His eyes were closed, his breathing a shallow rumble. Pneumonia from the chilly water, most likely, but she couldn’t be sure. She only knew enough to keep him warm, dose him on willow bark and maybe steam him to clear his lungs.
That, and pray.
Her fingers shook as she freed his shirt buttons. The sun had dried the fine linen fabric on the way up the trail, but the woolen undershirt beneath was wet from seawater and sweat. He moaned incoherently, barely aware of her as she worked the garment off him, pulling it over his arms and his dark head. His pale gold skin was nicked with scars, his chest dusted with crisp black hair. But this was no time to pay attention to such things. He was shivering. She needed to get him warm.
Sylvie had left the bedclothes turned up to keep them dry. Now, with his inert body on top of the quilt, there was no easy way to cover him.
Racing into the next room, she pulled the quilted coverlet off her own bed and returned to lay it over him. His eyes were closed. His dry lips moved as if he were trying to speak.
“Don’t try to talk,” she soothed him. “You’ll be warmer soon, and I’ll get you some tea for the fever.”
The tone of her voice gave Sylvie pause. She was speaking as she might speak to Daniel. But this stranger was no child. He was a powerful male who might take advantage of a woman he saw as meek and tender. She needed to let him know who was in charge here.
And since she needed to strip him of his wet trousers and drawers, there was no time like the present.
The task she faced was a daunting one. She’d cared for Daniel since he was a baby, but she knew little about the bodies of grown men. Her father, mindful of a young girl’s sensitivities, had taken care not to expose himself. The very thought of seeing a strange man’s nakedness was enough to make Sylvie blush. But she had a plan. Under the cover of the quilt, she could work his garments down and pull them off his legs, leaving him modestly covered.
Crouching at the edge of the mattress, she steeled her resolve, reached under the quilt and began fumbling with his belt buckle.
Through a red fog of fever, Ishmael sensed that somebody was unfastening his trousers. The light touch suggested a woman’s hand. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have minded. But if the lady was bent on a bit of fun, why was she being so stealthy about it? Why not just wake him up and give him a chance to cooperate?
Only one thing made sense. The little slut was trying to rob him.
His hand flashed out and seized her wrist. With a cry she reeled back, struggling to pull away. But even sick, he possessed an iron grip, and he wasn’t about to release his hold.
“Let go of me!” she sputtered. “Don’t you know I’m trying to help you?”
He forced his eyes open. His vision swam, but the blurred image of her face bending over him confirmed that she was pretty. “Looks to me like you’re helping yourself to my pockets…” The words came out slurred and garbled. What was wrong with his tongue?
“You’re sick.” She sounded like a schoolmarm scolding a backward child. “I’m just trying to get you out of your wet clothes and into bed.”
“Seems t’ me you’d have better luck if you got out of your own clothes first.”
“Stop it!” she hissed. “If you weren’t out of your mind, I’d slap your face.”
“A l’il rough stuff might be fun, if that’s what you enjoy. I aim to please…” He could feel himself sinking again. It was hard to breathe, even harder to think. His fingers loosened around her wrist. He felt her pull free as the fog closed around him.
“Stay awake!” Her hand seized his jaw and gave it a firm shake. “Once I get your clothes off, you’ll need to get under the covers. After that I’ll dress your head wound and give you something for the fever.”
“Fever…?” He mouthed the word. Strange he should have a fever when his skin had shrunk to shivering goose bumps. And now the woman’s hands were fooling with his trousers again, her fingers undoing the buttons and untying the tape that held up his drawers. Not that he was in a mood to argue—the sensation was not the least bit unpleasant. But he was still uncertain whether she was a nurse, a pickpocket or a whore.
“Now!” She yanked the waist of his pants and drawers, peeling them down his body and off his feet in one wrenching motion. By the time she’d left him naked beneath the quilt she was winded from the effort. Ishmael could hear her breathy gasps from the foot of the bed. His head had begun to fog again—a good thing, that. The words his mouth was too muzzy to speak would probably have gotten his face slapped.
He heard the splat of wet clothes dropping to the floor. “I’m going to turn down the bed,” she said. “You’ll need to get up for a few seconds.”
“Try…” He could barely lift his head. He was as weak as a newborn kitten.
“Here.” She bent down and slid a hand under his bare shoulders. “You can move onto the stool by the bed. Hang on to that quilt.”
Yes, the damn quilt. It mattered to her that he stay covered, Ishmael realized. Whoever she was, she was a female of tender sensibilities. A lady? She looked too poor for that. More like an innocent, church-bred girl. He’d do well to curb his tongue.
Wisps of corn-silk hair brushed his face as she bent over him. She smelled of sea air and homemade soap, fresh and clean. How could he have misjudged such a creature?
Or was he misjudging her now? His thoughts were wandering like half-witted sheep without a herder.
Her arm was beneath his shoulders now. She was straining to lift him, but his dead weight was too much for her. Gripping the quilt with one hand, he worked his free arm underneath his body and pushed himself up. Caught off guard, she stumbled backward against the wall. Fear flashed in her startled eyes, but only for an instant. As she righted herself, her pretty face took on a look of grim determination.
“It’s all right, girl,” he mumbled. “Do what you need to. You’ve nothing to be afraid of.”
“And neither do you, as long as you behave yourself,” she snapped. “Now, get out of the way while I turn down the bed.”
Keeping a grip on the quilt, he hoisted himself onto the stool. Being upright made the dizziness worse. The ringing in his ears was like a howling gale. An impression flashed through his mind—crashing waves, the pitching deck, the blue-white glare of lightning on wave-slicked rocks, then blackness. Was it a memory or only a trick of the fever? Whatever it had been, it was gone.
Sylvie barely had time to throw back the covers before he slumped on the stool. She seized his shoulders, tipping him toward the bed as he fell. He crashed onto his left side, his legs trailing off the bed. The quilt slipped to the floor.
“Ishmael, can you hear me?” She leaned over him. He was breathing, but his eyes were closed. He gave no sign that he’d heard her. Averting her gaze, she boosted his legs onto the mattress and flung the blankets over his body. Then she picked up the quilt and laid it on top of him. Even that, she feared, wouldn’t be enough to keep him warm.
He’d begun to shake again. His teeth chattered as Sylvie tucked the blankets around his shoulders. From the kitchen she could hear the faint whistle as steam escaped from the boiling kettle. She raced for the stove to lift it off the heat. A few minutes of steeping and the willow bark tea would be ready. She could only pray it would help. It was the strongest thing she had.
While she waited, she would dress his head wound.
Daniel’s Mexican mother had taught her what little she knew about herbs and poultices. One of the most useful remedies was a salve made of pine tar. Sylvie kept a jar of it handy for the scrapes and bumps that befell her active little brother. But she’d never treated anything as serious as the gash on Ishmael’s head. She could only hope it wouldn’t need stitches.
After