“You’re shivering.”
“Isabel—”
“I’m cold, too.”
James bit back his angry words and closed his eyes. He grudgingly admitted to himself that he was warmer now. But he hated that she pitied him, that she thought he needed her help. The fingers would heal. He would hold a sword again and be the man she had married.
When he finally did sleep, he tossed and turned, feeling hot and cold in infuriating cycles.
In the morning, Riley removed the bandages, saying nothing as usual, even when he saw the badly bruised hand. The swelling was worse, and the gash on his broken finger had bright red streaks about it.
“Isabel must not know about his,” James said in a low voice.
Riley gave a pointed shrug, then bathed the hand again, adding more salve and wrapping it in strips of cloth. It would get better, James thought, trying not to remember his brother, Edmund, and the little scratch he’d received in a sword fight with Reynold.
The next day, not even the sight of home brought James out of his lethargy. It was too hot for October, he thought dully, and began to dismount. The next thing he saw was the ground rushing up to meet him.
Isabel rolled Bolton over, and realized with shock that his body felt afire. She touched his face, shook him, but he was unconscious, with dark circles beneath his eyes. She felt a horrible lump of anxiety form in her stomach.
“Riley,” she said as the men all gathered around her in a concerned knot, “I need your help getting Lord Bolton to our bedchamber. Do you think you can?—”
The man elbowed everyone out of the way and single-handedly lifted Bolton off the ground, with only one side step to position his weight. Isabel led the way inside the great hall. She looked over the worried servants.
“Annie—” Isabel began, then stopped. She didn’t have the first idea what to do. Any other woman would know. She gazed at Annie and tried not to show her desperation and panic, feelings she’d seldom experienced before, and which now threatened to overwhelm her.
Annie turned toward the kitchens, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll bring hot water and bandages, my lady, and send for the healer.”
In their bedchamber, Isabel pulled back the blankets and Riley laid Bolton down. The giant stood up, wiped his hand across his moist forehead, and took a few deep breaths.
Isabel smiled grimly. “It’s nice to see you’re human.”
Riley gave her a crooked smile and shrugged, before leaning over to feel Bolton’s forehead.
Isabel watched him. “He’s very sick, isn’t he?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
Riley nodded and began to unwrap Bolton’s wounded hand. She couldn’t hide her shock when she saw the swelling and the angry red discoloration staining the entire finger. Pus oozed from the wound.
Through the tightness in her throat, she said, “Will he lose this finger?”
Riley shrugged, but it was a tentative movement, and Isabel saw the inevitability lurking in her future. How would she tell her husband he would lose a finger on his sword hand? She well knew what his reaction would be, knowing she’d feel the same way. Yet what choice was there? She’d seen other injuries where she never thought the man would fight again, but through perseverance, he had. And Bolton had plenty of perseverance.
Bolton groaned and opened his eyes. He licked his lips and managed a smile. “Angel,” he murmured. “Just need to sleep—be all right.”
He had certainly lost none of his confidence. Something close to tenderness moved through her, and she fought the urge to hold his hand. Only yesterday she had been scheming how to avoid him. Now he lay unnaturally still, pale, nothing like her husband—and she wanted him back, the man who could turn a bad situation on its ear with just a witty phrase.
Where was the healer?
The woman who entered the room carried a basket on one arm and a bucket of hot water in the other. She wore no wimple, just her plain brown hair tied back at her neck. She didn’t look much older than Isabel. How could she have the necessary experience to help Bolton?
The girl must have been used to such questions, for after introducing herself as Margaret, she immediately said, “Milady, I’ve spent my whole life learning to heal from my mother. You need have no worries.”
Margaret examined Bolton’s hand, even though he didn’t want to cooperate. His insistence that he was fine was beginning to grate on Isabel.
Margaret finally shook her head. “Milord, we must take at least the littlest finger. If we leave it on, the sickness will only spread.”
Bolton laughed weakly. “I’m feeling better already. Just pat on your salve, girl, and go back to the garden.”
From across the room, Isabel said, “You are being foolish. The injury is making you sick.”
