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Priscilla foughtthe panic seizing her chest, constricting it as if her stays had been too tight. Her hands shook as she rummaged through the assortment of pots and pans left in Mr. Thatcher’s kitchen.
Water? Where would she get water? She spun in a circle, for once in her life wishing she’d not been reared as an aristocrat’s daughter.
Maybe he simply fainted from hunger. Once he’d eaten some of the stew, surely he would regain his strength. But it didn’t explain the heat emanating from him. Her own hands were still cool to the touch, not yet absorbing the heat from the fire.
Quickly throwing her cloak on, she went outside to the pump by the well, praying it had not frozen over. She grasped the arm of the pump and bore down with all her might, barely budging it.
“Gah!” She banged the pot against the metal pump. “Come on, you!” She tried again, and with a squeak, the arm gave way. She threw her weight into it. Three solid pumps later, water trickled from the spout, and she held the pot underneath to collect the precious liquid.
Finished, she raced back inside the cottage and into the room where Timothy waited. Water sloshed in the pot as she skidded to a stop. His eyes were closed, and he lay so still she wondered if he had died.
Dear Lord, don’t let him be dead!What would she do? She couldn’t leave him there to rot, but how would she explain how she’d known he was there? Even worse than being discovered with a man in a compromising position was being discovered with one who was dead and couldn’t marry her.
“Timothy,” she whispered.
No answer.
Focusing on his chest, she watched for the telltale signs of rise and fall.
Why did he have to be wearing so many clothes?
Heat rose to her cheeks at the thought. Thank goodness he couldn’t see her.
There. Not at his chest, but gentle movement near his abdomen reassured her that he still lived. She approached with cautious steps. “Timothy,” she called again, a little louder.
His long auburn eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks. Could a man be beautiful? She rather thought in Timothy’s case he could.
“Timothy!”
He startled, jerking awake, his eyes wide and searching. “What?” He tried to rise but fell back against the settee. “Good God, my head.”
“I have the water.”
He nodded. “Remove the pot with the stew. It should be done, then replace it with the pot of water. Use something to shield your hands so you don’t burn yourself.” His voice sounded gruff and raw, not the smooth baritone she’d heard before.
She nodded, even though his eyes had once again fallen shut and couldn’t see her. She grabbed several cloths from the kitchen and did as he instructed. “Perhaps once you’ve eaten, you’ll feel better.”
He moaned. Was that a yes or a no?
After placing the pot of stew in the kitchen and spooning out two healthy servings, she returned to the parlor and set the bowls on a table near the settee.
She jostled his shoulder, fear taking root in her chest. “Timothy.”
He opened a bleary eye and groaned.
“Can you sit up? Try to eat something.”
He moved slowly, grasping the back of the settee and pulling himself upright.
She held out the bowl of stew.
From the way his hands shook as he reached for it, there would be more stew in his lap than in his stomach.
“Never mind.” She gathered the thick mixture on the spoon, then lifted it to his mouth. “Open.”
The aroma of the chicken and vegetables teased her nostrils, and she wanted nothing more than to shovel the stew into her own mouth. But Timothy needed her.
What a day it had been. No one had everneededher before. Yet twice in one day—even as ill-equipped as she’d been for both situations—she’d been truly needed.
