Dream Weaver (12 page)

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 night, 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.

"Hi, Christian."

"High?"

When would she learn to watch her language? "Just a greeting."

"Oh."

He lowered his tall frame onto the chair beside her bed, taking her hand and wrapping his fingers around hers. Leaning forward, he studied her for a long moment. "You had me worried for a while."

"Worried? You're not the only one." She fingered a lock of hair that brushed against her bodice, pleased with herself for changing into a clean, white cotton nightgown with white ribbons at the throat: dainty and feminine, the way these eighteenth-century men liked their women. What a difference from the men of the twenty-first century.

She managed a light laugh, so happy to be well again, but especially to have Christian by her side.

Christian smiled then, a slow smile that spread across his face and reached his eyes, those dark eyes whose secrets she could never unravel. "But you're better now. You'll be up and about in no time."

"Thanks to you."

Another smile. "I'll think of some payment you can make." His face flushed, and he stared down at his boots. "I mean..."

Gwen squeezed his hand. "Why, Dr. Norgard, I do believe you're embarrassed."

Christian looked up from his boots and chuckled, a rich, throaty sound that drove every logical thought from her mind. Then a gradual change came over his face, an expression of such intensity she wished she could interpret its meaning. He smoothed his forefinger over her palm, his touch centering on the soft, fleshy part at the base of her thumb.

On a pretext of adjusting her pillow, she drew her hand back, afraid he'd sense her passion. She fiddled with the ribbons on her nightgown, trying so hard to maintain a nonchalant attitude, to pretend her heart wasn't beating triple time because of his nearness.

"Well..." Christian stood, prompting her to stare up at him. "I'll leave you to rest now," he said, heading for the door. There, he stopped and turned her way, his hand on the knob. "Be back soon," he promised with a mock salute, then left the room.

She followed him with her gaze. She wished she could call him back to talk about everything and nothing, to listen to his voice that still echoed in her mind. Wild, crazy notions flitted through her head, passionate fantasies of Christian that would never be satisfied.

* * *

A few days after her recovery from the flu, Gwen sat on the front porch, basking in the light breeze that caressed her face, the glorious colors and scents of the flower garden surrounding her. Dazzling white clouds floated by in a sky so intensely blue it took her breath away. How good it was to be alive, to breathe in the fresh, clean aroma of the grass, to hear the robins chirp in the trees. She'd never take these things for granted again, never take her life for granted. Besides, she enjoyed her solitude on this pleasant day.

Ice cream. The wish came from out of nowhere, like an echo from the past. How she'd love a big dish of ice cream. She pictured two large scoops of her two favorite kinds--rocky road and mint chocolate chip, closing her eyes in dreamy contemplation.

About to rise from the chair and get a dress of Bryony's to hem, Gwen saw a rider approach from the east. His horse made its way cautiously down the steep, rocky slope that edged the Chamberlain property. Squinting in the bright sunlight, she saw a green tricorne, tan shirt, and leggings. Christian. Happiness swelled inside her, as if they'd been separated for years, as though she hadn't seen him night after night during her illness. Her heart began a wild drumbeat, a rush of warmth spreading from her head to her toes.

She fixed a casual expression on her face, her hands held loosely in her lap.

Upright in the saddle, the rider neared the house, his hand raised in greeting.

 
First tying the reins to a tree branch, Christian approached and stood on the bottom step with his other foot on the step above him, his tricorne held loosely at his side. She tried not to stare at the way the wind rippled his hair and lifted locks from his forehead.

He made a slight bow. "You appear to be completely recovered, I'm pleased to see."

"Back to normal."

He glanced around. "Where is everyone?"

She cleared her throat. "They all went on a picnic in the meadow."

"But not you."

"As you see."

He laughed, a husky chuckle that had the craziest effect on her pulse. "That was a stupid remark, was it not? I just wondered why..."

"I felt they should have some time to themselves, as a family. They haven't had much of that recently. Besides, I have some things to do, and I thought this might be a good time to do them." She bit her lip, mad at herself for saying that. It sounded as if she wanted him to leave. "They'll be gone for hours," she added, "and I don't have that much to do." Now, she'd made herself too obvious. Damn, damn, damn! What had happened to her resolve to act casually around him?