“Temporarily. I’ll be fine.”
No matter what anyone said, he refused to consider having the finger amputated. Isabel couldn’t understand his obstinacy. He was usually such a rational, practical man, but now he refused to see how sick he was, and how little the herbs were helping him. She was agitated, uncertain, not herself, and she realized with a shock that she didn’t want him to die. Just a month ago, she would have been gleeful. The thought made her feel sick inside.
Annie wanted to show Isabel how to keep Bolton comfortable, but Isabel knew she was hopelessly clumsy at things every woman took for granted. She let Annie wipe his body with cool wet cloths, while Bolton mumbled and thrashed in a delirium. Isabel felt stupid and helpless, and often went to sit alone in the great hall to wait. It hurt to see him in pain.
At midnight, she stood alone in their bedchamber and watched Bolton, who had lapsed into a still sleep. She found herself sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning over him, staring into his gaunt, flushed face. She touched his hot forehead, then slid her hand down his stubbled cheek. Her chest ached and her eyes burned with tears she didn’t know how to shed. What was wrong with her? She had been forced against her will to marry this man, and now it terrified her that he might die.
Could she possibly have fallen in love with him? Was she like every other foolish woman who had melted before the cajoling words of a man? And yet, Bolton had never lied to her, had never taken what she hadn’t wanted to give. In his own way, he’d even been kind. These soft feelings burning her heart—were they love?
She sent for Annie, who stumbled in, wearing her gown half-unlaced, and carrying her baby on her shoulder. She took one look at James’s hand and gasped.
“I must get Margaret, my lady. Here, hold Mary.” She held the sleeping baby out and Isabel stumbled back a step.
“But I’ve never?—”
“Just sit down. She’s not even awake.”
Isabel sat hesitantly before the fire and Annie quickly positioned her arms and set Mary’s warm body in her lap. She ran out the door before Isabel could even ask if she was doing it right.
Mary slept on, putting her thumb in her mouth and cuddling against Isabel, who was trying not to move. It was a strange experience to hold a baby, and she realized with a start that she herself could be with child already. She had to fight feelings of panic. She’d never even seen a birth, didn’t know what babies ate when they were too old for milk. And as she looked at Bolton, so still and pale, she thought with despair that she might have to do it all alone.
Carefully holding Mary, she stood up, walked over to her husband, and she sat on the edge of the bed.
“Bolton?” she began, then found herself saying, “James? You are not going to die. I won’t allow it. Wake up.”
But he lay still. Margaret arrived and Isabel backed away, absently handing Mary to her mother.
Margaret examined James’s hand for a moment, then lifted her head. “Milady, ’tis spreading to the next finger.”
A sudden calmness descended over Isabel. She didn’t know a thing about healing, but she could make decisions. “Take the fingers off—both of them.” The moment she said the words, she felt better. She wanted James, she wanted to be his wife, much as it all terrified and bewildered her.
“But milady, his lordship said?—”
“He is out of his mind with sickness. And he isn’t getting better. I want a live husband, not a corpse. Take the fingers off.”
~oOo~
James awoke slowly, but his eyes didn’t want to obey him. He lay still, assessing the lingering pain in his hand. It felt better. And he was definitely cooler. The bedclothes were drenched in his sweat, so the fever must have broken. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. Thank God.
When he finally managed to open his eyes and lift his head, he saw the sun creeping into the windows, and Isabel rolled on a blanket on the floor. Some things never changed.
“Angel?” he whispered.
She was up in an instant, leaning over him, touching his forehead. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, then stepped back. James felt something wither inside him at her obvious disgust.
“The medicines worked,” he said. “I told you we didn’t need to take the finger.”
She stared at him solemnly, and he knew in that instant that it was too late. He lifted his heavily wrapped hand and stared at it.
“You took it anyway, didn’t you, regardless of my orders.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “You were going to die. I did what I thought best. Margaret said she needed to amputate both fingers.”
“How could you do this to me?” he demanded, propping himself on one elbow although pinpricks of darkness hovered in his sight. “Were you jealous of my skill? Did you feel the need to be the best swordsman?”
Her face paled, but her eyes glittered with anger. She didn’t answer. Some deep part of James knew he was behaving foolishly, that Isabel would hardly have his fingers cut off for no reason—and none of his servants would have allowed it.
He closed his eyes as the enormity of it all swept over him, chilling him. Not just one, but two fingers. His reputation, his presence, were how he controlled his people and managed the king. Now he couldn’t even lift a sword. He might as well be an old man drooling by the fire, for all the good he could do Bolton Castle.
