Page 106 of The English Duke
For a moment they simply looked at each other. His eyes revealed the extent of his pain. What did hers show? That she wanted to help him and give him peace? Or that she felt too much for a man who would become her brother-in-law tomorrow?
In the valet’s absence, she knelt in front of Jordan.
“What are you doing, Martha?”
“I used to massage my father’s shoulders when he’d been hunched over his workbench. My hands are strong.”
What she was doing was untoward and forbidden. A single woman never entered a man’s room. She certainly didn’t lay hands on his bare limbs. In fact, she was never in his presence when he was so scantily dressed.
When her hands surrounded his ankle, Jordan closed his eyes.
“Does the pain reach down to your foot?” she asked, surprised.
“It enfolds me,” he said softly. “I become one with it. It’s some sort of drug-induced monster, a creature of hallucinations, and it controls me.”
“I won’t let it,” she said.
Gently, she began to massage his ankle with both hands, then inch by inch she traveled upward. His face stiffened as if he was trying not to flinch.
Was she making his pain worse?
“Take the elixir, Jordan,” she said. “I’ll stay with you, I promise.”
“My Joan of Arc,” he said. “Will you beat back the monsters, then?”
“With my shield and sword,” she said, smiling.
“The bottle’s in my trunk,” he said. “The one from my navy days.”
Standing, she walked into the bedroom where the trunks were stacked next to one of the large armoires. She recognized the one he mentioned immediately. It had an emblem of a ship on the lock.
She opened the hasp, feeling strange about delving into his personal belongings.
At the bottom of the trunk was a small square wooden box with a tooled top. She opened the box to reveal a corked bottle and metal spoon with a curved handle. The bottle was labeled and gave instructions for the dosage.
Returning to the sitting room, she sat in front of him. Remembering his words, she halved the dose, then halved it again.
He still sat with his eyes closed as she touched the spoon to his bottom lip.
“You promise?” he asked, his voice fainter than before.
She felt as if pain had become an invisible enemy, surrounding Jordan, keeping anything from helping him.
“I promise,” she said, knowing she was a fool to give her word. Remaining in his room with him, alone, would be scandalous. Right at the moment, however, she cared less for scandal than she did his health.
He didn’t complain. He didn’t describe the depth of his agony. He was matter-of-fact about it, almost distant, but she could feel how much it consumed him. He was alone in his fight. She knelt at his feet again, needing to touch him, needing to do something to let him know she was there and that she cared.
“Miss York?”
She looked up to see Henry returning, carrying a brown bottle with a stopper.
She should have stood and let him take his place—his rightful place—before Jordan. Instead, she only held out her hand. He extended the bottle to her before glancing at the table and noting the small curved box.
“You will call me if you need me?” he asked, looking at her.
She nodded, watching as he crossed the room to the door, closing it softly behind him.
“We will shock your family,” Jordan said, his voice slightly slurred.
