Page 18 of The Swindler’s Daughter

Still, I knew what it was like to be laid low with sickness. I’d dealt with a lingering sickness for nearly a year when I was younger. It had left me unable to work, and I’d had no choice but to go to my brother when my employer turned me out. Hunter had cared for me. That’s what sick people needed, to be cared for.

I gave one firm nod of my head. Perhaps Rowan wouldn’t want my help, but he needed it, so I did my best to move him into a more comfortable position before going to fetch a bowl of water and a cloth. I would have to do what I could for him until his mother returned. I perched on the side of his bed and bathed his face and chest with the cool water, hoping that it would bring him some relief.

Up until that point, I had been able to be objective, looking at the situation and deciding what needed to be done. But as I sat there beside him, running the cloth over his forehead and down his neck, the intimacy of the situation sank in. Outside of my own family, I’d never cared for a man in this way. And I couldn’t keep caring for him now. I had to return to the manor house with the required herbs.

He continued to sleep, though he did so fitfully. I set the bowl of water aside and opened the shutters that covered the window so that a breeze could come in and continue to cool him, then I reluctantly went in search of my basket. I found a collection of bundled herbs that I believed were meant for me to take and loaded them into my basket before leaving. I would take these back to the house and then ask Beatrice what should be done.

I made the walk back to the manor more quickly than ever before, stopping at the stables when I saw Hunter saddling a horse. “Do you know where Mr. and Mrs. Lockley are?” I asked without preamble.

His brow furrowed. “Mr. Lockley is likely checking his traps or setting new ones. I couldn’t say where Mrs. Lockley would be. Is something wrong?”

“Rowan seems to be ill,” I answered even as I moved away. “I’m going to find Beatrice.”

Reaching the kitchen, I delivered the herbs to the still room and went in search of the housekeeper.

I followed the sound of her voice down the corridor and realized she was in the sitting room, reprimanding a maid she’d found lazing about.

I waited outside the door, out of sight, trying to be patient. It had been so strange to see Rowan that way, devoid of strength and swagger. My heart had hurt for him, and I had the strangest urge to run back to his cottage just to be sure that he was not alone. Being alone had been the thing I hated most when I was sick.

Finally Beatrice finished her conversation, and I straightened when I heard her coming toward the door.

She stopped at the sight of me, no doubt startled by my abrupt presence. “Miriam,” she said. “Were you looking for me?”

“Yes, ma’am. Rowan Lockley is ill. I barely got him into the house before his strength gave out. I believe he is out of his head with fever.”

“Oh dear.” She moved down the corridor, and I fell into step beside her. “I will send someone to look for Mrs. Lockley. She’ll be the best thing for him, but I sent her into the village to consult with the apothecary about some herbs that we have not been able to grow here. ”

I followed after her, an urgent need to return and help compelling me to speak up. “If I may, ma’am. I would like to return and do what I can for him while we wait for her return.”

She paused just long enough to look at me, and I did my best to hide the odd tangle of emotions rolling through my body. She gave a sharp nod. “Very well. I will feel easier knowing that someone is watching out for him.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” I did a vague imitation of a curtsey before scuttling off to the kitchen to gather some foodstuffs to take with me. There was a hearty soup bubbling over the fire that Emeline was making to feed the servants. I put some in a lidded crock and wrapped it in a towel.

My walk back to the Lockleys’ house was much slower, as I had to be certain that the bowl of soup I had pilfered did not spill. This gave me time to doubt my decision to insert myself into Rowan’s life. Yes, he was sick and he needed help, but perhaps he was not so bad off as I had thought. I would hate for him to think I was looking for an excuse to attend his bedside. Yes, I was drawn to Rowan, but I knew I shouldn’t be, and more importantly, I didn’t want to be.

But it was too late now. I would at least go and deliver this soup. A man needed to eat, especially a sick man.

When I reached Rowan’s home, I knocked, just in case he was coherent enough to answer.

The house remained silent. I let myself in. My eyes immediately fixated on the large body sprawled out across the bed. It appeared as though he hadn’t moved since I had left. I hoped that was simply because he was resting well, but I had my doubts. I set the soup on the small table and crossed to the bed, resting the back of my fingers against his forehead. The heat radiating from his skin was frightening, so before attempting to get any soup into him, I took up the old bowl of water and brought it out to the rain barrel to refill it. Returning to his side, I soaked the scrap of cloth in the water and then ran it over his reddened face and squeezed some into his golden-blond hair.

I turned to the bowl, rinsing the cloth once more, but jumped as I felt a hand on my waist. I looked down to see Rowan’s arm winding around me.

“Isabel, come back to bed,” he said, his eyes fluttering but not opening all the way.

I froze. Isabel? Who was Isabel? I didn’t know any servants by that name. And come back to bed?? That was not something you said to a girl you were courting; it was something you said to a wife.

Come back to bed? Was he married? He couldn’t be. He lived here with his parents.

I was forced from my thoughts when he tried to pull me down beside him. I braced against the pull. “Rowan?” I tried to loosen his grasp. “Rowan!” I said his name sharply, trying to jar him to his senses. “You are ill. I am only trying to help.”

“My head hurts, Bel.” His speech was slurred, but his grip was firm. “Just rest with me. I miss you.” His breath stuttered as a tear slipped from his red-rimmed eyes. “I always miss you.”

I was so startled by his emotion, by the utter anguish that saturated his voice, that I stopped resisting and found myself lying on the bed with my back to him, unsure what to do next.

He draped an arm over my waist and sighed the words, “Thank you, Bel” against the back of my neck before losing consciousness again—or falling asleep. I couldn’t tell which.

I lay there, stunned into stillness by the comforting weight of his arm and the heat of his chest against my back. There had been a deep-seated sorrow in his words that suggested his loss was more than just a temporary separation. Was Rowan perhaps…a widower? At such a young age? I wasn’t quite eighteen, and Rowan was only a handful of years older than I was. If Isabel was his wife, they would have been married young. She would have died young.