On a warm afternoon of the following week, Christian looked up from the kitchen table as Gwen entered the room. His mouth went dry while a myriad of thoughts and emotions rampaged through his brain, every one centered on this lovely woman. For a brief moment, he turned away, lest she see his inner turmoil.
Collecting his composure, he rose and held a chair for her. "You notice how quiet the house is? Molly took Robert for a walk." He rubbed at the stubble on his cheek, aware of his unkempt appearance. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
Gwen motioned for him to sit. "Don't bother. I can get it myself."
"Oh, but--"
"Come on, you've been working hard enough." She sent a smile his way, a smile that only increased his tumult. "I'm not helpless, you know."
"Very well." He observed her slim figure, noting the brisk, graceful movements of her hands as she lifted the tea kettle from the trammel above the wide fireplace and poured the brew into an earthen mug.
Despite her contrariness and oftimes flippant talk, she had an inner grace, a calm self-assurance, as if she could handle any challenge that came her way. He liked that quality, rare in a woman. She wore a dress of tan linsey, which would've looked drab on any other woman, but on Gwen, its soft folds and neat tucks, its gentle sweep from waist to ankles, made it appear as sensuous as the grandest ballgown. The supple material followed the swell of her breasts, revealing the outline of her nipples. Wild fantasies, too long stifled, taunted him. She wore her hair in a soft roll, a laced white gauze cap perched modestly atop her head, but he missed seeing those tawny locks that tumbled down her back and glimmered like fire in the sunlight. His fantasies soaring, he was seized by a sudden desire to tear the pins from her hair and let the locks fall like water through his hands. Aware he'd been staring, he turned away to absently study the barrel of apples in a far corner.
But if she were a spy? He swallowed past the lump in his throat. God, he prayed, don't let it be so. He couldn't bear to see her punished. So far, he hadn't gleaned any evidence from the officers at Fort Pitt, but he intended to keep trying.
Gwen returned to her chair with the mug of steaming tea. "I've been so worried about Bryony." She frowned. "If only she would get better..."
"Her fever has gone down," he said, "and I don't need to tell you that keeping it lowered is a matter of constant care. I believe we're succeeding in this, don't you?"
"So far."
He raised the mug to his mouth and sipped. "She seemed a bit cooler this morning, and her pulse has slowed. In truth, she appears to be on the mend." He gave her a frank look across the table. "'Twas not Bryony I wanted to speak about."
"Oh?"
"This Noah Enfield...," he began.
"A casual acquaintance. I've talked to him a few times since he came to see Daniel about legal business."
"I believe he cares for you. I saw him with you at the frolic--"
She smiled. "He needs a wife. I just happen to be handy."
"More than that, I think."
"Has he said anything to you?" She sipped her tea, looking at him over the rim of the mug.
"He's said naught to me. Anyway, I'd not betray a confidence." He set his elbows on the table and gave her a level look. "He's not the man for you."
"What's it to you?" she asked, a trace of annoyance in her voice. "Why should you care whom I marry?"
"Don't misunderstand me. Noah is a fine man, a good farmer. I'm not denigrating him. But you are so--so--different, I should say, for lack of a better word. 'Twould be a terrible waste if you married a man who couldn't make you happy."
She leaned forward, palms flat on the table. "You didn't answer my question. Why should you care?"
Yes, why? Because I'd miss your smile, your laughter, he wanted to say, that make every minute with you fresh and different, something to look forward to. I'd miss seeing those pretty freckles that dot your face, the sparkle in your eyes, your soft, warm body that tempts me to take you in my arms and make love to you. He kept his thoughts to himself. "I want only your happiness."
* * *
Thank God Bryony has recovered, Gwen mused. She couldn't go through that worry again. From her upstairs window, she watched Bryony one bright morning a week later as the child ran among the rows of corn, playing hide and seek with Robert. Tears slid down Gwen's cheeks. God, it was good to see her well again.
