She Shall Be Praised by Ruth Axtell

Author:Ruth Axtell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: historical inspirational Christian Restoration France, Napoleonic, Regency romance, Ruth Axtell, The Leighton Sisters, The Rogue's Redemption, historical romance
Publisher: Ruth Axtell
Published: 2015-04-04T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Etienne awoke, feeling hungry. Ravenous, in fact.

The realization led to another—the absence of pain between his temples. He lay perfectly still, marveling for a moment at something he thought he’d never experience again.

The awareness spread to the rest of his torso. There was no more pain in his joints or muscles. No chills shook his body, no heat bathed him in sweat.

In fact, he felt perfectly normal. Normal, except for the empty feeling in his stomach and the usual absence of feeling below his waist.

He grimaced. In his dreams, he’d been seeing. But unchanging blackness greeted his open eyes.

Nothing had changed.

Where was Katie? She’d been present all along. He groped the side of his bed with one hand, remembering so many times when he’d awakened to find her hand in his.

But he felt nothing but his sheet. For a second he panicked, hearing nothing around him.

But the next, a familiar wet nose sniffed at his hand. He raised his hand and felt the top of the dog’s head. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out but a croak.

The dog came closer and the next thing he knew Brioche was licking his face. He tried to move away but was too weak. “Eh—”

“Etienne!”

He stilled immediately at that dear, sweet voice of his angel.

Her warm hand covered his forehead. “Praise God,” she whispered.

“Wha—?”

“Your fever is gone,” she said in a low, fervent tone.

When he said nothing, too tired to try to formulate words, she continued. “You’ve been very sick.”

Katie, his angel who had stuck with him through it all. Recollections tumbled into his mind. Voices and sensations—Katie’s predominant among them—smoothing his brow as she was doing now with a cool, wet cloth, whispering gently to him, often in French. A deeper, masculine voice in rough English; strong hands lifting, washing him; another British voice, more cultivated; all amidst the constant haze of pain. “K...atie.”

She pressed his hand. “I’m here. What can I get you?”

“Tha—th—” The words came out thick and scratchy as he tried to thank her.

“Here, let me get you some water.” The next moment, she lifted his head—the way she’d done countless times—and brought a porcelain cup to his lips.

He drank a few sips, his parched throat alleviated.

“Brioche, you mustn’t annoy Monsieur Santerre. You know how ill he’s been.” She pushed the dog’s muzzle away from Etienne’s side then eased his head gently back down onto the pillow. “There. How do you feel?”

“Th...the pain in my head is gone.”

She chuckled—dear, beautiful sound. “Of course it is.”

He lifted his hand, seeking hers. When he found it, he clasped it. “Y...you...saved...my life.”

She returned the pressure of his hand. “The Lord saved your life.”

“I don’t know whether I should thank you...or curse you.”

“This proves God isn’t done with you yet. This is only the first step. You shall see all He has in store for you.”

He made no reply. Talking took too much effort. At the moment, he was merely content to listen to her sweet voice, the words as yet had little meaning to him.

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