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She leaned over and felt his forehead. It wasn’t unduly hot.
‘Can’t get out,’ he muttered, fighting to get free of the sheet, which had become twisted round his legs. ‘Mustn’t let them get me.’
Poor Tom. He must just be having a nightmare.
‘Angel!’ He reached out blindly. For her.
She caught at his flailing hand, and held hard.
‘Shhh. I’m here. You are safe.’
‘Violets.’ He sighed and settled down again.
She sat back, pushing a stray tendril of hair from her forehead. She was bone weary and ready for bed herself. She glanced longingly at the pallet bed she’d had Madame le Brun bring in here, in case Tom’s fever mounted again during the night and he needed help.
She smiled at the irony. Today he’d been addressing her as your Majesty, but his need of her meagre nursing skills meant she was going to have to sleep on a pallet like a chambermaid.
She’d just pulled all the pins from her hair and started attacking the snarls with a comb when Tom cried out for her again.
After settling him and going back to her preparations for bed, only to have him cry out for her again, and again, she finally gave up all thought of getting a decent night’s sleep.
In fact, the only way she might snatch even a few moments would be to lie down next to him.
She chewed on her lower lip, a little shocked at herself for even considering such a thing. But then he cried out again and reached for her, and, instead of merely holding his hand and stroking his brow, she clambered on to the bed beside him and gathered him into her arms. After all, it was only like the time she’d held him close, in the French ambulance, to prevent him jolting his poor head. It wasn’t an attempt at seduction. It might be unconventional, to get on to the bed and cuddle him like this, but it wasn’t really improper.
When he sighed and stilled, as though finally he felt safe, she knew she’d done the right thing. Which brought a warm glow of satisfaction deep inside. It even helped to soothe her own bone-deep loneliness. Because nobody had ever needed her like this before. Not even Gideon.
She held Tom more tightly. Holding someone who was clinging to her was very comforting, she discovered. She’d never just cuddled anyone, as far as she could recall. Or been cuddled, either. Once, she recalled Bridget cuddling Gideon, after he’d fallen and scraped his knee. The old nurse in charge of the nursery had reprimanded her. Said he wouldn’t grow up to be a proper man if she mollycoddled him.
So no more cuddles. For either of them. For Mama only visited the nursery briefly, at nights, to see them safely tucked up in bed, and Papa not at all.
‘What a pair we are,’ she said, shifting so that she could lay her head on Tom’s chest. ‘Like two survivors of a shipwreck, clinging together in the wreckage.’
There were certainly no words that anyone could say that could bring her the slightest bit of comfort over losing Gideon. Nothing to compare with just being held like this, as though she was as necessary as breathing. So she wasn’t going to worry about the propriety of it. Not when she was so tired.
Not when it felt so good.
* * *
Tom didn’t want to wake up. There was a deliciously fragrant, warm woman in his arms.
Why, though? He never slept with women. Once he’d taken his pleasure, he got out of their beds as soon as decently possible.
Though to say she was in his arms wasn’t strictly accurate. They had their arms round each other. She’d got one leg over him, too, keeping him warm with the flow of her skirts. Which was odd. He must be losing his touch if she was still clothed, while he was stark naked. She was cradling his head to her breasts, too—his head which hurt like the very devil.
He glanced up through the mass of golden curls pillowing his cheek and cursed under his breath. It was Lady Sarah Latymor in his arms. She had spent the night in bed with him!
Didn’t she know the difference between sitting decorously at his side, mopping his brow and spooning liquid into his mouth to quench his raging thirst, and holding him in her arms?
Probably not. In her innocence, she’d sought to soothe him, that was all. She’d done so every single time he’d reached for her, when the nightmares had come rolling in, swamping him, smothering him. He’d got so he’d dreaded closing his eyes for fear of what would assault him next.
And, oh, it had felt good when she’d first clambered on to his bed and rocked him. It had taken him back to his childhood and the way he’d wished there’d been someone, anyone, to come and rock him to sleep as a child. Though there never had.
Looked like she’d rocked herself to sleep, too. Poor girl must be exhausted. He didn’t think he’d been an easy patient to look after. But she’d never given up. Never left him to the nightmares, or the fever, nor even fled the impropriety of being alone with him once he’d come to.
He wished he could lie here like this for ever.
Actually, no, he didn’t. He wanted to kiss her, not just lie here. Her lips were parted slightly. If he moved just a touch, if he raised his head, he could steal a kiss and she’d never know. If he was gentle enough, she wouldn’t wake, she was sleeping so deeply.
