Page 7 of His Bountiful Gifts (Men of the Sea)

RONAN

Ula’s towel is like a dish cloth on me, hardly covering my nakedness. I pull it around my waist as best I can and step out of the shower.

Ula’s standing over a pot in the kitchen and looks up at me as I pry open the shower door. I’m feeling lightheaded, probably from swallowing too much sea water, but the smile she gives me is like a tonic to my soul.

“There’s some clothes in the room at the end.”

Ula indicates one of the doors, and I head for it. Before I can get all the way, the room tilts sideways, and my legs give out.

I catch myself on the wall, propping myself up with my shoulder. Ula’s soft hand comes up to my forehead, and the cool of her hands against my hot skin is a salve.

“You’re burning up.”

I hate this feeling. Weakness.

“I’m fine.” I try to stand up, but my damn legs have other ideas. “I just need to rest for a moment.”

She gives me a scolding look. “You need to get to bed. You’ve got a fever.”

Her hands go to her hips and her forehead creases. She’s bossing me around and it’s fucking adorable. I’ve got a fever, all right. A fever for her.

“All right, angel. Show me the bed.”

Ula’s hands are surprisingly firm as she guides me to the door at the end of the caravan. The blinds are drawn, and it has a musty smell, like it hasn’t been lived in for a while. A peach-colored comforter with a frilly trim sits neatly over a double bed.

“This was Gram’s room.” There’s a tremor in her voice.

“Ah shit, I’m sorry, angel.”

If her Gram’s just passed away, then Ula’s all on her own. All the more reason she needs me. Except right now, the world is going blurry, and it feels like there’s a furnace inside my body. I’m the one who needs her.

“I’m making you a tincture for infection, and I’ll get willow bark for the fever.”

She bustles out of the room, and I hear the banging of pots coming from the small kitchen.

As the fever takes me, I lie on the bed with my body burning up. Ula returns and lifts my head, making me drink a foul-tasting liquid, then gets to work dressing my wound.

Her nimble fingers wash out the wound, and she douses it with ointment. I bite the side of my mouth as she threads a needle through my skin, stitching the flesh back together.

Her drink has made me sleepy and the room blur.

Before I pass out, I grip her wrist, and she looks up at me startled.

“No one must know I’m here, angel.”

“Shhhh.” She puts her finger to her lips. “Rest.”

Her deep-green eyes are the last thing I see before I let the fever take me.

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