Page 71 of The Duchess Trap
“I heard him.” Duncan took the cloth from her hand, dipped it into the basin, wrung it out, and pressed it to the boy’s forehead. “I promise that this boy will not fight this fever alone.”
She looked up at him, but he couldn’t meet her eyes. The sound of rain filled the quiet.
Duncan held the boy steady while Catherine spooned thin broth past his lips. She whispered encouragements, her voice raw but soft. When Henry’s small body shuddered in pain, Duncan reached out instinctively, steadying him with a hand at his shoulder, murmuring low.
“It’s all right, lad. You’ve got fight in you. Don’t let it go.”
Catherine froze mid-motion. He could feel her gaze on him, surprised and uncertain, as though this side of him were something she could not reconcile with the man she thought she knew.
He did not look up. He could not bear it. Instead, he kept working, methodically, wiping the boy’s face, adjusting the blankets, feeding the fire just enough to keep the chill away.
Catherine rose to fetch more water. He caught her wrist gently before she could step away. “Sit. You’re exhausted.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
The defiance in her eyes vexed him greatly.
What did she suffer in my absence? Why did I not come sooner, when I read the first missive?
She was beautiful even now, pale and undone, strands of hair clinging to her cheek. She looked like something fragile the world had tried to break and failed.
Duncan released her hand slowly. “Rest a moment. I’ll get it.”
She hesitated, pride warring with fatigue, and then sat.
He crossed the room to the small washstand, poured fresh water into the basin, and returned. The simple act steadied him. It gave his hands something to do other than reach for her.
When he turned, she was watching him still.
“You needn’t have come,” she said softly.
“Yet here I am.”
“Why?” Her voice was so quiet that it was almost drowned by the storm.
He looked at the boy instead of her. “Because you needed me.”
She bit her lip. “You could not know that for certain.”
“I did.”
Their eyes met. For a long, unbroken moment, neither looked away. The distance that had lived between them for days narrowed, drawn tight by fear and something else.
Catherine was the first to look downward. Her hand brushed against his as she reached for the cloth. The contact was brief, accidental, but it set something alight beneath his skin.
“Thank you,” was all she could respond before turning back to the ailing boy.
Duncan hoped with every part of his soul that he’d survive the night.
Hours passed. The storm outside softened into drizzle, the candle burned low.
Henry’s fever raged and waned, a cruel tide that offered no mercy. Duncan changed the compresses, and Catherine coaxed the boy to drink.
When Henry’s small body convulsed once more, Duncan caught him before he could twist the sheets from the bed. Catherine pressed the damp cloth to his chest, whispering,please, please.
“It’s all right,” Duncan murmured, steadying the boy against his arm. “Breathe, lad. Just breathe.”
