Chapter 6
Six
SARAH
All I wanted to do was sleep. So it was extremely irritating when that dreadful man kept waking me up to force pills and water down my throat, and then he made me chew on bland slices of buttery toast. I was cognizant enough to know it was Mr. Cavendish, but I didn’t have the energy to ask him why he was here or mistrust his intentions.
However, I woke up during the night, shivering and shaking so badly, I must have made a noise because suddenly, Cavendish was in the doorway. He hurried to the bed as my eyes adjusted to the dark, and I vaguely noted his rumpled, sleep-creased appearance.
“Bloody hell, little mouse,” he muttered. “You’re shivering enough to start an earthquake.”
“S-so c-c-cold,” I chittered, my teeth clattering together as I shook.
“Maybe your fever is breaking,” he murmured.
Suddenly, Cavendish threw off my duvet and sat down on the bed. Alarm cut through my daze. “W-w-what are y-you d-d-oing?”
“Body heat,” he explained with surprising patience. “Turn on your side and pretend I’m someone you like.”
“I-I don’t th-think s-so.” I had enough presence of mind to remember I didn’t know this man.
“I’d have to be the worst sort of reprobate to take advantage of a sick woman. And while I am actually a reprobate, I’m not the worst sort. I promise you, I just want to warm you up. It’s all very innocent. But I’ll get out of the bed if you want me to.”
I wanted heat badly enough to trust him just a wee bit, so I turned onto my side. I jolted as his arm wrapped around me, tugging me close to him. He pulled the duvet back over us.
To my astonishment, the heat of his body soaked into mine and while my shivering didn’t entirely abate, I did feel warmer.
“Go to sleep, darling,” Cavendish murmured against my hair as he tightened his arm around me.
The next morning, my eyes opened to find sunlight spilling in through the cracks in the window covering.
My mind felt clearer and as I checked myself, I realized while I was still sticky with sweat, I didn’t feel feverish.
I pressed a hand to my chest and the skin was much cooler to the touch than before.
I tried to breathe out in relief and realized how stuffed my nose was. My head still ached too. And when I swallowed, it hurt like hell.
A memory of last night hit me.
Theo Cavendish was here … and he’d slept in this bed beside me.
No.
That couldn’t be right.
Could it?
I pushed up with a groan, and the room swayed but not as badly as before.
The movement, however, set off a tickle in my nose and I sneezed.
It wasn’t pretty. Ugh, I needed a hanky.
Turning my gaze to the bedside table, I was surprised to see a fresh glass of orange juice, two paracetamol, and a box of tissues.
I’d just wiped my runny nose when a familiar, deep, extremely posh voice said, “Ah, good, you’re awake.” Looking up, I watched Cavendish stride into the room, fully dressed and hair slightly damp, as if he might have showered. He looked well-slept and not at all disheveled. “How are you feeling?”
This man had spent all day yesterday and last night looking after me. Why? Confused, I replied in a thick, bunged-up voice, “I think my fever has broken. What are you doing here?”
“Let’s test that, shall we?” he replied instead and reached for something on the bedside table. I realized it was a thermometer. “Open up.”
I took it from him with shaky hands and stuck the instrument into my mouth. We stared at each other, his gaze searching, mine questioning, as I let the thing sit until it beeped. Taking it out, I read the digital screen. “Says 37.3°.”
“Congratulations, little mouse, your fever has broken.”
“Yay,” I replied sarcastically. “I sound like hell.”
“Yes, you do. But the worst is over.” He gestured to the paracetamol. “Take those, drink up, and I’ll bring you something to eat.”
“Did you … did you sleep in here with me last night?”
“You were shivering quite badly, so I provided body heat. You warmed up almost immediately.” He smirked. “I have that effect on women.”
I attempted to roll my eyes, but it hurt so I stopped. “Aren’t you worried about catching what I have?”
“You have the flu. The doctor said there’s been an outbreak in the area.”
Groaning, I slumped back against my pillow. I bet I caught it at the market the other day. The place was packed with people. “And you’re not worried about catching it?”
Cavendish shrugged. “I have a remarkable immune system. I can’t remember the last time I was ill. I’ve been on several film sets where almost the entire crew has come down with something, and yet”—he gestured to himself—“nothing. Healthy as a horse.”
“Fine. But can you explain what you’re doing here? It’s a wee bit surreal that, of all people, you’re the one taking care of me.”
