Julia Quinn - When He Was Wicked

Francesca’s breath caught.

She loved him? Michael?

No, no, she assured herself, she didn’t love him. Not like that. When she’d thought it, when the word had echoed through her brain, she’d meant in friendship. Of course she loved Michael that way. She’d always loved him, right? He was her best friend, had been even back when John was alive.

She pictured him, saw his face, his smile.

She closed her eyes, remembered his kiss and the perfect feeling of his hand at the small of her back as they walked through the house.

And she finally figured out why everything had seemed different between them of late. It wasn’t, as she’d originally supposed, just because they’d married. It wasn’t because he was her husband, because she wore his ring on her finger.

It was because she loved him.

This thing between them, this bond-it wasn’t just passion, and it wasn’t wicked.

It was love, and it was divine.

And Francesca could not have been more surprised if John had materialized before her and started to dance an Irish reel.

Michael.

She loved Michael.

Not just as a friend, but as a husband and a lover. She loved him with the depth and intensity she’d felt for John.

It was different, because they were different men, and she was different now, too, but it was also the same. It was the love of a woman for a man, and it filled every corner of her heart.

And by God, she didn’t want him to die.

“You can’t do this to me,” she yelled, hanging over the side of the gazebo bench and looking up at the sky. A fat raindrop landed on the bridge of her nose, splashing into her eye.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she growled, wiping the moisture away. “Don’t think you can-”

Three more drops, in rapid succession.

“Damn,” Francesca muttered, followed by a “Sorry,” aimed back up at the clouds.

She pulled her head back into the gazebo, taking refuge under the wooden roof as the rain grew in intensity.

What was she supposed to do now? Charge forth with all the single-minded purpose of an avenging angel, or have a good cry and feel sorry for herself?

Or maybe a little of both.

She looked out at the rain, which was now thundering down with enough force to strike fear in the heart of even the most determined of avenging angels.

Definitely a little of both.

Michael opened his eyes, surprised to discover that it was morning. He blinked a few times, just to verify this fact. The curtains were drawn shut, but not all the way, and there was a clear streak of light making a stripe along the carpet.

Morning. Well. He must have been really tired. The last thing he remembered was Francesca dashing out the door, stating her intention to go for a walk, despite the fact that any fool would have realized that it was going to rain.

Silly woman.

He tried to sit up, then quickly flopped back down on the covers. Damn, he felt like death. Not, he allowed, the finest metaphor under the circumstances, but he couldn’t think of much else that would adequately describe the ache that permeated his body. He felt exhausted, nearly glued to the sheets. The mere thought of sitting up was enough to make him groan.

Damn , he was miserable.

He touched his forehead, trying to ascertain if he still had a fever, but if his brow was hot, then so was his hand; he couldn’t tell a thing other than the fact that he was damned sweaty and certainly in need of a good bath.

He tried to sniff the air around him, but he was so congested that he ended up coughing.

He sighed. Well, if he stank, at least he didn’t have to smell it.

He heard a soft sound at the door and looked up to see Francesca entering the room. She moved quietly on stockinged feet, clearly trying to avoid disturbing him. As she approached the bed, however, she finally looked at him and let out a little, “Oh!” of surprise.

“You’re awake,” she said.

He nodded. “What time is it?”

“Half eight. Not too late, really, except that you fell asleep last evening before the supper hour.”

He nodded again, since he didn’t really have anything pertinent to add to the conversation. And besides that, he was too tired to speak.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, sitting down beside him. “And would you like something to eat?”

“Like hell, and no, thank you.”

Her lips curved slightly. “Something to drink?”

He nodded.

She picked up a small bowl that had been sitting on a nearby table. A saucer had been resting on top of it, presumably to keep the contents warm. “It’s from last night,” she said apologetically, “but I’ve had it covered, so it shouldn’t be too dreadful.”

“Broth?” he asked.

She nodded, holding a spoon to his lips. “Is it too cold?”

He sipped a little, then shook his head. It was barely lukewarm, but he didn’t think he could stand anything overheated, anyway.

She fed him in silence for a minute or so, and then, once he said he’d had enough, she set the bowl back down, carefully replacing the lid, even though he imagined she would wish to order up a new bowl for his next meal. “Do you have a fever?” she whispered.

He tried to summon a devil-may-care smile. “I have no idea.”

She reached out to touch his forehead.

“Didn’t have time to bathe,” he mumbled, apologizing for his slippery visage without actually uttering the word sweat in her presence.

She made no sign of having heard his attempt at a joke, instead just furrowed her brow as she pressed her hand against him more closely. And then, surprising him with her swiftness, she stood and leaned over him, touching her lips to his forehead.

“Frannie?”

“You’re hot,” she said, barely breathing the words. “You’re hot!”

He did nothing but blink.

“You still have a fever,” she said excitedly. “Don’t you understand? If you still have a fever, it can’t be malaria!”

For a moment he couldn’t breathe. She was right. He couldn’t believe it had not occurred to him, but she was right. The malarial fevers always disappeared by morn-ing. They hit again the next day, of course, often with horrible force, but they always dissipated, giving him a day’s respite before once again laying him low.

“It’s not malaria,” she said again, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“I told you it wasn’t,” he said, but inside, he knew the truth- He hadn’t been so sure.

“You’re not going to die,” she whispered, her lower lip catching in her teeth.

His eyes flew to hers. “Were you worried I would?” he asked quietly.

“Of course I was,” she returned, no longer trying to hide the choking sound in her voice. “My God, Michael, I can’t believe you-Do you have any idea how I- Oh, for God’s sake.”

He had no idea what she’d just said, but he had a feeling it was good.

She stood, the back of her chair bumping against the wall. A cloth napkin had been sitting beside the broth; she snatched it up and used it to dab at her eyes.

“Frannie?” he murmured.

“You’re such a man ,” she said with a scowl.

He could do nothing but raise his eyebrows at that.

“You should know I-” But she stopped, broke herself off.

“What is it, Frannie?”

She shook her head. “Not yet,” she said, and he got the impression she was talking more to herself than to him. “Soon, but not yet.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I have to go out,” she said, her words oddly curt and abrupt. “There’s something I need to do.”

“At half eight in the morning?”

“I’ll be back soon,” she said, hurrying toward the door. “Don’t go anywhere.”