendencies?"

She haughtily insisted, "Any naughty glimpses I might have had were completely in line with my duties as a healer."

He scoffed.  "I’d say they were more in line with your curiosity as a woman.  Did you notice any interesting sights?  My incredible size, for instance?"

"I didn’t see a thing that caught my attention."

"Ooh, you witch.  I’m such a studly fellow; I could be a race horse.  Admit it."

"Not from what I witnessed."

"Ah!  Once you’re through with me, I’ll have no manly pride remaining."

He linked their fingers and drew her to him so her cheek was nestled under his chin. 

She loved the feel of his skin, the heat and smell of his skin.  She inhaled deeply and sighed with pleasure.

"I’m glad you were here," he told her.

"So am I."

He sighed, too.  "How did I ever get along without you?"

"I don’t know.  How did you?"

"Are you as weary as I am?"

"More so, I think.  I haven’t slept in four days.  I was too afraid I’d shut my eyes and you’d slip away while I wasn’t watching."

"Me, slip away?  Are you mad?  I’m like a cat; I have nine lives.  I would never perish from a paltry little fever."

"I’m sure you wouldn’t," she mumbled, and she tamped down a shudder.

He had no idea how sick he’d been, and she wouldn’t tell him.  She was happy to let him believe it had been a passing malady, that he’d pulled through with ease.

But from now on, she’d fear for him.  He claimed the fever came and went.  What if it didn’t someday?  What if it burned hotter and hotter and he couldn’t fight it off?  What then? 

She couldn’t imagine a world without him in it, and she loathed the notion of him suffering without her.  What if he relapsed after they parted?

She smiled, recognizing that her feelings of attachment had reached a ridiculous level.  She was jealously convinced that no other woman should ever nurse him or speak to him or flirt with him.  And she most especially didn’t want any other woman to peek under the sheet and see what was hiding there.

"Why are you smiling?" he asked, his fatigue great, his yawn barely concealed.

"I’m a fool."

"I’ve always thought you were.  Why have you suddenly agreed with me?"

"I liked caring for you too much," she baldly admitted.

"Of course, you did.  I’m marvelous, remember?"

"Yes, I definitely remember."

He tugged her nearer, her legs up on the mattress, and she couldn’t keep herself from stretching out next to him.

"Sleep with me," he said.

"I can’t.  Someone might come in."

"You’re always so scared."

"With good reason.  You have no reputation worth mentioning while mine is excellent and worth protecting."

"Let’s sleep anyway.  The rooster out in the barn will crow soon.  When he does, you can scoot over to the chair.  No one will be the wiser."

"I’ll be the wiser.  I’ll know."

"Who cares?  Not me."

She meant to move away but couldn’t manage it.  She was worn out, and the worst had passed.  He was holding her in his arms, and at the moment, she couldn’t think of any place she’d rather be.

He closed his eyes, and she did the same. 

DC

Jackson stood in the doorway to his bedchamber, staring at Grace where she was asleep on his bed.

Morning had arrived, but she’d been too weary to notice, and he hadn’t had the heart to awaken her as he’d promised he would.

He was growing more hale by the second.  After dozing for a few hours, he’d dressed and sneaked out to eat breakfast.  Grace had insisted he fill his empty belly with broth, but why listen to her about anything?

He’d had plenty of experience with his illness.  Once it fled, he recovered rapidly.  He was still a bit shaky, but by nightfall, it would be as if he’d never suffered a single minute.

"Broth, indeed," he muttered.

When he’d appeared in the dining room, the servants had been ecstatic.  They’d catered to his every whim, and he’d dined on a veritable banquet, so all in all, he felt quite grand.  He was sated and content and ready for trouble—with Grace as his partner.

As he’d stuffed himself, he’d told the maids that she was resting in his room and shouldn’t be disturbed.  His order hadn’t been questioned.  Throughout his ordeal, she’d been his constant companion, and she’d frequently napped in the chair by the window so no one found it odd.

For a short while, he had her all to himself.  The door was locked, the servants warned away.  Any wonderful, wicked mischief might transpire.

Would Grace be amenable?

Fleeting visions kept flashing in his mind.  Of her, hovered over him in the dark.  Talking to him.  Washing him.  Stroking his brow.  She’d vehemently urged him to fight his fever, to come back to her. 

Memories of her soft hands, of her gentle coaxing, had skewed his feelings for her.  He’d developed a dangerous and massive affection that had him connected to her in a way he’d never intended.

He was alarmed by his level of infatuation and brimming with so much pent-up emotion that it frightened him.  He didn’t want to be infatuated, didn’t want to pine and yearn and covet.  He simply wanted to lust after her, and he was convinced—as he’d been from the beginning—that if he dabbled with her, his interest would wane.

He walked over and eased himself onto the mattress.  As he stretched out, she finally stirred.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," he said as he draped an arm across her waist.

"What time is it?"

"Almost eleven."

"Eleven!  Oh, you rat.  You should have awakened me."

"I tried," he fibbed.  "You were too tired.  I couldn’t rouse you."

She glanced at the door.  "Have the servants been in?"

"No.  I told them you’d nodded off in the chair and they should leave you be."

"They believed you?  They didn’t realize I was in your bed?"

"Yes, they believed me.  I’m Jackson Scott, remember?  My word is law."

She rolled her eyes and peered down his torso.  "You’re dressed."

"I definitely am."

"You’ve been up and roaming the halls."

"Eating, too.  No invalid food, either.  I had a man’s meal."

"What is your idea of a
man’s
meal?  Eggs, bacon, toasted bread, and potatoes?"

"Yes, but ham instead of the bacon.  Three slices too and not a drop of broth."

"I should have expected you’d be an awful patient.  What am I to do with you?"

"I can think of a few things."

"No doubt you can, you rogue."

He came over her, his body pressing into hers.  He kissed her, his lips capturing hers in a slow, delicious embrace.

"Guess what?" he said as he drew away.

"What?"

"The door is locked and the servants busy."

"So we’re totally alone, and I’m at your mercy?"

"Yes, with no one to interrupt until I decide I’m finished with you."

"It appears you’re contemplating debauchery."

"I am."

"You’ve been so ill," she scolded.  "You’re not spry enough for lechery.  You really shouldn’t."