To Catch a Bride

by Anne Gracie

  “It’s not madness,” she assured him. “If it’s not plague, there’s no reason to put anyone ashore. But if it is plague, I can help. Both my parents died of it, but I didn’t, Captain—I didn’t. There must be a reason for that, and I believe this is it. I’ve lived in Cairo all my life and I’ve never fallen ill.”

  She heard another lot of low murmuring.

  “I promise you,” she reiterated, “if you break into this cabin, the first two men in here will die.”

  “Very well, have it your own way,” the captain said heavily. “You’re either the stupidest young woman I have ever met . . . or the bravest.”

  There was a pause, then she heard their footsteps receding down the corridor. Dimly she heard Mrs. Ferris complaining and some other passengers joining in. The sound receded.

  With shaking hands Ayisha put the pistols down. They were loaded?

  She turned to find Rafe watching her. He was shivering desperately, but his skin looked tight and hot. “Wha’ th’ devil d’y’ think you’re doing?” he grated in a hoarse whisper. “Get out of here.” His blue eyes blazed with fever and with rage.

  “Don’t be silly, you need looking after,” she told him.

  “I order you to leave!”

  “Save your breath, I’m not a soldier, and I don’t obey orders,” she told him. “Higgins, are you still there?” she called through the door.

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Bring me sheets, towels, extra blankets, hot water, and hot ginger tea, lemons or limes, honey. The most important thing is to see if anyone on board has any willow bark or Peruvian bark. Or anything that would be useful for a fever—if they will give it to us, that is.”

  “Peruvian bark will stop it?”

  “I don’t know, but it can’t hurt. Nobody knows what cures plague or causes it. Some say it’s in the air, some say it’s a judgment by God, others say you get it from touching someone or eating certain foods. Everyone just has to guess, that’s the trouble. But I know Peruvian bark and willow bark are good for fever, so . . .”

  “There’s a box of medical supplies—it’s the black one in the bottom of the trunk. It’s got Peruvian bark and willow bark. Can’t remember what else. I got it freshly stocked by the apothecary before we left London. As for the rest, I’ll do my best, miss.”

  “Good.” She heard his footsteps retreating and turned back to Rafe. “Now we’ll have to get you up on that bed. You can’t stay on the floor.” She tugged at his arm, but he made no attempt to move. “You’ll have to help me, Rafe—I can’t lift you by myself.”

  “Want . . . you . . . out,” he managed.

  “No. Now I can do this with your help or without it, but it will be much harder for me if you don’t help.”

  He pointed to the door, his hand shaking with fever. “Go! Geddout.”

  Stubborn man. “I’m going to do this anyway and nothing you can say will make me leave,” she told him. “So if you could just help me to get you onto that bed . . .”

  He struggled to his feet, fending her off and using the furniture to drag himself briefly upright before collapsing on the unmade bed. He tried to drag the covers up over himself.

  “Not yet you don’t.” She grabbed the covers. “First we have to get those clothes off you.”

  He tried to push her away, but the struggle to get to the bed had exhausted him. He’d stopped shivering. She felt his forehead. His skin was hot and dry and he was burning up.

  She dragged his boots off, then his stockings. She unbuttoned and unlaced everything she could, then turned him on first one side, then the other, to drag his coat and waistcoat off. She decided to leave the shirt on, for the moment. She could easily lift it to check his armpits.

  If it was plague, there would be swellings under his armpits or in his groin. She closed her eyes and prayed, then lifted the shirt and his arm.

  “Wha’ you doin’?”

  “Examining your armpit.” She felt it gently. No sign of a swelling there. Yet. Thank God.

  Now for the groin.

  She unfastened the front fall of his breeches and started to drag them down his legs, along with the cotton drawers he wore underneath. “Stop. What’ch doing?” he muttered.

  “I have to examine your groin,” she told him. “See if there is any swelling there.”

  He choked with what seemed like a laugh. “Not now. Maybe t’morr’w.”

