Prisoner of the Flames (Leisure Historical Romance) by Dawn MacTavish

Author:Dawn MacTavish [MacTavish, Dawn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: AmazonEncore
Published: 2009-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Nostradamus did not hover through those two endless days that brought Violette to the brink of crisis. He left Robert there alone with her to meditate upon his wisdom, explaining that it was important for him to go about his normal duties in the interim so as not to arouse suspicion. Subsequently, his comings and goings were cautions and brief, under cover of darkness.

Robert sat wide-eyed beside the delirious girl, sponging her face, which was on fire with fever, and forcing the lozenges through crusted lips that moaned and trembled, calling his name. Each time her ravings became violent, he tethered her in strong arms, for he would not allow the healer’s restraints. Instead, he held her and rocked her and clamped massive fists around her slender wrists whenever she made attempts to gouge the blisters, until bracelets of bruised skin encircled them. Exhaustion was his enemy then. It weighed heavily upon him. His body cried for sleep. When he could no longer deny it, he drew her close and held her fast in such a grip that any movement she might make would surely wake him, in much the same way that he always slept clutching his sword in dangerous places. Only then would he shut his eyes. He’d slept for several hours, though it seemed only minutes, when the feeble sound of her voice so close in his ear woke him with a start.

“My lord,” she murmured. “My lord…!” Reluctant to wake, he moaned, and she spoke again. “My lord…I thirst…”

Groggily, he vaulted upright, his hooded eyes staring out of focus, trying to decide if he’d dreamed the voice, or actually heard it. After a moment, his vision cleared, and he took her measure. She seemed less animated, her sightless stare less glazed, and her skin appeared to have fewer blotches. At the very least, he was certain some of what remained had lost its fire. A surge of relief washed over him, and something else—disappointment that she had called him ‘my lord,’ and not Robert, as she’d begged to in her delirium.

“Violette?” he cried, addressing what he prayed was a rational voice.

“I thirst…,” she moaned.

He snatched up the water skin and moistened her lips. They seemed cooler against the fingers that spread the droplets there. Supporting her in his arm, he let her drink from the skin, then felt her brow for fever. It had started to abate. Thanking God, he pulled her close, but he had scarcely gotten the supplication out, when anger flared again, and he shook her.

“You little fool!” he snapped. “I should up-end you here and now and thrash your bottom like the child you are. Why did you not take the remedy? Foolish child, we’ve nearly lost you.”

“Thrash me…beat me…flay my body raw if it please you—anything, my lord, but…please, I beg you, do not leave me! Do not send me away. Please…I beseech you…do not shut me up in the convent.”

“It was deliberate, this?” he breathed. The cold fingers of a chill crawled the length of his spine.

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