Page 8 of A Fierce Wind

Chapter 2

The Isle of Guernsey off the coast of Normandy

“Your skin is as soft as a babe’s,” Freddie muttered in his fevered sleep. “I want… I want to kiss you… everywhere.”

Zoé felt her cheeks heat at his laudanum-induced dream. It was not the first. She had sat vigil at his bedside through what remained of the night after her uncle’s surgeon, Pierre Bouchet, had removed the ball and treated the wound. For hours, Freddie had burned with fever, murmuring in his sleep. Despairing of his recovery, she had allowed no other to take her place during the dark hours the fever held him in its grip.

Dipping a cloth in lavender water, Zoé brushed one of his auburn locks off his forehead and soothed his fevered brow.

Suddenly, he grabbed hold of her wrist, pulling her hand to the part of his naked chest not covered in bandages. “Take off your shift,” he said in a raspy voice.

She pulled back at the shock of his words but he only pressed her hand more tightly to his warm skin, curling her insides. The feel of his warm suntanned chest beneath her palm made her nipples tighten and sent an echoing shudder coursing through her, something she had never experienced before. But how could that be when this was just Freddie?

It wasn’t as if she’d had much experience with men and never before had she laid her hand on a man’s bare chest. She had never been alone with Louis-Pierre and Henri had only kissed her once and that had been in celebration of his latest victory.

But her friend Freddie…

His hand dropped to his side.

Slowly, she slid her palm over his heated skin, threading her fingers through the short auburn hair sprinkled across his chest. Fascinated by his nipples, she wanted to touch them, but the thought seemed too wicked. Besides, she scolded herself, he was wounded and fighting for his life.

“Thirsty,” he mumbled, his eyes still closed.

She brought a glass of water to his dry lips and managed to trickle a few drops into his mouth, all the while wondering if he were recalling some tryst with a tavern wench. Surely he had no idea it was her hand he had grasped, her hand that had been warmed by his burning skin. Non, he must be dreaming of a woman he had met in town.

Guernsey had many public houses whose customers included shipmasters, seamen and merchants, both English and French. Her uncle, his quartermaster and Freddie had often patronized them. Not a few had comely serving girls.

Zoé had watched ladies eyeing her friend whenever she accompanied him in St Peter Port on Guernsey, and many smiles were directed his way at the soirées they attended. Yet he had no petite amie of which she was aware. Would he seek out a tavern wench for his manly needs? Her uncle’s crew did. She had heard them at night on deck bragging about their conquests.

The thought of another woman running her hands over Freddie’s bare chest unsettled her.

Freddie tossed his head from side to side and raised his right hand as if to grasp something. She dare not think what he was seeing. If he dreamed of a woman and she was down to her shift, it would only be a matter of time before—

He tried to raise himself from the pillows and grimaced, his eyes never opening. She reached out and gently pressed him back to the pillows. He sighed and relaxed into a quiet sleep.

As dawn approached, Tante Joanna appeared and urged her to get some rest. “You’ll be no good to him if you fall off that chair to the floor.”

Zoé reluctantly agreed but returned a few hours later to again take up her vigil, gratified Freddie was still sleeping quietly. Sunlight flowed in through the window and a breeze ruffled the lace curtain.

“Did he say anything in his sleep?” she asked her aunt, hoping he had not.

“No, not a word. He has been as you see him. I applied the lavender water you left. Perhaps it helped. I’ll look in on him a bit later.”

Relieved to know her aunt had not been exposed to Freddie’s erotic dreams, Zoé took up her book, several times glancing over to see Freddie sleeping.

When her aunt bustled in an hour later with tea, Zoé was still attempting to read the manuscript of a new novel one of their friends had given her. It was The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe, to be published later this year.

“A good story, is it?”

Happy for the interruption, Zoé set the manuscript aside. “Tedious, more like.”

“Well then you won’t mind being amenable to a spot of tea.”

“Not at all.” She only hoped Freddie did not give out with one of his sensual utterances while his sister was in the room.

Her aunt poured the tea and looked toward Freddie. “How is he?”

“Still fevered but resting peacefully. M’sieur Bouchet peeked his head in a half-hour ago and told me not to worry, that Freddie will come ’round. But his skin is still overwarm and sometimes he spouts… incoherent murmurings.”