“Yes,” he said. “I’d like to see what the doctor found more interesting than keeping me alive.”
“Get back in bed, and I’ll bring it.”
He turned his head and swayed again. Belle caught him, this time putting her arms about his waist. If she’d been uncomfortable touching his arms, this was even more unnerving and enjoyable. But she couldn’t exactly allow him to fall.
His body was still burning with fever. She could feel the heat through the layer of linen covering his chest. She could also feel his slim waist and the broadening of his chest as it expanded to his shoulders. But she would try not to think about the image of him shirtless. She was supposed to be nursing him. Lusting after her patient was another reason she made a poor nurse.
They moved slowly back toward her bed, her hip brushing against his in an intimacy she hadn’t sought and was enjoying far too much.
“Have I been having fever dreams, or were there two women here earlier?”
“That was Mrs. Price and Mrs. Tipps. They were sitting with you while we tended the shop.”
They reached the bed, and he sat down hard, making the bed creak. “We’re above a shop?”
“Yes, Howard’s Teas & Treats. My father owns it.”
He looked up at her suddenly, and she had to jerk back to prevent their noses from colliding. “Mrs. Randall served your tea at dinner.”
“Did she?” Belle asked to be polite. “Go ahead and lie down now.”
He obeyed, his bare feet and calves making him look strangely vulnerable. She pulled the covers up to his waist.
“And Mrs. Price and Mrs. Tipps are...?”
Belle opened her mouth then closed it again. “I’ll brew the tea.” She started to move away, but he grasped her wrist with his hot hand. Despite how weak he’d appeared a few moments before, his grip was surprisingly strong, and his fingers easily encircled her wrist. Belle had always been rather small and slight, but she’d never felt small or slight. Until now.
“They are your aunts? Your mother-in-law?”
“I’m not married, and my aunts do not live in London.”
He gave her an expectant look, and she wanted to squirm. The longer he looked at her, the more conscious she was of her smallpox scars. She had tried all of her life not to care what people thought of them. She only hid them with her hair so as not to have to listen to comments about how it was too bad she was scarred because she could have been a true beauty. But for some reason, she did not want Mr. Arundel to see her scars. She turned her face slightly and ducked her head, hiding her left side from view as best she could. “They are neighbors.”
His grip on her wrist tightened, not painfully but almost as though he’d been given an unwelcome surprise. “Your neighbors know I am here.”
“Not exactly,” she said. “It’s not as though we told any of them, but Mrs. Price is always looking out of her window and saw the Randalls’ carriage arrive.” She glanced up at him. “Would you release my wrist, please?”
“No. Why didn’t you tell her some sort of fabrication?”
“I suppose because I didn’t realize your presence here was a secret.” She shook her hand, trying to free her wrist.
“You realize that now?”
She took a breath. “My father pointed out that since you had been stabbed, rather deliberately, the man who stabbed you might be looking for you. Unfortunately, that was only after Mrs. Price and Mrs. Tipps had come into the shop and insisted on helping my father with your care.”
Arundel abruptly dropped her hand. “Are you saying the ladies here earlier today were...customers?”
Belle had the distinct impression that she shouldn’t confirm that. And now she was feeling defensive. “That’s right. We’re selling tea, biscuits, or a peek at the injured man upstairs. We hope you will bring in a sixpence a week.”
He said nothing for a long moment. “I should think I could bring in at least a crown.”
“Someone has a high opinion of himself. Only pistol ball injuries are worth that much.”
He barked out a short laugh. The sound of it warmed her. She didn’t delude herself that the moment of levity meant he was past the worst of his recovery. His fever could spike again, and most likely would. The infection raging inside him could spread. He might still die. But, by God, she would get some tea in him first.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes with the tea. Try not to kill yourself while I’m out.”
She put water on to boil, the familiar ritual of making tea soothing her. While the water heated, she sliced a piece of bread and found a bit of cheese, eating it standing over the stove. Once the water boiled, she rinsed the teapot and warmed it with the hot water. Then she dumped out the water, put the water back on the flame, and filled the pot with tea leaves. She poured the now boiling water over the leaves and allowed the tea to steep. Belle had an innate sense of how long to allow a tea to steep. Some blends should steep longer than others. Her father often lifted the lid of the teapot and checked the color or aroma of the tea, but Belle never had to do so. She simply knew when the tea was ready.
