Page 52 of Miss Vincent’s Vow

“No.”

“Good. Now—”

“That’s not what I meant. I do not wish my husband to be bled.”

Mr Cooper frowned. “But my dear Mrs Hunt, how else can we cleanse his body of infection?”

“No blood-letting.”

“But—”

“The doctor bled my father repeatedly in his last illness. The procedure did nothing to slow his decline, nor did it bring him any relief. All it did was weaken him, and I will not see the same thing happen to my husband.”

“The cases are quite different. I’m sure Mr Hunt would benefit—”

“No. I’ll nurse him myself. Tell me what I should do.”

“Very well. Careful nursing will be of some value, though I fear it is a mistake not to bleed him. I’ll give you a draught that will help bring down his temperature, and you must keep him cool, even if he tells you he is cold. He may eat if he feels like it, but no strong liquor. And persuade him to rest, at least until the fever breaks.”

The doctor gave her a long stare. “Your husband has a robust constitution. He should make a full recovery, but if complications arise, who can say? If his condition worsens, call me again. Maybe then you will listen to reason and allow me to bleed your husband.”

“Thank you. I will.”

The man shook his head from side to side as he packed up his bag, muttering under his breath about women who thought they knew better than doctors.

Cassandra showed him out of the room and then she was alone with Jethro.

“That was brave of you, to stand up to Mr Cooper.”

“It was necessary.”

“Thank you, I think. Though if I die, we’ll know it was a mistake.”

There was a half-smile on Jethro’s lips as he spoke, and Cassandra chuckled. “What an odd time to develop a sense of humour.”

As the evening progressed, Jethro’s condition deteriorated, and Cassandra feared she had erred in going against medical advice. The doctor sent over the draught as promised, but it did little to ease his discomfort.

She sat at Jethro’s bedside as he slept in fits and starts, mopping his brow with cold water and praying for the fever to abate.

Poor Jethro. How vulnerable he looked, tossing and turning and muttering incoherently. So weak. Not at all like the man who had ranted at her earlier.

Cassandra brushed a hand over his heated forehead, pushing back the hair that had stuck to his face. She trailed her fingers down the side of his jaw and along the line of his chin, but she fought the yearning to trace the shape of his lips with her fingertips and jerked her hand away.

What sweet torture, stroking her husband’s face, knowing he would not stop her, yet knowing she would not dare if he were well.

Would there ever be a day when he would welcome such attentions from her? Not if he didn’t recover.

It was only a fever. He would get well again—wouldn’t he?

She had married Jethro for security, but that wasn’t a concern anymore. Whatever happened, she would not be homeless, as he had provided for her in his will.

Something tugged at Cassandra’s heart as she gazed at Jethro’s fevered face, and she realised that was no longer enough. She wanted more. She wanted him.

How had this arrogant, opinionated, unpredictable man become dear to her? Was it love? She didn’t know—but she prayed she’d have the chance to find out.

Jethro must get well. She doused his forehead with cold water again. If only the fever would lessen. She bit her lip as an idea came to her. A way of bringing her husband greater relief.

Did she dare? Yes. She dared.