She turned away from the window and headed for the doorway, thinking of all the things she wanted to do; she should definitely make plans for teaching the neighborhood children. And Christian? Now that Bryony was her normal playful self again, she guessed she wouldn't see him again for a long time. Pausing at the entrance, she gripped the doorknob. She wouldn't even think about him.
Chapter Seven
Darned if I don't look like Cinderella, Gwen thought, brushing a leaf from her faded tan linsey dress with its mended spots and frayed hem. Kneeling on the warm earth, she worked in Rebecca's flower garden, her agile fingers tugging at weeds while she checked the leaves for insects. The garden was a rich tapestry of color, where the towering red spikes of the lupines, the fragrant carnations, the dainty white petunias and so many other flowers blossomed in companiable profusion. She drew in a deep breath, sniffing the heliotrope with its unique scent of vanilla.
When she got back to her own time...she lowered her head, swallowing a lump in her throat. Quickly straightening back up, she finished her thought. If she ever got back to her own time, she wanted a garden just like this one.
A slight headache nagged her, prompting her to think of other things, her usual remedy for curing her rare headaches.
"Gwen--"
She looked up to see Rebecca approach along the path.
"You've been working in the garden for a long time, and I do appreciate it," Rebecca said, stopping beside her. "But 'tis about time for the midday meal."
"Already?" Gwen asked in surprise. She stood and brushed off the front and back of her dress. She wasn't hungry, and her stomach felt a little woozy, too.
"Did I tell you Daniel brought back a goodly amount of hornbooks and primers from Philadelphia, along with sundry writing materials?" Rebecca smiled. "So you'll have all the necessaries whenever you begin teaching the children."
"Good, I can't wait to get started." She closed her eyes for a moment, her head throbbing. She opened them again, the sun a painful shaft of light that prompted her to shade her eyes. "I hope to visit as many families as possible this afternoon, see how many parents want their children to attend school."
"Most of them will want that, I should imagine." Rebecca tapped her arm. "But first come and eat, or you won't feel much like visiting."
Gwen placed her hand on her stomach. I don't even feel much like eating now, she wanted to say.
* * *
After a light lunch of rye bread and applesauce, Gwen headed for her room and sank onto the bed. Lying back, she closed her eyes, a long time passing before she forced herself to sit up and step into her moccasins. Wow! How could just slipping shoes on wear her out? Maybe she'd lie down and rest, visit the families another day. Her head pounded, thirst plaguing her dry, achy throat. If she could only rise, she'd scoop up some water from the basin...
She tried to get up, but the effort only worsened her condition, dizziness now added to her list of ailments. Her arms and legs ached; all she wanted was to stay in bed.
She started to doze, but a ringing in her ears awoke her. Straining, she turned onto her side, and sleepiness dragged her down.
She slowly turned onto her back. Christian stood in the doorway! Arms folded across his chest, he lounged against the doorframe, one booted foot in front of the other. She lifted her hand in greeting, pleasantly surprised her fever was gone.
Raising herself on her elbow, she tried to speak nonchalantly. "Christian, what are you doing in my room?"
He approached the bed, a warm smile on his tanned face. "I had to see you. Couldn't stay away. Don't your realize how much you mean to me?"
> He weighted the mattress down as he sat and drew her close to his chest. "I had to see you alone," he whispered against her hair. His gaze covered her, a look of desire in his eyes. "We have the room to ourselves, and here we are in bed together. This is what I've always wanted, darling, ever since I first met you. I want to make love to you here and now, as no man has ever loved you. Please tell me you want the same." He gave her shoulder a little shake. "Gwen? Gwen!"
"Gwen!"
She forced her eyes open, the bright sunlight from the open window making her squint. She raised her arm to cover her eyes, her head still pounding. On the edge of her vision, she saw Rebecca beside her.
"You've been in bed for hours," Rebecca said. "You must have slept poorly last night. Did you not want to see the other families about schooling for the children?"
