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"You need to eat." The lines around his mouth seem deeper. His jaw is tight. He seems upset with me. The tendons of his throat stand out in relief. He’s barely keeping a grip on his temper, I realize.
"Why are you angry?" I sniffle, hating myself for the weak tears that overflow my eyes.
His features take on an agonized expression. He wipes away my tears with his thumb. "Not angry at you, baby; angry at myself for not being around to take care of you."
"I missed you." The words are out before I can stop myself. It’s my turn to flinch. I must be feeling weaker than I realized to let those words slip out.
His features soften. "I missed you, too, Raven."
"Oh." I swallow around the ball of emotion in my throat. "I didn’t realize I'd miss you so much when I asked you to stay away. I didn’t realize you’d actually honor my request, either.”
He seems taken aback, then barks out a laugh. “That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The number of times I called Mrs. Harmon to ask about you, the number of times I asked her if you’d eaten—” he shakes his head. ”It's a wonder she hasn’t quit yet.”
“I knew you were keeping tabs on me through her. It should have made me angry but, if I’m being honest, it also made me feel cherished.”
“And I do cherish you, baby. More than anything else in my life.” He cups my cheek. "When you asked for space to focus on your painting, I knew you were also asking for time and a little space to work things out in your head. This showing is so important to you, and I thought it best to allow you to focus on it. Now, I wonder if I made the wrong decision. Now, I wonder if I shouldn’t have insisted on taking care of you while you painted." He drags his gaze down my body, then back to my face. "You’ve lost weight. You haven’t been eating or sleeping—some of which, I know, is because you’re in creative flow, but if you don’t keep up your strength, you’ll never be able to do your craft justice."
His words send a thrill of warmth coursing through my veins. There’s no mistaking the worry in his features, or the caring nature of his words, or the anger which smolders in his eyes. Before I can say anything else, the door to the bedroom opens. His housekeeper walks in and hands him a tray.
"Thank you, Mrs. Harmon." He nods at her. "You may leave now."
She turns to me. "I hope you feel better soon, Mrs. Davenport."
I blink. Eh? She’s referring to me? I'm Mrs. Davenport… Of course, I am. I did marry Quentin. But no one’s called me that before. "Thanks," I mumble. She leaves the room and the door snicks shut. Then, there’s a spoonful of food in front of my face.
"Open," he murmurs in a husky voice.
I part my lips, and he slides a spoonful of liquid into my mouth. The aromatic taste of spices, mixed with the heavier composition of the broth and the creamy addition of yogurt, fills my senses. "Mmm." I chew on the pieces of vegetable and meat, and swallow. "This is delicious."
"Mulligatawny soup. It’s my mother’s recipe."
"Mulliga-what?" I stumble over the word.
"It’s an old Anglo-Indian recipe. My mother’s father was from the sub-continent. He was a soldier in the British Army."
That’s the first time he’s willingly shared something of his past. I stay silent as he feeds me another spoonful, and am rewarded when he continues, "She took after her mother in her looks, with fair skin and blue eyes. She was self-conscious about her heritage, probably because she was bullied about it in school. She preferred not to have anything to do with that side of her family. But whenever we boys didn't feel well, she’d make us Mulligatawny soup."
I swallow another mouthful. "It’s very tasty."
"This one has chicken broth and vegetables, a dash of yoghurt and is flavored with curry powder. That’s a blend of spices like cumin, coriander, turmeric, fenugreek and pepper,” he adds.
I stare at him. "You’re very knowledgeable about Indian food."
He hesitates. "I went through a phase in my teens when I researched Anglo-Indian history, including the food. I was curious about my heritage, especially because my mother refused to talk about it. Then I joined the Marines, and that became my life."
"You Davenport men take after your maternal grandfather in your tradition of serving the country, it seems."
His gaze widens. He looks at me in surprise. "I never thought of that before." He continues to stare at me, and my cheeks heat.
"What?" I murmur.
"You’re beautiful," he says with absolute seriousness. It's not patronizing; he means it.
I lower my eyelashes. "Thank you. Also, I’m hungry."
He smiles, then continues to feed me the rest of the soup, stopping only to break off the bread and butter it before popping it into my mouth. By the time I’m done eating, sleep tugs at my eyelids. When I refuse more food, he places the tray aside, then pulls the covers up around my shoulders.
“Please don’t ask me to stay away from you. I can’t. Not anymore.” He kisses my forehead. “I promise, I won’t interfere with your process, but I’ll rest easier knowing I’m here to look after you.”
