Page 20 of Saving Miss Pratt

Timothy’s eyes closed as he sucked the stew from the spoon, and his lips tipped up ever so slightly. “Good,” he said. He pushed her hand holding the spoon toward her. “Now you. Eat.”

Her stomach growled again—as if she needed to be reminded of its emptiness. Instead of retrieving her own bowl, she dipped her spoon into Timothy’s bowl and filled it with the savory stew. Lord, it smelled good.

As the herbs, chicken, and vegetables hit her tongue, she, too, closed her eyes, appreciating Timothy’s reaction. Itwasgood. Not only good—delicious.

“Good?” he asked, sounding more than a bit cocky.

She fought the smile. “It will do.”

He snorted a laugh, then grabbed at his ear, uttering a curse.

She waited until he settled himself, then fed him another spoonful. They alternated until the spoon scraped against the sides of the bowl. She reached for hers, still full on the table.

He shook his head. “No more for me.”

She shrugged and finished every morsel in the second bowl. Mr. Netherborne would accuse her of gluttony, but she didn’t care.

After setting aside the empty bowl, she rose and checked the pot of water. “It’s boiling.”

“Two spoons of the willow bark. Let it steep for a few minutes.”

She prepared the tea. Holding the cup to his lips, she placed her hand on his back, steadying him as he drank. If possible, he seemed even hotter than he had before they’d eaten.

“It would help if I could fully lie down. Surely there’s a bed somewhere?”

“Upstairs, I believe. There is a stairway tucked behind the kitchen. Can you make it with your crutch?”

“I’ll try.” He rose and hobbled toward the kitchen.

Candle in hand, Priscilla remained one step behind, ready to catch him should he lose his balance. His arm holding the crutch shook, and perspiration dotted his forehead. He made it up two stairs, then sagged against the wall of the stairway.

“I’m afraid I will require your help again. I apologize.”

The narrow passageway of the staircase barely allowed one body, much less two. Pressed tight to his side, she wrapped her free arm around his waist and he draped his over her shoulders until they painstakingly made it up the flight of stairs and to the bedroom.

He landed on the bed in dramatic fashion, his feet still dangling off the side.

She fluffed the pillows under his head and lifted his stockinged feet onto the bed, then covered him with several blankets. As she pressed her hand against his forehead to test his temperature, he grasped her wrist.

“Emma, my angel.”

CHAPTER 6—MIS“CONCEPTIONS”

Everything about the situation was wrong, yet surprisingly right. Timothy strained to focus on Emma’s face. Lord, she was beautiful, and when she leaned over him, placing her delicate hand upon his forehead, her touch was like heaven, cool and soothing.

How had he thought her a termagant?

“Emma, my angel.” He closed his eyes, his body fluctuating between burning and freezing. At the moment, heat radiated from him, cooking him from the inside out. He yanked at his cravat to pull it off, but his fingers fumbled at the knot he had painstakingly tied that morning.

“Allow me,” Emma said.

His hand dropped to his side, too weak to argue with her. It was improper for an unmarried woman to undress a man, yet he mumbled a weak, “Thank you.”

Light flickered from the single candle Emma had carried upstairs, casting deepening shadows on the walls. With food in his stomach and the softness of the bed beneath him, Hypnos sang a seductive song, luring him closer to what he required—restful slumber.

“It’s cold in here,” she said, darting a glance toward the empty hearth.

Not to him, it wasn’t. He struggled to rise from the bed. “I should start a fire.” No sooner than he placed his feet on the floorboards, vertigo overcame him again, and he fell back onto the bed.

---