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Chapter 5
The woman sat an arm’s length away, doe-eyed and frozen. Could she tell that Nick was seeing without the haze for the first time since the attack?
He reached toward her and paused, squeezing his eyes closed and dropping his arm instantly. It may feel significantly better, but his shoulder was far from healed. And somehow, he had forgotten.
“Do not try to move,” the angel said. What had he called her before? Ah. Little Miss Chatty. Bits and pieces of his time in and out of consciousness were stuck in his mind, but most of the memories were hazy. He recalled a beautiful angel with a dark, fuzzy halo. A rather wild halo, really. Should halos be wild?
And then there were the hands. The small, graceful hands that cooled his head, fluffed his pillows, and carefully arranged and tucked his blankets. Yes, he was going to miss those hands.
He opened his eyes and she was gone. Glancing around the room frantically, Nick was inordinately relieved when he located her beside the fireplace. She pulled the rope before returning to his side.
The angel sat primly in the oversized chair and clasped her hands in her lap. She made the chair look monstrous. Why would anyone need a chair so large? It had never felt overly large before, but now it seemed excessive.
The door opened and she turned and spoke to the maid. A funny little thing with white-blonde hair and an undersized nose nodded and fled the room.
“Tilly went to fetch you some broth,” the angel explained.
He nodded. His head did not hurt any longer. At least, not beyond a slight ache.
The air in the room felt different. Charged, somehow. Nick had awakened many times since the attack and let the dark-haloed angel spoon feed him, listening to her jovial, unceasing conversation. So chatty.
But something was different now. She was watching him closely, hesitantly. It was as though she teetered on the edge of something, but he could not quite grasp what it was. He wanted to speak and soothe her discomfort like she had done for him, but he did not think he could. At least, he did not know what he would say.
It was an odd feeling, for he had not had this problem with her before. She always seemed to fill in the gaps just fine on her own.
The door opened again, and the young maid carried a tray inside. The angel—he really needed to learn her name—picked up the spoon and eyed it warily before jutting her eyes from the soup to him and back. He wanted to offer to try and feed himself, but he couldn’t get the words out. And not because he was incapable, either.
“Are you hungry?”
He nodded.
She sucked in a breath and then displayed an overly happy smile. “Very well; let us begin.”
Nick waited for a moment. She seemed to wait too. Then she picked up the spoon and sped it toward him so quickly that it spilled all down the front of his shirt.
“Oh, dear! I cannot believe—well…I can believe. But how clumsy of me! If you’ll just wait one moment.” She was up and to the washbasin quickly. She brought back a dampened towel and began to blot the broth from his shirt. She had not put very much onto the spoon in the first place, so it was a rather small mess.
“Of all the times to spill soup on a patient, it had to be the first moment he was lucid,” she murmured to herself.
Nick smiled to ease her discomfort. She looked up at him and colored.
“I promise you, this is the first time I have done such a clumsy thing. Well, with you at least.”
“I know.” His voice sounded raspy and deep and utterly unlike his normal voice. Eyes widening, his hand came up to touch his dry throat.
She placed a hand on his good arm as if she sensed his unease. “Do not worry; that is common. Once you drink some broth you should sound more like yourself.”
She picked up the spoon again, bringing the bowl itself closer to Nick, and this time the liquid made it all the way to his mouth. The warm broth slid down his throat like a balm and soothed the ache in his stomach. He was suddenly ravenous, the hollow in his belly gurgling as he filled it. He drank the entire bowl and then finished off the tea.
“I know you probably want more,” his nurse gently spoke, “but Dr. Mason advises that we stick to soup for now.”
“Can it be anything but broth next time?”
She laughed, a musical sound which warmed his chest. He felt the answering smile push up his cheeks.
“I do not blame you for feeling so. I will talk to Cook and see what we can contrive.” She gave him a wicked grin that made him feel more like a coconspirator than an invalid.
He could see her clearly now, and her real face put his dreams to shame. Her hair was in a plait around her head that gave the illusion of a halo. And it was wild. Pieces stuck out in various areas and trailed down her neck and over her brow. The effect was alluring. But that was nothing on her rich, brown eyes. They were full of intellect and depth and reminded him of a cup of chocolate.
