Claiming the Forbidden Bride. Gayle Wilson

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СКАЧАТЬ few blessed hours of uninterrupted sleep for herself.

      Rhys opened his eyes and then quickly closed them against the light that had seemed to stab through them, like a knife thrust into his brain. On some level, he realized that he had been aware of the agony in his head for a long time. Finally, its persistence had dragged him from sleep.

      He had a vague memory of being carried from the field, but he couldn’t think what battle they’d been engaged in. As adjutant, he should certainly know, but in spite of his struggle to remember, there was nothing about any of that left in his consciousness.

      Perhaps that was because there was room there for nothing but pain. And a thirst so profound it was almost worse than the other.

      He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. Even in the makeshift field hospitals set up near the lines, someone always brought water to those awaiting treatment. If he could only make them aware of his need.

      He dragged leaden eyelids upward again, but more cautiously this time. Through the slits he allowed, he saw that what he had avoided before was a single candle. And that its light was not bright at all.

      He turned his head, trying to locate one of the orderlies or even a surgeon. A shard of the previous agony sliced through his skull.

      He clenched his lips against the resultant wave of nausea, one so severe it threatened his determination never to move again. Hardly daring to breathe, he willed himself not to be sick.

      He tried to think of something—anything—other than the overwhelming urge to vomit. And finally, in his travail, realized that in the split second his eyes had been open, some still-functioning part of his brain had recognized that, wherever he was, it was like no hospital he’d ever seen.

      And like nowhere else he’d ever been.

      Curiosity engendered by that realization was almost enough to quell his roiling stomach. His eyelids again opened a slit, and for the third time, he peered out between his lashes.

      The light was definitely a candle. It had been pushed into a twisted holder made of some unidentifiable metal, blackened with age or use.

      Beyond was a blur of colour, reds and golds predominating. He turned his head another fraction of an inch in an attempt to bring his surroundings into better focus.

      The wall opposite where he lay was so close that, if he had had the strength, he could probably have stretched out his arm and touched it. And every inch of it, from floor to ceiling, was crowded with objects.

      He allowed his gaze to follow their upward climb, trying to identify what was there. Baskets, woven of vine and stacked full of what appeared to be dried roots. Earthenware crocks, their tops sealed with wax. Glass jars whose contents were indistinguishable, dark and strangely shaped. And sitting incongruously in the middle of what he had now realized were a series of shelves was a rag doll, exactly like those sold in every penny shop in England.

      England.

      He was no longer in Spain, he knew with a flash of clarity. He hadn’t been for months.

      If that were true.

      He raised his right hand to touch his face. Clean-shaven. Which must mean he’d been here—wherever here was—only a short time.

      His gaze came back to the table. A measuring cup and a small medicine bottle stood near its edge.

      A memory swam to the surface of his consciousness. A pair of long, slender fingers had poured out a measure of the liquid the bottle contained. Then a hand had slipped behind his head, raising it enough to allow him to swallow the dose. He tried desperately to retrieve the image of the face of the person who had administered the medication, butthe only thing he could remember after that was the same searing pain he had experienced a few minutes ago.

      He closed his eyes, releasing the breath he’d been holding in a long, slow sigh. Something moved against his leg. He opened his eyes to see what and realized gratefully that the pain in his head was less than before.

      A little girl, perhaps four or five, stood beside his bed. Her eyes, the exact colour of the hyacinths that bloomed in his sister-in-law’s garden, were surrounded by long, nearly colourless lashes. In contrast, the unbound hair that framed her face seemed almost golden in the candlelight.

      When she saw that his eyes were open, the child’s mouth rounded into an O of surprise. Clearly his visitor hadn’t expected him to be awake. Which made him wonder how many times she’d stood at his bedside as he slept.

      ‘Lo.’ His voice was little more than a croak, which made him remember his thirst.

      The Cupid’s bow lips rounded even more. Then the child whirled and disappeared from his sight.

      Rhys resisted the urge to follow her movement, remembering what that curiosity might cost him. Instead, he allowed his eyelids to fall once more.

      Although there had been no physical activity during this brief period of wakefulness, he was aware of an almost terrifying sense of fatigue. Maybe he’d been wrong about the fever. Maybe someone had shaved him. Or maybe.

      Suddenly, trying to piece together what might have happened became too difficult. And far less important than the sleep that again claimed him.

       Chapter Three

      ‘Wake up, chavi.’

      At the childhood term of endearment her grandmother still used for her, Nadya opened her eyes to find the old woman bending over the bed. Her first thought was that something had happened to her patient.

      ‘Is his fever up?’

      ‘No, no. That one’s fine.’

      ‘Then why aren’t you with the gaujo? You promised you’d watch him.’

      ‘Angel is watching him.’

      ‘Angel?’ Nadya struggled to clear the cobwebs from her brain as she sat up. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep. All she knew with any certainty was that it hadn’t been nearly long enough. ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘Stephano’s back. I thought you would want to know.’

      Although he was the Rom Baro, titular head of their kumpania, her half-brother had spent most of this year away from camp. And since Nadya had no doubt what his feelings would be about the Englishman she was caring for, to have Stephano unexpectedly show up now, with her patient on the verge of recovery, seemed the height of irony.

      ‘Have you told him about the gaujo?’

      Nadya knew that if Magda hadn’t, she soon would. The old woman shared a bond with her grandson stronger even than that between the two of them.

      ‘He’s just arrived. I came to let you know while the others are welcoming him home.’

      ‘Someone’s bound to tell him.’

      ‘Of course they will, chavi. It’s his right to be told what has gone on here СКАЧАТЬ