Page 20 of Never Tempt a Widow

Chapter Ten

Fina had never felt so ill. Everything ached—she was too weak to sit up, and her body was racked by shivering that alternated with fever.

Only two people came near her with any regularity. One face she recognised—Rowland’s. The other, she did not. But from the whispered conversation that passed between the men and the stranger poking and prodding her, she assumed he was a physician.

After he left, her first question was about Edgar.

“He’s back in the nursery. A new nurse is being sought. If worse comes to worst, I’ll get Mrs Radford back here—whatever it takes. But I’ll get a servant to watch over her, to curb her drinking.”

“I can’t feed him?” Speaking made her throat feel as if it were full of broken glass.

“You have caught a chill. Or you may have an ague—the doctor is not yet certain. You must be kept quiet. Here, try to eat.” He drew her up in the bed and propped her in position.

“What is it?”

“A strong beef broth sent up by Cook. It’s been allowed to cool a little, so it won’t inflame your throat.”

“An ague? Might that be contagious?”

“Possibly. But don’t worry. Edgar shows no sign of it.”

“And you?” She pressed a finger against his chest. He should keep his distance, not sit beside her on the bed, holding her soup bowl.

“Nothing, yet.” He smiled, but his brow was heavy with concern.

His tenderness was comforting. “When will I be better?””

“Stop talking, and swallow this down. I’ve asked for a sago gruel with red wine to be made up for later. That’ll fill you up more.”

She obeyed, bravely accepting the warm liquid, swallowing it as carefully as she could to avoid the pain. When a fit of shivers threatened to spill the broth, Rowland took the spoon and fed her like a mother feeding an infant. Her heart swelled.

“Enough.” Her throat was on fire, and she pushed weakly at the bowl. “Don’t feed me. Send a servant. For Edgar’s sake, you mustn’t get sick.”

For her sake as well, though she hated to admit it. No—she was ill and confused. She couldn’t risk caring for this man—he would simply take advantage. What she felt must be gratitude. Besides, he was probably only looking after her to keep up the facade of their sham marriage—the loving husband nursing his poorly wife.

Then she remembered how Rowland’s first wife had died and understood that his concern was genuine.

“I’m not at death’s door,” she rasped. “Take yourself off, Husband, and look after the estate. Someone else can watch over me—at a distance—while I sleep. Which is all I feel able to do at present.”

“You don’t want me here?” Was that a hitch in his voice?

“I don’t want you ill. You can’t do anything for me while I’m asleep, so you may as well go.”

“I’ve been advised to sleep in Lavinia’s old chamber and leave the connecting door open. Shall I have your lady’s maid watch over you, or one of the other servants?”

Too many questions—she was too bone-weary to make any decisions. “You choose—I cannot. Do whatever is best for Edgar, and then look to yourself.” She couldn’t cope with any more deaths. It would kill her faster than the ague.

For a long time after that exchange with Rowland, she barely knew if she was asleep or awake, and her dreams became entangled with reality, confusing her still further. She knew pain, fear, and despair. At intervals, she was given a bitter-tasting drink which resulted in a period of calm, followed by an interlude of aimlessness.

Occasionally, someone disturbed her—moved her, and changed her nightclothes. She had no memory of feeding Edgar during that time. The fire was kept stoked to a blazing brilliance, even when she complained of being too hot, and she was forced to drink so many liquids that it was a wonder she didn’t burst. Never before had she felt so low—not even when she’d finally come to accept that Dundas always intended to drown her. Surely, her life couldn’t get any worse?

Then she discovered that it could. She overheard the physician telling Rowland that she had lost her milk, and it was unlikely to return.

There was no need for her husband to keep her here at Morden if she couldn’t feed the baby. He could send her away whenever he wanted. And she would never see darling Edgar-or Rowland-again.