Page 35 of The Sound of Seduction
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The hours draggedon and the oppressive heat radiating from Stan’s body twisted Wendy’s insides. She sat at his bedside, wringing out another strip of linen into a bowl of tepid water. Her hands, though steady, bore the stiffness of endlessrepetition. Compresses off, saturate, wring, compresses on. It was an endless, numbing rhythm, yet she never faltered. His fever was too high, his pulse too erratic for even a moment’s hesitation.
A knock on the door gave her pause.
“May I come in?” a gentle voice asked.
Wendy couldn’t say anything. The woman was breathtakingly beautiful in an unassuming way, and yet she had a poise that demanded attention. “Are you Nurse Wendy? Is my brother waking up yet?”
Oh, her brother!
“Your Royal Highness,” Wendy set the cloth aside, dried her hands as she rose and curtsied at the same time, thinking how clumsy her manners were compared to the princess.
But when she saw how gently the princess laid her hand on Stan’s forehead, the raw concern of a sister for her brother—it warmed Wendy’s heart. If it were Nick’s life in danger, she would also want to be with him and do anything in her power to help bring him back. That was when the princess sat at the foot of Stan’s bed.
“When I was little, Stan was always the first to save me.” The princess wrung her hands. “I once brought home what I though was a puppy. But Stan saw it was a wolf cub and returned it to the forest. And when I climbed a tall oak, he was the one to help me down the tree. And now… I ran away, and he was hurt because of me.” She heaved and wiped a tear from her cheek. “What can I do?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Wendy said, picking up the cloth again and continuing the cold compresses.
“But Andre… ahem… Dr. Fernando said the next hours will tell whether he shall live.” Concern was etched on the princess’s face, even though she spoke with the grace of a woman who hadmuch training in dealing with bad news. It was a rare and taxing skill Wendy knew all too well dealing with noble patients.
“I’m keeping him as cool as possible. May I propose that you rest in case he needs you in the morning?” Wendy said more as sister-to-sister than nurse-to-princess. “He spoke your name, he worries about you. Don’t give him a reason that could weaken his condition.”
The princess nodded and rose, the reluctance weighing her graceful movements down. “Will you call me if I can help, please?”
“Certainly,” Wendy said with a curtsy.
“Thank you, Nurse Wendy. Your work tonight is deeply appreciated. I shall forever be in your debt.” And with these words, the princess left.
Yet, Wendy couldn’t fathom being anywhere else. And there was nothing to repay her with, no debt, only Stan.
Oh, please be strong. Please live.
His face, normally so composed—even imperious—lay stripped of all dignity by the fever. He didn’t look like the intimidating royal anymore. Gone was the precise movement of his training as a soldier. All that was left just seemed like a very young man, devoid of the boyish mischief and struggling with the inflammation in his body. His eyes were shut, lids fluttering as if a struggle waged underneath. He parted his lips in uneven rasps of harsh breath.
Once again, Wendy pressed the damp fabric to his brow, gentle but firm, and trailed another along the burning planes of his cheeks and neck. He didn’t stir. He hadn’t stirred for hours now. Not even when she’d carefully peeled back the corner of his soaked shirt earlier to inspect the infected wound that had brought him to this wretched state. She’d had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself steady, for the ragged edges of the gash told the story of his pain more vividly than she could bear.
Not your prince, Wendy.
The thought struck her again as her hand smoothed the compress over his forehead, her cuff dragging slightly against the coarse stubble on his jaw. Not your prince. Nursing was her duty, her calling—that was all. And yet, the steady intensity of her care betrayed her heart, a heart she repeatedly chastised for yearning where it shouldn’t.
A noise at the door startled her. She turned, her hand stilling mid-motion, as Andre entered, his expression grim. A leather bag hung from his arm, and behind him trailed a servant balancing a bucket filled with ice—the kind procured at an exorbitant expense, especially this time of year. Wendy didn’t dare speak, but the quick glance she cast at the doctor’s furrowed brow told her what she already feared.
This wasn’t working.
“We’ll need more water. Tell them to bring it cold.” Andre gave his orders swiftly, his voice clipped in a tone that allowed no arguments. He shot a look at the already cooling compresses, though the reprimand in his gaze wasn’t for her. “The ice will help a little, but it’s not enough.”
The servant hurried out, and Andre moved quickly to the bed. He leaned close to inspect Stan, pressing deft fingers to the artery in his neck. Wendy saw the faint shake in his hand as he withdrew it but said nothing. He turned to her. “Has he woken at all?”
Wendy shook her head. She’d worked with Andre at the practice for years now, but this was new. The rehabilitation center at Cloverdale House was for intense care and she’d see her first patient before going back home to Harley Street.
I can’t believe my first patient here at Cloverdale House is my prince.
“Take the coverings off. He mustn’t trap the heat,” Andre said and pulled the covers off the prince. Without hesitation,Wendy folded back the heavy blanket, her fingers nimble as she peeled the damp sheet that clung stubbornly to Stan’s chest. The saturated fabric dropped to the floor with a faint thud, but neither she nor Andre paid it any mind. The doctor reached for his scissors and pressed them into Wendy’s hand.
“You’ll do it faster,” he said curtly. “Don’t lose time with the buttons.”
Wendy worked with a precision born of knowledge rather than instinct, the fabric of Stan’s shirt parting cleanly under the blades. She peeled it away, leaving only his breeches in place, which were already rolled up over his knees—both for propriety and necessity. His broad chest, glistening with sweat, rose and fell shallowly under the reddish flush that marked the fever’s relentless grip. The stitched wound, angry and seeping, stood out against the heat-mottled skin, and Wendy noted it silently, her mind already planning its next steps.
