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Not even her eyes stirred this time.
Terror seized his gut. They were alone here. Alone with naught more than a tiny village to run to. There could be no doctor there, likely they went to an herb woman for care. Still, she'd only just fallen ill. Surely there was time to think. People did not die from the fever in hours. No, it took days at least.
The thought of her death spurred him back to action. Wisps of silk fluttered through the air as he tore through the dresser drawers, searching for some garment to cover her nakedness. He had to take her with him, he couldn't run to the village and leave her here alone. What if. . . ?
Collin looked blindly down at the frothy pile of undergarments at his feet. What could be done for a fever anyway? A doctor would check her eyes and pulse, tell him to give her broth and pray for the best. Prepare for the worst, he'd say. Pray for the best. It is in God's hands. How many times had he heard that as a child? He had to get her home to Somerhart.
He bounded to the wardrobe, pulled out a dress and threw it on the bed. Water splashed over his hands and clothes as he hurried the basin to her side to sponge again over her pale lips and bright cheeks, down to her breasts and belly and arms. Somerhart. It was south of here, he knew that. South through the village down the road. Perhaps someone there knew the fastest way.
Collin dressed her with as much care as he could manage, cringing at her whimpers, whispering to soothe her. When she was decently covered, he pulled the quilt from the foot of the bed and wrapped her in that too, before he carried her from the room and downstairs.
"All right, Alex," he breathed, laying her on the couch. "All right. I need to get the horses. I'll be right back."
He sprinted toward the door, rocked back to a halt as he glanced at the kitchen and back to her, torn. His arms ached with fear and the need to keep her close. But the horses needed to be readied and what of the tending she needed before they left?
"Christ," he cursed, whipping open the door. Even as he lifted a foot over the threshold, he cursed again and spun around to stalk back to the kitchen.
"Drink," he crooned to her a moment later, pressing a glass to her open lips. Her throat worked for a moment, but she swallowed no more than a teaspoon before a terrible choking cough tore from her body.
She cried out, reaching for he
r throat as the glass shattered with a frightening noise against the wood floor. He started to snatch her up, thinking she was choking, but she turned her head and vomited, purging the meal they'd eaten just a few hours before.
"Oh, Jesus," he groaned, and smoothed her hair back with a shaking hand. If she couldn't keep down even water, what was he to do for her? "Oh, God."
He wasted no time then. He cleaned up the mess as best he could, then bounded out the door to saddle both horses, praying he could keep them from going lame if he switched them often enough. Still, dark roads and an extra rider. . . Things could go badly. The horses snorted and stomped as he brought them out, disturbed by his agitation and their strange awakening. Collin had no time to comfort them. He bundled Alex up and mounted Samson on the second try.
"Don't worry, caitein. I'll see you safe." He did not dare to think whether his promise could be kept.
The thick wood door boomed beneath his fist, the sound echoing like thunder through the dark lane.
"Ach. Calm yerself!" a grizzled voice shouted from within. The door flew open to frame a portly man in a nightshirt.
"I need assistance. Can you tell me the way to Somerhart?"
"Summer what? Do ye know what time 'tis?"
"Aye. Past midnight. Do you not know Somerhart? The duke's home?"
"What the hell would I have to do with a duke?"
Collin held back a growl. "Where does Mistress Betsy live?"
"Who?"
"Damn it—"
"She's down the row, two houses in," a voice shouted from the next doorway.
Collin raised a hand in thanks and whirled around to carry Alex into the darkness. The second house in was wide and rambling and very, very old. Betsy herself answered.
"Betsy," Collin huffed. "The lady is ill. A fever. There is no doctor about?"
"No. No," she answered, a tremble breaking her voice. "What is it?"
"I don't know. She's hot as Hades and can't keep even water down."
Betsy blinked several times and took a step away. "The putrid sore throat. Some children had it the next town over."
