Page 9 of Saved By the Belle

The fire had finally taken hold in her hearth, and she was warm in her cloak. She removed it then decided she would change into her nightclothes and robe. Since this was her private chamber, she did not have a screen or curtain, so she changed quickly, casting furtive glances over her shoulder at Arundel. He hadn’t moved or made a sound other than breathing shallowly. He looked paler. The last time she had checked, he did not feel overly warm to the touch, but she would check again in the next hour and had water and clean linen at the ready to make a cool compress.

After she’d changed and knotted her robe in place, she went to her dresser to deal with her hair. She pulled out a small stool and sat, unpinning her hair and brushing it out. There was no mirror here, and she preferred it that way. She did not want to look at her face. She braided her hair by rote, tucking the annoying side sections that she curled—or at least attempted to—into the braid so she was finally free of the hair brushing against her face.

She felt sleepy now, but she was determined not to wake her father. He would scold her in the morning, but he needed his rest much more than she. Besides, if the rain continued like this into the morning, business at the shop would be slow.

Belle took a seat beside Arundel again and reached out to place the back of her hand on his forehead. Belle closed her eyes in frustration. He’d felt warm earlier but not feverish. Now there was no doubt he had a fever. His skin was hot to the touch, and she could see the beginnings of an unnatural flush on his pale cheeks. It was four in the morning, too early for the doctor to come. The Randalls’ baby might not even have been born yet. Belle told herself to remain calm and dipped a strip of clean linen in the cool water and pressed it to his forehead.

Should she give him more laudanum? She spent the next few minutes searching for the doctor’s orders and finally found them on a chair in the salon. When she returned, Arundel had tossed off his covers and thrown the arm on his uninjured side up and over his head. The sight of his bare chest startled her. He’d been so still for hours that she’d almost forgotten her earlier attraction.

Almost.

He must be in pain and discomfort, and surely the laudanum had worn off. She held the paper close to her lamp and read, realizing she should have given him another dose of the medicine some time ago.

She would give it now, but how was she to accomplish that? She’d have to raise his head and at the same time balance a spoon with laudanum and guide it into his mouth. She’d had laudanum before, and the taste was extremely bitter, even though the opium was mixed with alcohol and spices. She might have put a drop or two in tea and delivered it that way, but Arundel was not awake enough for a cup of tea.

Belle took the laudanum and spoon to the bedside, set the bottle on the chair, and uncorked it. Then she gently placed the man’s arm back at his side and covered him again. She took the discarded compress, replaced it in the washbasin, and then placed herself in the small space on the bed between the man and the chair. The plan was to ease him into a sitting position with his head on her shoulder or chest. Then she could reach over to the chair, pour the medicine, and spoon it into his mouth.

She curled a leg under herself and levered him up slowly and gently. He moaned, and she paused. Finally, he was quiet again and she began to raise his torso. He was hotter than he’d been earlier. She could feel the heat burning off him and penetrating her robe and nightgown. She would have opened the window to allow cool air in, but it was raining steadily now. After she gave him the medicine, she’d bank the fire. He must feel stuffy under the covers in the warm room.

Finally, she had him in position, and she was ready to administer the laudanum. She tried for the bottle, but it was just out of reach. Good Lord, could one thing not go right this evening? She hated nursing with a passion. She could remember nursing Maggie when she’d been ill, and Belle had been awful at it then. She preferred working in the shop any day to sitting at the sickbed. Give her a broom or a dust rag. She’d even be happy to move shelving or clean the storeroom. Anything but this.

She leaned a bit further, doing her best to balance Arundel on her chest and not jostle him too much. Her fingers grazed the bottle when she felt his head turn. She glanced down and locked eyes with him. His eyes were incredibly blue, quite lovely, and clear. This time there was more than a shiver of attraction up her spine; it was a full blown bolt of lightning hitting her.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Belle froze. She hadn’t expected him to wake up. She hadn’t expected his voice to be so deep when he spoke. He had an upper-class accent, as she’d expected, but it suited him. She tried to answer his question, to say something reassuring, but her voice caught in her suddenly very dry throat. It wasn’t dry only because of those blue eyes or the deep voice or even because he was incredibly close to her at the moment—though none of that helped—her voice had left her because that was what always happened when she tried to talk to a man.

Not any man. Belle could talk to her father, of course, and she generally managed with her brother-in-law. She’d also learned to manage with men who came into the shop. She could talk about tea with anyone. But even the flavors and varieties of tea could not save her if the man showed any interest in her. Then she became self-conscious and shy, and since she hated herself for blushing and stammering, she countered the behavior by becoming loud, brassy, and impudent.

That was her father’s sign to come to her rescue, and if her father wasn’t available, it was the man’s sign to retreat. It always worked because men liked compliments and ladies who fluttered their lashes. They didn’t like pock-marked girls who gave them what-for. They often told her so.

But Mr. Arundel wasn’t her father or brother-in-law. He wasn’t a customer. And he wasn’t a misguided lothario. She had no idea how to behave with him, especially when her heart was beating so hard at their closeness.

“I-I’m nursing you,” she said finally, answering his question and cringing at the way she’d stammered.

He stared at her, his brow furrowed in confusion and his eyes never leaving hers. “I’m injured?”

Belle took a deep breath. He was injured and confused and vulnerable, rather like a small child—though he looked nothing like a child and certainly didn’t feel like one, pressed up against her. But she could try to think of him as she might a vulnerable child.

“Yes, you are injured,” she said patiently. “You were stabbed. Do you recall?”

Belle remembered she’d wanted to give him more laudanum and wondered if she should lie him back on the bed. They were much too close, their faces just inches apart. Now that he was awake, she could prop up the pillows and order him to take the tincture.

“Came out of nowhere,” he said, his eyes taking on a far-away look that told her he was slowly remembering. His eyes looked softer, like velvet, when his look was less intent. “You are a nurse?”

“Not exactly. I...” How to explain who she was. Technically, she was no relation to the Randalls. Her sister was married to Lydia’s brother. The relationship was distant to say the least.

“You’re far too pretty to be a nurse,” he said.

Belle jolted. She hadn’t expected the compliment, but of course, he was looking at her right side, her good side. She felt her cheeks heat with color and had the urge to put him in his place. Then she reminded herself the man was wracked with fever. He did not know what he was saying. “It’s time for your medicine,” she said, trying for a firm tone she imagined a nursemaid might use. “I’ll lie you down and—”

“I rather like it here,” he said. “You’re soft.”

“Belle?”

Belle jolted again at her father’s voice. She felt suddenly guilty, as though she had been doing something untoward. But her father couldn’t read her thoughts and her actions had been appropriate. A moment later her father pushed the door fully open and stood frowning at her from the entry. “What are you doing?”

Arundel turned his head. “And who is this? The husband?”

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