Cavendish crossed his arms over his chest. “I read your books. They’re rather good. I came to write the screenplay.”
Shock froze me to the pillow. I was not well enough to deal with this. “M-my agent is reading through the contract a producer has sent. It’s almost a done deal.”
“Almost being the operative word. These things take forever. But we can have this conversation later. Right now, you have the flu, and you need to get better. And you need to eat something.”
“Why?” This was a man who treated everyone with careless charm and if you were unlucky, like me, a bit of arrogant mockery. Why on earth was he looking after me?
Understanding my question, Cavendish gestured to the room. “Is there anyone else here to look after you?”
I could call Jared, but it would take him away from the farm and he needed to be there. “What do you want in return? The adaptation rights?”
His gaze narrowed and he opened his mouth before his lips pressed together, as if he’d thought better of it. A tense silence passed between us before he drawled lazily, “You need to eat and then if you’re able to stand, I’d suggest a shower, little mouse.”
Not long later, I took small bites of the fried egg on toast Cavendish had cooked up for me, all the while eyeing him while he eyed me.
He’d pulled a chair into the room to sit by my bed and was now on guard, making sure I ate every bite of the breakfast. The whole thing continued to be surreal.
I’d also never met anyone who didn’t squirm when you stared constantly at them without speaking, and weirdly, I found myself almost enjoying the challenge of staring him down. Cavendish was unmoved.
He’d been a little surlier when he’d returned with my breakfast, and I had a feeling I might have hurt his feelings when I’d suggested he was caring for me with an ulterior motive in mind.
But that couldn’t be right. He never crossed me as the type who anyone could truly hurt.
Or someone who would take care of another human being unless there was something in it for him.
He liked my books.
I tried not to show how much that meant to me. Even though he was a prick, he was still a talented prick whose work I admired.
And he liked my books.
I’d eaten almost the entire slice of toast and egg when I started to feel nauseated and exhausted again. “I’m done.”
Cavendish shook his head. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, his hands clasped together on his washboard stomach, totally casual, as if looking after a flu-addled stranger was a normal occurrence.
Oddly, he didn’t feel like a stranger. I didn’t feel threatened by him in my space or awkward that he’d held me last night. Usually, the very thought of a strange man in my personal space would have sent me into shy convulsions.
“Aye, I am,” I insisted, pushing the plate away from me on the bed.
“You have two bites left. You can do it. Be a good girl.”
I scowled at him. Patronizing arsehole.
His lips twitched. “Food and fluids will help you recover faster.”
The thought of my manuscript, lying barely started on my computer and the deadline that loomed, made me reluctantly drag the plate back and quickly stuff down the rest of it.
I’d barely finished when Cavendish reached over to take the plate, and I felt a violent tickle in my nose.
I hurriedly reached for a hanky and managed to hold back the sneeze just long enough for Cavendish to get out of range.
And then I sneezed like it was a frickin’ Olympic sport.
There was so much mucus, I wanted to die as I scrambled to wipe my nose and face.
My cheeks flushed at the sudden knowledge that the Honorable Theodore Cavendish, a specimen of physical male perfection, was here to witness me at my worst. Right now, I probably looked like someone had rescued me from a hot, phlegmy swamp.
“I didn’t know that much noise could come out of such a little thing,” Cavendish teased as he strode from the room. “Get some sleep. I’ll be back in a few hours and then we’ll see about cleaning you up.”
Confused and mortified, I slid back down my bed and buried my face in the pillows. I didn’t have long to feel embarrassed or bemused by his continued presence because exhaustion pulled me deep into sleep.
“I don’t want to,” I grumbled a few hours later, feeling crabbit and out of sorts upon Cavendish waking me.
“You’ll feel better if you have a wash, little mouse.”
I glowered at the pet name, but I’d given up on telling him to stop calling me that. I think I’d realized quite quickly that if you told Cavendish not to do something, he took perverse pleasure in doing it even more. Such a child. “I don’t think my legs will take it.”
“If that’s true, you can get right back in bed. C’mon. You must be needing the loo.”
As soon as he said it, I felt the pressure on my bladder. Bloody Nora.
“Fine.” I weakly shoved aside the duvet and hurried to push down the hem of my nightgown.
“Let me help.” Theo offered his arm.
Stubbornly, I stood without aid. My legs shook and the room swayed. I felt so weak, it was almost shocking. I panted for breath and leaned, without meaning to, into Theo.