Page 7 of My Duke, The Stranger
Lucky… Isolde did not know the meaning of the word. And if her life continued as it had done since the day she had been born, she doubted that would change tonight.
Three
The duke fell asleep soon after he woke up. The physician assured Isolde that this was normal, claiming that the next twenty-four hours were critical and would determine whether the duke would make a full recovery or take a turn for the worse.
“You must tend to him,” the physician told her as he readied himself to leave. “Keep him cool, for his fever is likely to spike throughout the night.”
“I really wish you would stay,” she urged him as he made for the front door. “The storm…”
Beyond the open front door, the storm blew heavy and angry. It was the middle of the night; the way forward was a gaping pit of darkness that might have appeared empty were it not for the rain that lashed, and the odd flash of lightning that lit the sky. Most would not have dared to brave it…
“The storm is terrible, but I have dealt with worse.” The physician wrapped a cloak around his shoulders and put up a hood to cover his head. “His Grace’s health is in your hands now, Isolde. But from what I have heard, such hands are more than capable.”
He left her after that, wading into the storm as if he and it were one.
And there Isolde stood, the spray of rain dousing her face, the feel of the wind whipping her hair, and a crushing sense of doom settling on her shoulders that told her this storm would grow worse long before it passed.
It is not the storm that worries me…
Her father had long since retired to bed, as had her brother and sister. This left Isolde alone with the duke, and she wished it were not so. He slept as soundly and peacefully as a newborn as she inched her way back into her room, but she looked at him as if he were a dragon that might awaken at any moment, erupting with fury and a wrath sure to end her.
Was it any other man… anyone at all… Isolde would have taken to caring for him as if her own life were at stake. She was the type of person who cared for others, taking pride in tending to those who could not look after themselves.
However, as she knew personally, the duke was not like any other man.
She sat down by the head of the bed on a rickety stool. At her feet was a bucket of water, and she gently lifted the rag from his brow, wetted it, and placed it back on his head. He moaned softly, in pain, but he did not wake.
As Isolde sat by the duke’s side, she did her best to remember who this man was and what he had done.
He is an awful man. Cruel. Malevolent. Selfish. Were the roles reversed, I doubt he would lift a finger to help…
Strangely, as Isolde looked upon his sleeping face, she struggled to pair her memories of what had happened with this same man. That man had worn a wicked smirk, his dark eyes had reflected coldness and detachment, and even from afar, she had felt the strength, the confidence, and the power that had radiated from him. It had been enough to make her shudder and shake just from being in his presence.
But the duke now… he was just so broken. Frail. There was the sense that a stiff breeze might be the end of him. What was more, as he slept, he wore a soft smile on his lips, one that suggested that his dreams were happy.
Isolde watched him in the darkness, noting the hard lines of his face, the squareness of his jaw, and how clean he was. He was a duke, better than her in every way, yet she could not escape how irrelevant this now seemed.
Without thinking, she reached over and rested a hand on his chest. She felt his steady breathing, the flutter of his heart, andshe saw him in a way that she never would have expected. Much like a wounded animal come upon in the wild, he needed help… he deserved to be helped.
How can I hate someone so much, while wanting to save them at the same time?
The duke stirred suddenly, a soft groan escaping his lips.
Isolde started and pulled her hand away. She looked at the doorway as if to flee, as if he might wake and suddenly attack her. But that was foolish, she knew, and as he groaned again, pain heard clearly on his lips, she did as she knew she must. She helped him.
Gently, she peeled back the rag on his head and wet it again. His brow was hot, a fever taking him, and she dabbed at his face and neck and chest before reapplying the rag to his brow.
“Easy now,” she said in a whisper. “You are safe.”
The duke groaned again as he slowly opened his eyes. This time, he did not shut them immediately. He blinked them carefully, adjusting to the darkness of the room, and then he moved them until he found Isolde sitting over him.
She braced herself, as if he might suddenly scowl at her. She searched him for anger or annoyance. She waited… breath held… her heart beating quickly.
“You…” His voice was weak. “I know you…”
“You do,” she agreed with caution.
“From before…” He cleared his throat and winced. “You were there when I woke up… with the physician… You helped me.”