"I...I...," Gwen moaned, pressing her hand to her pounding head. Her body was on fire, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. "I feel sick," she whispered.
Rebecca clenched her hands together, a look of absolute fear on her face. "Oh, my God, no!" She headed for the door, calling behind her, "I'll send Daniel to get Christian."
Christian's already been here, Gwen wanted to say, but fell asleep again before she could open her mouth.
* * *
Semi-darkness covered the room, a stillness in the air. Caressing fingers brushed wet hair from Gwen's damp forehead as strong yet gentle hands sponged her face and neck. A man spoke soothingly, as one would speak to a child, then held a cup to her mouth. In feverish recognition, she looked up to see Christian in her room. She gave him a grateful glance, so happy to see him, to have him with her.
"I made you willow bark tea, the same brew that helped make Bryony well. Try to drink it, if only a small amount."
Christian sat on the bed and eased a strong arm behind her to raise her head. Her temples throbbed more than ever, a relentless pounding that forced her to stop and catch her breath while she rested against his arm.
"We'll go slowly," Christian said, "so take as long as you need. But I do want you to have some tea."
"Can't," she croaked. "Throat hurts."
"This will make your throat feel better, I promise. You must drink something, and this tea will help bring your fever down."
She took a few sips, then sank back against his arm. "That's all I can take," she whispered, wishing she could keep him with her.
After easing her back on the bed, he set the cup on the bedside table and rose to his feet. "'Tis a start, anyway," he said with an encouraging smile. "I shall leave you alone now to sleep, which will do you much good." He tapped the cup. "I want you to drink as much as you're able. Tomorrow, when the light is better, I intend to draw a few ounces of blood to reduce your fever."
She frowned. "But--"
He spoke quickly. "Gwen, I don't understand your objection to bloodletting, but we shall wait until tomorrow. I hope I can convince you then that it will bring your fever down." He smiled. "Be back later."
She heard his quiet footsteps on the wooden floor, then a feverish sleep claimed her again....
Hours later, when Gwen awoke, complete darkness shrouded the bedroom. Straining to change position, she heard voices from downtairs. Within a few minutes, Christian entered the room, carrying a tray.
He set the tray on her bedside table. She heard the strike of flint on iron, and her lamp came to life, giving off a dull glow that cast shadows on the opposite wall. A chair scraped, and he sat down beside her, a bowl and spoon in his hand.
"Rebecca made you broth," he said. "I'd like you to take at least a few spoonfuls, then drink another cup of tea which I brought. Both will help you feel better."
"Don't know if I can," she whispered, swallowing past the congestion in her throat. A fit of coughing shook her, leaving her weak.
"Aye, you can," he murmured after her coughing had subsided. "Here, permit me to sit on the bed. 'Twill make it easier for both of us, I doubt not." He settled onto the bed, his weight pressing the mattress down. Just like in my dream, she thought through a feverish haze. Or had it been a dream?
* * *
After raising her slightly, Christian spoon-fed Gwen the broth and coaxed her to take a few sips of tea. She swallowed the brew, and her furrowed brow, her gasping breath, revealed the extent of her suffering. How he wished he could alleviate her distress and bring back the woman he remembered, with her quick smile and easy laugh, the woman he could never drive from his thoughts.
He gently lowered her onto the bed, her pained grimace knotting his stomach with worry. Afraid to question the depth of his feeling, he suffered with her. He thought of all his other patients, more than he could count. Why should this one woman affect him like this, so that he wanted to hold her close and banish her sickness, and with his kisses make her well again? As she closed her eyes, he studied her still form under the sheet. She turned onto her side, lips parted, her long, silky hair flowing past her shoulders. An overpowering longing seized him, an intense need to stay by her side throughout the night and for all the nights and days to come.