  She shrugged and dragged the breeches and drawers down his long, hard legs. He pulled the sheet over himself.

  “This is no time for false modesty,” she told him. “I have to look.”

  He gave her a baleful, fever-ridden, stubborn look and held the sheet in position.

  “I’ve seen the male shape before,” she assured him. She’d seen Ali naked several times when he was a little boy. “And I need to check your groin!”

  She yanked the sheet off and froze. The resemblance between what she beheld now and what she’d seen while bathing Ali was . . . vague at the very least.

  This was a . . . a man. She felt a bit breathless.

  A very sick man; she castigated herself for being distracted. She touched him gingerly, and slid her hand into the crease where his inner leg joined his body, avoiding his male parts as best she could, and felt carefully.

  “Nothing,” she breathed.

  “Wha’?”

  “No swellings,” she assured him.

  He opened one eye. “Course not. Too sick,” he mumbled, gave a convulsive jerk, and started shivering again. She quickly felt to check the other side, and again, thank God, there was no swelling.

  “I’ll check again in an hour,” she told him.

  “Cold,” he said, shuddering violently. She pulled the covers up and tucked him in. Still he shivered. She fetched more clothes and tucked them around him. He huddled into them, his eyes closed.

  She found the small medicine chest and examined its contents. There were at least a dozen stoppered jars containing various substances, but although they were all clearly labeled, she wasn’t sure what most of them would be used for. Two she did know and gave thanks for: Peruvian bark and willow bark.

  A quiet knock at the door startled her. She jumped up and snatched the pistols. “Who’s there?”

  “Higgins. No one else, I promise, miss.”

  She wasn’t sure whether to believe him. If the captain held a gun on him . . . “Put everything down outside the door, then move back,” she ordered.

  She waited until she heard his footsteps retreating, then cautiously opened the door, just a crack. She peered out but could see no one, so she poked her head around the door, the pistol primed and ready, just in case—oh God, she hoped she wouldn’t have to shoot. But there was nobody there, just Higgins, waiting ten feet away.

  “Thank you, Higgins,” she called. “I’ve examined him and there are no swellings. That means there’s no sign of plague. Tell the captain.” It might still be plague—and she wouldn’t lie to them if it was—but it would help if the captain and passengers were reassured.

  She quickly moved everything into the cabin. Bolting it securely, she checked to see what he’d brought. Extra towels, blankets, bowls, a large pot of hot ginger tea—thank goodness. And an invalid cup with a spout—praise be. With fever, he should drink plenty of fluids, and this would make it so much easier.

  She poured some of the tea into the cup and sprinkled Peruvian bark powder into it. She wasn’t sure which of the barks would be most efficacious, but both were reputed to be good for fever, so she would alternate.

  She waited five minutes, stirring to let the goodness of the bark steep, then carefully lifted Rafe’s head and set the spout to his lips.

  “You must drink this,” she told him soothingly when he groaned and moved his head fretfully at the taste. “It’s ginger tea with honey and Peruvian bark. It will help bring your fever down.” He seemed to understand and obediently drank, swallowing each mouthful as if it were painful.

  He managed half a
cup, then lay back, exhausted.

  She tucked the covers around him and returned to the examination of the supplies Higgins had brought. There was a medical manual—the captain’s, no doubt.

  She searched for advice. Sprinkle the sickroom with vinegar, she read, so she sprinkled vinegar everywhere.

  Unlike many physicians, this one recommended fresh air. Ayisha agreed; she already had the two portholes open. The air was warm, salty fresh, and clean; it had to be good.

  The physician recommended bleeding in the early stages of certain fevers, but only under certain conditions. She grimaced. She hated bleeding—the doctor had bled Papa copiously, and she had bad memories of it.

  But if she had to, if it would save him, she would . . . Thankfully these were not the stated conditions. Yet.

