“Oh no.” Agitation bloomed in Miss Hinckley’s fine eyes, and concern invested her expression. “You’re already running a fever. It’s only slight at this point, but we can’t allow you to risk your chill transforming into a fever of the lungs.”
The words “fever of the lungs” sent a very real chill through him.
Before he saw the threat, Wally—also exercised—gabbled, “You know you’ve been susceptible since you were a nipper. You don’t want to take the chance of coming down like you used to again.”
Godfrey glared. “Wally!”
Before he could take his henchman to task for revealing far too much, Miss Hinckley clasped her hands before her and firmly said, “Mr. Cavanaugh!”
When, lips tight, he glanced her way, she caught his gaze and said, “I would ask you to view this situation from our family’s perspective. You came into Yorkshire at our behest—perhaps not directly but ultimately because of our approach to the National Gallery. So you and your man being caught in the snowstorm was essentially because of our need of your services.”
Ellie had polished her arguments in preparation for just such a clash. Keeping her gaze level and locked with Cavanaugh’s and doing her utmost not to notice the temper glinting in the distracting gold flecks in his hawklike brown eyes, she continued, “As such, the last thing the family wish is for your evaluation of our painting to be affected or in any way influenced by illness. That would definitely not be in the family’s best interests.”
He blinked, and she saw an awareness of what she was saying—and more, that he wasn’t about to try to deny that illness might affect his judgment—and forged on with what she considered her culminating argument. “On top of that, the painting is here and not going anywhere, so there’s no urgency over formulating your verdict. Indeed, even if you were well and viewed the painting this afternoon, with the snow lying so thickly, you couldn’t leave or even send a report to the gallery.” She paused, then still holding his gaze, stated, “There’s no sense in leaving this bed until you’re fully recovered and not at risk of developing any complications. For your information, by the time you reached us, you were close to frozen.”
She invested the last phrase with enough force to warn him off any attempt to argue.
Judging by the frustrated look that crept into his hawk’s eyes, he heard her loud and clear.
Godfrey felt about twelve years old, which was not at all how he wished to feel around Miss Hinckley. Before he could decide how he should respond, the door opened to admit a pleasant-faced motherly woman.
His angel turned to the newcomer. “Mrs. Kemp, I was just telling Mr. Cavanaugh that he should remain abed until his fever abates and he recovers fully from his ordeal.” Miss Hinckley returned her gaze to him. “Mrs. Kemp is our housekeeper.”
And, Godfrey suspected, a no-nonsense one at that.
Mrs. Kemp confirmed that with a brisk “Indeed, miss.” To Godfrey, she said, “It will do no one any good if you push yourself into a more serious state, sir. My advice is to rest and recuperate and rise only once all signs of illness have passed.” The housekeeper bustled to his side, displacing Wally, who promptly stood and moved back. Mrs. Kemp laid a palm across Godfrey’s forehead and closed her eyes. A second later, she opened them and fixed him with a stern look. “Your fever’s rising. You need to avoid all excitement and lie quietly. Now you’re awake, I’ll mix up some of my honey balsam—that should help to bring the fever down.”
Godfrey cut a glance at Miss Hinckley, read the real concern in her face, and jettisoned any idea of battling the inevitable. The truth was…they were right, and he knew it. His aborted attempt to sit up had sent his head spinning; any further exertion, and he knew he would turn woozy—he was weak as a kitten and now feverish to boot!
Worse, the threat of lung fever wasn’t one he could lightly dismiss; he’d suffered from the condition three times as a child and, from experience, knew that if he didn’t take appropriate care, his recovery could take months. Literally months.
He hoped he’d grown out of the susceptibility, but had no idea if he actually had; since his last horrible and extended bout when he was twelve years old, he’d been careful to avoid all situations that might see the illness take hold again.
He hadn’t foreseen getting caught in a Yorkshire snowstorm.
He exhaled, slumped back on the pillows, and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Very well. I’ll remain abed until I pass muster.”
The relief that flooded all three faces turned his way was testimony as to how worried they’d been. Even—perhaps especially—the fascinating Miss Hinckley.
Godfrey seized the moment to dispatch Wally to get a report on the horses. As the bays were Wally’s pride and joy, he went without argument. The housekeeper helpfully departed with a promise to be back shortly with her remedy, leaving Miss Hinckley alone with him.
Ellie was aware that their patient’s gaze had come to rest on her, a rather intent expression in his distinctly hawkish eyes. That raptorlike gaze was both compelling and disconcerting; she wasn’t precisely sure what she felt about him watching her when she was supposed to be watching him.
She tensed to turn away and retreat to her place by the fire, but he raised a hand to stay her.
When she looked at him inquiringly, he trapped her gaze. “My dear Miss Hinckley, I now realize that I did, in fact, wake earlier, and that contrary to my belief that I was dreaming, I wasn’t.”
She’d hoped he wouldn’t remember—or if he did, that he would helpfully assume he had been dreaming. Apparently, she wasn’t going to be that lucky. She linked her hands before her and calmly stated, “I assure you, sir, that what passed between us on that occasion is of no consequence whatsoever. It was clear at the time that you weren’t in your right mind.”
A curious light passed through his eyes, even as he held her gaze. After a pause of several seconds, his deep voice a touch lower, he said, “As to that, I had intended to apologize—and I should—but I make it a point not to lie, and the truth is that while I regret my deluded actions and hope you won’t hold them against me, as for their outcome, I’m not sorry at all.”
She remained still while her wits waltzed at his implication, and her senses skittered, unhelpfully recalling in vivid sensory detail the glide of his fingertips over her skin and the pressure of his lips against hers. One thing seemed certain: Cavanaugh’s impact was going to be fatal to her peace of mind. She needed to put him in his place. She tipped up her chin. “I’m twenty-eight years old, Mr. Cavanaugh, long past the age of reading too much into such an incidental happening. Again, I assure you that I place no consequence whatever on what passed between us—you were clearly not responsible for your actions at the time.” She waved dismissively and walked to the fireplace to fetch her basket; she was certainly not going to sit and mend under his disconcerting gaze. “I suggest you wipe the moments from your mind, as I already have.”
He might avoid lies, but in her mind, in situations such as this, they had their place.
She hoisted the basket and made for the door. “I’ll leave you in peace, sir. I daresay Mrs. Kemp will be along shortly with her balsam. Meanwhile”—she paused at the door to glance at him, unsurprised to find his gaze, harder and more raptorlike than ever, fixed on her—“I will inform my father that you have woken and, in the circumstances, have agreed to recuperate prior to viewing the painting.”