Page 101 of The Duchess Curse

He stood taller, swept his dark hair back, and turned his knife-slash grin into something softer, fuller lipped. He gave her a precise, courteous bow.

“I see. Well, work your charms on her, not me.”

He nodded, all military precision. “After this.” And he returned to cleaning the table.

“You do not have to. There are maids, and⁠—”

“It’s a matter of respect. For him. For you.” He pointed at the end of the table. “I found your walking stick in the alley.”

The next breath was so much harder to pull into her ribs. She took the stick—ignoring the flecks of red spattered across the outer case—and managed a “Thank you,” then bustled about the conservatory to the shhrr shhrr of bristles brushing against the table.

Honey, garlic, ginger, a few flowering echinacea. Thyme. She put everything she might need in a basket, including several bowls of different makes—silver, copper, gold, wood—and pestles. She dragged it all up to her bedchamber and organized everything on the small writing desk near the window.

On the dark bed at the center of the room, Bran still slept. She sat on the edge at his side and put the back of her hand against his forehead—hot.

Her heart leapt into her throat. She forced it down.

A fever would come.

She would fight it.

She kissed his forehead and returned to the writing desk to prepare a concoction she’d learned from Handsford’s cook over a decade ago. Cuts and wounds were common in a kitchen, and the woman knew better than most how to make sure they healed quickly and without fuss. Now Guin did too. She had a thick fragrant paste in a wood bowl ready when she called Ned to help remove Bran’s shirt and unwind the bindings. The lemon peels fell away, the pith deep red. Ned disposed of them while she rubbed paste into the angry, puckered wound on Bran’s front.

Bran groaned.

A groan was better than silence.

“Complain as much as you like,” she told him, “I shan’t stop.” She spread the paste on the backside of his shoulder as Ned held him, and together they rebound him with clean linens.

She returned to the table and made more paste.

At some point, Berkley brought food, which she picked at because it was the reasonable thing to do. And at a later point, the doctor returned, sniffing when he removed her bandages.

“Thyme?” he asked, taking another whiff, his nostrils flaring. “And ginger. Ugh, garlic.”

“Tell me to stop,” she dared him.

“I won’t bother, witch.”

“You wouldn’t speak to my husband that way.”

“He’s a duke.”

“I’m a duchess.”

“Are you?” He lowered his spectacles and peered at her. When she couldn’t answer, he stood and threw the curtains open. “The herbs won’t hurt. But he needs light. He’s a transcendent. His blood calls for it. As much light as possible. Move the bed nearer the window if you must.” He left.

And she called Ned and Hesperus and Berkely and the other footmen to move the bed and man together until they sat in a lazy island of light. But the island would move with the sun, and she’d have to call them back.

And that made her feel like crying. Again.

So instead of giving in, she crawled back into the bed with him, the sun warming her skin, her hands seeking his, and she fell asleep with her fingertips pressed to the faint and too-slow pulse at his wrist.

The danger came two nights later when snow clouds covered the moon at midnight. Bran’s still, sleeping body, hot as it had been for days, began to thrash. The bed was near the window, but the world was dark, and Bentley had set the fire raging as Guin gathered all the candles and fairy orbs to light the night.

Bran had been Bran since the attack. Not even the faint glittering sparks of a glamour had shimmered about him, even as he lay in a thick pool of noon sunlight. Worrisome. Like there was no more light in him to catch fire.

She was at the writing desk, crushing up a new paste—this one with turmeric and ice chips to fight the fever—when he began to stir. He moved his head first, back and forth, no, no, no, lips barely parted. Then his back arched off the bed and curses poured through gritted teeth in an unshaven face.