  She read that in some cases of plague a roasted onion soaked in olive oil had been used to soften the buboes—that was the medical term for the swellings in the groin, neck, and armpits—which were then lanced to release the putridity. The book didn’t say if it worked, just that it had been done by others. Did they live or not? Still, if it was in the book the physician must have thought it was worth saying . . .

  She swallowed. Very well then, if buboes formed, she would do that. Rafe’s razor would be sharp enough to lance anything.

  They hadn’t tried that with Mama and Papa—perhaps if they had . . .

  A positive attitude, she reminded herself. There were no buboes yet. In the meantime she would try to bring his fever down.

  He stopped shivering after the first hour and threw all his bedclothes off, tossing and turning weakly. “Hot . . . hot . . .” he gasped. “Water . . .”

  Gently she sponged his body with water and vinegar, smoothing the cool, astringent dampness over the broad planes of his chest and stomach and down his arms and legs.

  She tried not to stare at his body, but she could not help herself. His chest was broad and firm, rising and falling now in jerky, uneven breaths. She stroked his damp skin, willing his strength to return. Thick bands of muscles, relaxed now in his unconscious state, twitched under her palm as she smoothed the sponge over him.

  He was a rich man, and yet there was not an ounce of fat on him. A man of bone and muscle. Was that good or not? she wondered. She had some idea that a fatter man might fight a wasting fever better.

  She lifted his arms and bathed him with vinegar and water, feeling again for swellings, but there were none.

  She sponged down his body, following the wedge of hair that narrowed to his belly button, bisected his stomach, and merged with the thick tangle at his groin. His male parts were soft, and she drizzled cool water over them, and felt cautiously on either side for buboes. Nothing.

  She glanced at his face and saw his eyes were open, watching her. She felt a leap of hope.

  “Nothing there, no swellings,” she told him. “There’s nothing to worry about. You’ll get well soon. Just sleep.”

  He made no sound, no sign that he understood, and she realized he was staring at her with blank, fever-ridden, unseeing eyes.

  She sponged down his long, hard-muscled legs, lightly covered with hair. He moved them restlessly under her hands, and started tossing his head back and forth. His big fists clenched and unclenched.

  She fed him some willow bark tea and he quietened again.

  If she’d never met this man before, she’d still know he was a warrior, she thought as she sponged the big, hot, restless body. He was covered with nicks and scars.

  He’d had several nasty, life-threatening wounds. A long silvery gash with puckered edges stretched from just under his arm to right across his ribs; a deep slash from a sword, she guessed. A miracle he’d survived that one.

  He had a small, round hole in his shoulder and a matching one on his back: a bullet that had, seemingly, passed right through him. Another miracle.

  There were scars on his jaw and one high up near his temple, she discovered when she was smoothing back his damp hair. Several small scars were recent: Gadi’s uncle and friends, she thought guiltily.

  She finished sponging him and stood back. So many scars should look ugly; instead he looked beautiful.

  But right now he was weaker than her kitten.

  Her eyes filled with tears. She dashed them away. Think positive, she told herself fiercely. Think positive!

  He was staring at her again, his blue, blue eyes burning through her.

  She knelt down beside the bed and smoothed his hair back, murmuring soft words of comfort.

  Through the day she bathed him repeatedly, smoothing positive thoughts and strength into him with every touch. She fed him willow bark tea and Peruvian tea and barley water containing something called spirit of nitre, which the book had mentioned and was in the medical box.

  He tossed and turned and muttered and mumbled, and all the time his fever rose and rose. She’d sponge him with vinegar and water, or cover him with cool, wet cloths, and they seemed to give him comfort, but then suddenly he’d be shivering, his body racked with spasms and she would reach for the covers again and tuck him in.

  And all the time she prayed.

  Several times in the day Higgins returned, asking after the patient, bringing with him hot water and checking to see if there was anything Ayisha needed.

  He brought her meals, which she didn’t want, but he stood outside, insisting she ate to keep up her strength—and he was right, she knew, so she ate. Tasting nothing.

