“If the fever is any worse than when young Henry got sick last autumn, send for me. But sleep is the best medicine.”
So she let him sleep.
It was raining and it was hard for the children to stay cooped up and quiet after a long winter spent mostly indoors. They’d read and reread all their books a dozen times, they’d played every game they knew, and they’d worked on handcrafts all winter. Now, having had a taste of spring, those pursuits and pastimes no longer held any appeal.
Especially when there was a fascinating and mysterious stranger sleeping in Maddy’s bed.
The children weren’t the only ones who were fascinated. Maddy couldn’t forget the sensation of having woken in a strange man’s arms, pressed against the full length of him. The full naked length.
The warm intimacy of his embrace, the feeling of his long, hard body pressed against her, the almost protective way his arms held her, stirred up . . . feelings.
Feelings she didn’t want to have. Shouldn’t have, not for a stranger who was just passing by, a man who might have fallen from the sky. Her very own fallen angel.
She dried his clothes, brushed the mud off them, and washed his shirt and undergarments. Everything was of the finest quality. His waistcoat was embroidered in rich, subtle shades of silk thread and lined with silk. His coat was tailored from the finest merino wool and fastened with silver buttons—real silver buttons—any one of which could support herself and the children for a month.
Even his hands were from a different world. She glanced down at her own, ruefully noting the bramble scratches and the work-roughened skin.
A lady is known by her hands, Grand-mère used to say. Grand-mère’s hands were always beautiful. But Grand-mère hadn’t done the rough work in the cottage and garden—Maddy had.
Maddy still did. Her hands were clean and strong and supported a family. They were nothing to be ashamed of.
Nevertheless, when she saw her own hands beside the long, strong, elegant fingers of the sleeping stranger, she felt ashamed.
Yes, mixing the reality of him with her morning dreams was foolish in the extreme.
“Henry, weren’t you and John going to make boats out of those walnut shells we’ve been saving? Girls, I think you should make a new book for Lucy,” Maddy told them. “Lucy can tell the story, Jane can write it out, and Susan, you can draw the pictures—”
In the depths of winter, Maddy had hit on the idea of getting them to write and illustrate their own books. It kept them happy and occupied and the books were much beloved and reread often by them all, even John’s, which were exclusively about horses. And though Lucy could not yet read, she knew her own three books by heart.
“A story about a sleeping prince,” Lucy said immediately.
“Why not a frog prince?” John grinned as his sisters bridled. “If I threw water on him, the man might turn into a frog prince. Frogs love water.”
“Oh, you are so—” Jane began.
“Don’t encourage him, Jane,” Maddy said briskly. “Of course John wouldn’t throw water on a guest—”
“I might if they don’t stop going on about princes and beauties,” John interjected. “Besides, the man’s so hot he’d probably enjoy it.”
“What did you say?” Maddy turned to John. “He’s hot?”
John nodded. “Yes, I touched his hand and it’s really hot. But Maddy, I wouldn’t really throw—”
But Maddy wasn’t listening. She flew across the room and placed her palm on the man’s forehead. He was burning up with fever.
She grabbed a cloth, dipped it into cold water, and began to wipe his body down. It evaporated almost immediately from the heat of his skin.
“Is he sick?” Jane stood just behind her.
Maddy hastily dragged the sheet over the stranger’s private parts. “He has a fever. Fetch me vinegar and some more cloths.”
The children clustered curiously around. “Stay away from the bed, all of you. You can help me best by keeping out of my way and playing quietly.” Not that noise would disturb him in this state, but she could do without the distraction.
She sponged him down with vinegar. She spread cold, wet cloths over his hot body, and watched them dry. As she worked to cool him down, she could hear the children playing.
“There’s a lot of shells. We could make a navy.”
“Once upon a time there was a girl called . . . called Luciella . . .”
