upstairs.”
“No—”
Even as she fought to be free, she felt herself slump against him. Her head fell weakly against his shoulder while her arms hung uselessly at her sides.
“Max?” questioned Irénée, who had come out of the salon when she heard the commotion. Noeline was close behind. “Is something wrong? Mon Dieu , what has happened?”
Vallerand didn’t spare her a glance. “Send for the doctor,” he said tersely, and picked Lysette up, hooking his arms underneath her knees and back. He carried her as if she weighed nothing, ignoring her whimpers of protest. “I can walk,” she sobbed, prying at his hands. “Let me down—”
“Hush,” he said softly. “Don’t struggle.”
The trip to her room took only a few seconds, but to Lysette it seemed to last forever. Her cheek rested on his shoulder, while her tears dampened the crisp linen of his shirt. She was hot and nauseous, and wretchedly dizzy. The only solid thing in the world was his hard chest. Somehow, in her misery, she forgot how much she despised him, and was grateful for the steady support of his arms.
For a moment she felt better, but as Vallerand lay her on the bed, the room whirled sickeningly around her. She was falling into suffocating darkness. Blindly she reached out in an effort to save herself. A gentle hand smoothed the hair back from her burning forehead. “Help me,” she whispered.
“It’s all right, petite. ” His voice was calm and soothing. “I’ll take care of you. No, don’t cry. Hold on to me.”
Fitfully Lysette thrashed to escape the scorching cloud that had descended on her. She tried to explain something to him, and he seemed to understandher frantic babble. “Yes, I know,” he murmured. “Be still, petite.”
Noeline, who had followed them into the room, looked over Max’s shoulder and shook her head grimly. “Yellow fever,” she said. “It’s bad when it comes on this quick. I’ve seen some walk around healthy one day and drop dead the next.” She sent a pitying glance at the suffering figure on the bed, as if a quick demise were a certainty.
Max threw the housekeeper a thunderous scowl, but he was careful to keep his voice even. “Bring a pitcher of cold water, and some of that powder—what was it we gave the twins when they had it?”
“Calomel and jalap, monsieur.”
“Be quick about it,” he growled, and Noeline left immediately.
Max looked down at Lysette, who was muttering incoherently. Tenderly he disentangled her hands from his shirt and gripped her hot fingers in his.
“Oh, hell,” he muttered, his entire being seized with a dread he hadn’t felt in years, not since the twins had succumbed to the potentially deadly fever. He smoothed her hair again, feeling how wet it was at the roots, and a violent curse escaped him.
Irénée stood behind him. “Her death would certainly foil your plans, mon fils ,” she said quietly.
He continued to stare at Lysette. “She’s not going to die.”
“The illness has come on too quickly and with too much force,” she murmured. “She is already out of her head with fever.”
“Don’t speak of it around her again,” he saidcurtly. “She is going to be well. I won’t allow otherwise.”
“But Max, she cannot understand—”
“She can hear what’s being said.” He stood and glared at her. “Remove her clothes and bathe her with a cool cloth. When the doctor arrives, tell him that he is not to do anything without my permission. I don’t want her bled.”
Irénée nodded, remembering how they had nearly lost Justin during his bout with the fever, when he had been bled too copiously.
Irénée and Noeline took turns sitting with Lysette the first forty-eight hours. Irénée had forgotten the work and patience it required to nurse a yellow fever patient. Her back ached from hours of leaning over the bed and sponging Lysette with cold water. The violent bouts of vomiting, the delirious raving and nightmares, the pungent
“No—”
Even as she fought to be free, she felt herself slump against him. Her head fell weakly against his shoulder while her arms hung uselessly at her sides.
“Max?” questioned Irénée, who had come out of the salon when she heard the commotion. Noeline was close behind. “Is something wrong? Mon Dieu , what has happened?”
Vallerand didn’t spare her a glance. “Send for the doctor,” he said tersely, and picked Lysette up, hooking his arms underneath her knees and back. He carried her as if she weighed nothing, ignoring her whimpers of protest. “I can walk,” she sobbed, prying at his hands. “Let me down—”
“Hush,” he said softly. “Don’t struggle.”
The trip to her room took only a few seconds, but to Lysette it seemed to last forever. Her cheek rested on his shoulder, while her tears dampened the crisp linen of his shirt. She was hot and nauseous, and wretchedly dizzy. The only solid thing in the world was his hard chest. Somehow, in her misery, she forgot how much she despised him, and was grateful for the steady support of his arms.
For a moment she felt better, but as Vallerand lay her on the bed, the room whirled sickeningly around her. She was falling into suffocating darkness. Blindly she reached out in an effort to save herself. A gentle hand smoothed the hair back from her burning forehead. “Help me,” she whispered.
“It’s all right, petite. ” His voice was calm and soothing. “I’ll take care of you. No, don’t cry. Hold on to me.”
Fitfully Lysette thrashed to escape the scorching cloud that had descended on her. She tried to explain something to him, and he seemed to understandher frantic babble. “Yes, I know,” he murmured. “Be still, petite.”
Noeline, who had followed them into the room, looked over Max’s shoulder and shook her head grimly. “Yellow fever,” she said. “It’s bad when it comes on this quick. I’ve seen some walk around healthy one day and drop dead the next.” She sent a pitying glance at the suffering figure on the bed, as if a quick demise were a certainty.
Max threw the housekeeper a thunderous scowl, but he was careful to keep his voice even. “Bring a pitcher of cold water, and some of that powder—what was it we gave the twins when they had it?”
“Calomel and jalap, monsieur.”
“Be quick about it,” he growled, and Noeline left immediately.
Max looked down at Lysette, who was muttering incoherently. Tenderly he disentangled her hands from his shirt and gripped her hot fingers in his.
“Oh, hell,” he muttered, his entire being seized with a dread he hadn’t felt in years, not since the twins had succumbed to the potentially deadly fever. He smoothed her hair again, feeling how wet it was at the roots, and a violent curse escaped him.
Irénée stood behind him. “Her death would certainly foil your plans, mon fils ,” she said quietly.
He continued to stare at Lysette. “She’s not going to die.”
“The illness has come on too quickly and with too much force,” she murmured. “She is already out of her head with fever.”
“Don’t speak of it around her again,” he saidcurtly. “She is going to be well. I won’t allow otherwise.”
“But Max, she cannot understand—”
“She can hear what’s being said.” He stood and glared at her. “Remove her clothes and bathe her with a cool cloth. When the doctor arrives, tell him that he is not to do anything without my permission. I don’t want her bled.”
Irénée nodded, remembering how they had nearly lost Justin during his bout with the fever, when he had been bled too copiously.
Irénée and Noeline took turns sitting with Lysette the first forty-eight hours. Irénée had forgotten the work and patience it required to nurse a yellow fever patient. Her back ached from hours of leaning over the bed and sponging Lysette with cold water. The violent bouts of vomiting, the delirious raving and nightmares, the pungent
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