  In the late afternoon Higgins brought all Ayisha’s belongings. Mrs. Ferris was worried about infection, he told her and had refused to have them—or her kitten—in the cabin any longer.

  The Reverend and Mrs. Payne were looking after the kitten. And praying for Mr. Ramsey. And for Ayisha.

  Night fell, but the fever did not subside. Instead he felt hotter, despite everything she could think of to do.

  Through the porthole she could see the curve of the moon hanging low in the sky. It shone on Cairo, too, she reminded herself. How were they getting on there? She missed Laila, missed her wisdom and experience. Laila would know if Ayisha was doing the right things or not.

  Ayisha didn’t. All day she’d poured medicine into him, but he seemed only to be getting worse. She felt so helpless, so frightened. What if she couldn’t keep him alive?

  How would she bear it if he died? She’d only just found him . . .

  He shivered desperately. “Cold . . . cold . . .” he muttered.

  She had every possible covering over him. The portholes were open, but the air outside was warm and balmy. She couldn’t think of a single thing she could do to make him warmer. Except one.

  She stripped down to her chemise and climbed into bed, slipping under the covers until she was touching him. Lord, but he was hot, his body was like a furnace, yet he shivered and muttered, “Cold, cold.”

  She spooned her body around his, holding him protectively, willing her health, her strength into him. She placed her palm against his naked chest, over his heart. She needed it there to feel any change in the night.

  She lay curled against him, feeling the thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat, willing it to stay steady and strong. She would not let him die, she would not. She repeated it over and over in her mind. She wasn’t sure if she was praying or not.

  Exhausted, frightened, woken by any movement or change in him, she drifted in and out of sleep.

  The second day was worse. He was hotter, weaker, more distressed, more restless. Three times a day she fed him boiled water with willow bark, and Peruvian bark three times a day in between times. At other times she gave him barley water with honey and sponged him or packed him with blankets, depending on whether he was complaining of cold or heat.

  A dozen times a day she felt for buboes and each time she breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever it was, at least it wasn’t plague. Yet.

  All day she listened to him talking.

  It went almost nonstop: shouting, or a constant mumbling delirium. It only stopped for short
periods when he was asleep. Or unconscious.

  But she came to dread those silent periods. They terrified her. At least when he was talking he was alive, even if he didn’t make sense.

  In the silences she hovered over him, watching each breath, ready to pounce on him if he should die. She had no idea what she would do if he did—force him to live, somehow—she wasn’t sure how.

  “You’d better be only sleeping,” she’d tell him in the silences. “Dying is not an option.”

  Or, “You promised my grandmother you’d take me to her; you said you never break a promise, dammit, so don’t break this one!”

  But most of the time she was quietly saying, “Breathe . . . Breathe . . . Breathe.” And breathing each breath with him, for him.

  Sometimes when he talked she learned things about him. Many didn’t make sense. Some did.

  He relived parts of his life. She could tell when he thought he was back in the war, she could hear him muttering disjointed orders, interspersed with thoughts, interrupted with shouted warnings. Sometimes his arms flailed around, or his fists bunched, as if he were fighting.

  She curled up beside him on the bed, smoothing his forehead and making soothing, calming sounds. And again, she slept the night spooned around him, her palm pressed over his heart.

  The third day was worse still.

  As she changed the sheets, she stared at his naked body spread-eagled on the bed. Muscles she’d caressed on the first day now looked somehow . . . stringier. Had they shrunk? She couldn’t tell, but she thought they had.

  Could a big, tough body become wasted like that? In just two days? Or was she imagining it?

  She felt for buboes; still nothing.

  He lay quiet, still, hot, his breath rasping irregularly in and out like a rusty bellows.

  He said not a word. Now she missed the demented ramblings that had so distressed her before.

  She talked to him, ordering him to live, assuring him he was getting better, berating him for not fighting it harder.

  “You will not die, Rafe, do you hear me? I forbid it!