Don't become involved with this lady, his common sense told him. He must remember his profession. Besides, he knew so little about her, and what he did know raised too many doubts in his mind. Any woman who claimed to be from the future was either a Bedlamite or a liar. Equally unfortunate, the possibility remained she might be a spy.
But fierce yearning overruled common sense. Countless long moments passed before he forced himself to leave her and go downstairs.
* * *
Wracked by chills, Gwen awoke during the night. Her teeth chattering, she forced herself to reach to the foot of the bed and pull a quilt up over her. She lay back down, panting with exhaustion.
Hours later, she awoke again, her nightgown damp with cold perspiration. She tried to rise, but fell back on the bed, breathing heavily. Using her elbow for leverage, she finally forced herself to her feet and stumbled over to the dresser drawer for a clean nightgown. She wished she could change and get it over with, but her arms felt as if they weighed a ton.
After several tries, she drew her damp nightgown over her head and shoved it aside. She reached into the drawer for a clean nightgown, then--
"Gwen?"
Christian strode into the room, his face and body clear by the light of a full moon.
She leaned against the dresser, her face hot with embarrassment. Unable to move or say a word, she remained still, her back to him.
"Here," he said in a soft voice, "let me help you with your gown."
Silently, she nodded and turned around, then handed him the gown.
A world of emotions blazed in his dark eyes. His gaze raked her body, but he quickly lifted his eyes to her again. His hand trembled, the gown quivering in his grip as he eased the gown over her head, his fingers warm and easy against her skin.
"Now raise your arms," he murmured as an expression of tenderness defined his face. Or did she only imagine his look, a fabrication spawned by wishful thinking?
She did as asked, and he slipped her arms through the sleeves, his hands lingering on her shoulders. Her earlier embarrassment banished, she wanted to lean against him, absorb his warmth and strength. She remained still, too sick to move.
"There." He wrapped his arm around her waist. "Let's get you back to bed."
Scads of sensations rattled her as she trudged over to the bed and sank onto the mattress,
then stretched her body out on the bed. With gentle hands, he drew her linen sheet over her.
"Christian, I..."
"Yes?"
She shook her head. "Nothing." She wanted to tell him all the thoughts that haunted her mind, but the words got stuck in her throat. If only she could ask him to stay the night, to hold her close and tell her she'd soon get well, to whisper how much she meant to him. She tossed her wayward thoughts aside, recognizing she meant nothing to him, no more than any other patient.
Christian came to her several times during the nigh
t, speaking in his low, quiet voice as he sponged her and coaxed her to drink tea. Through a feverish haze, she wondered how hands could be strong and yet so gentle. His fingers traced a path from her cheek to her throat, his touch light and tender.
"You're going to get well," he murmured. "You-are-going-to-get-well."
The following morning, she awoke to the sound of footsteps and looked up to see Christian enter the room. He held the lancet in his hand, a questioning look on his face.
She unbuttoned her long sleeve and pushed it past her elbow. "Go ahead. I'm too sick to argue."
"I won't draw blood without your permission, but I assure you, 'twill make you better." He smiled. "I soaked the lancet in vinegar, too."
"You're the doctor." She gave him a weak smile.
He sat next to her on the bed and eased her arm across his muscular thigh. "The doctor who wants to see you well again."
* * *
Christian stayed at the Chamberlains, visiting her several times every day. Once Gwen improved, he returned to his own house, his visits less frequent, and then, he came every other day. Still weak but with a normal temperature again, she lay in bed and stared up at the ceiling. She didn't dare admit how much she missed his deep voice, his gentle hands, his sympathetic yet assured manner.
On a warm morning of the third week, he strode into her room. Dressed in deerskin leggings and a dark green shirt with a wide collar open past his throat, a black ribbon securing his hair, he appeared more distinguished than ever. Gwen looked into his dark eyes that seemed to see through her yet held a million secrets.
Raising up in bed and adjusting the pillow behind her, she wondered if he would always affect her like this. As he neared her bed, she broke into a smile, lifting her hand to him.
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