Ruth Axtell Morren - The Making Of A Gentleman

He glared at her. Who did this stick of a woman think she was? “If you don’t want me here, just say the word and I’ll take my leave.” He shoved away from the brother’s hand and launched himself from the bed. Not two steps and his legs gave out, forcing him to clutch the bedpost. If he’d felt humiliated coming to this house before, standing now in his nightshirt, wobbling like a babe, was too much. “Where are my clothes?”

Before he could take another step, a wave of dizziness swept through him. His hand slipped from the bedpost. His body hit the floor with a large thud.

“Mr. Quinn! Oh, dear!” Miss Hathaway knelt at his side. He felt her touch on his shoulder. “Damien, we must get him into bed.”

Hathaway crouched down at his other side. “Are you all right, Mr. Quinn?”

Miss Hathaway’s soft hand went to his forehead. “He’s feverish. It’s no wonder, the way he was standing out in the rain. Mr. Quinn, can you stand if we help you?” Finally she was looking directly at him, her pale gray eyes showing real concern.

He attempted to rise, feeling their assistance on either side of him, but he couldn’t stop shivering, so he just knelt there, teeth chattering, limbs trembling, sight blurring….

Florence looked at her brother in alarm. “He’s very ill.”

Damien felt his forehead and nodded. “Let me get Albert and see if we can get him back in bed.”

“I think between the two of us we can manage.”

Damien frowned. “I don’t know, he’s a large man.”

The two of them put their arms under Quinn’s and began to hoist him up, but her brother was right. He was large and too heavy for the two of them to move.

Quinn began to stir. His thick eyelashes fluttered upward and his green eyes looked into hers. “Wh-what—where am I?”

“You’re here with us,” she said in a soothing tone. “You must have gotten light-headed. Do you think you can stand so we can help you back to bed?”

Quinn blinked a few times as if focusing and finally shook his head as if to clear it. He reminded Florence of a great beast, except this time he no longer had shaggy locks to shake.

With a deep breath, he strained his torso upward. Both Florence and Damien aided him at each side. His legs buckled under him when they finally got him upright.

“Careful, there,” she murmured, feeling his weight fall upon her as she draped one of his arms over her shoulder. “You’re almost to the bed. Just a few more steps…”

He collapsed against the headboard.

Florence replaced the pillows she had removed earlier, deciding not to attempt to shave his scalp until he fell asleep, which by the looks of things, would be in a matter of minutes.

“Just lie back, Mr. Quinn.”

“I believe he will go by Mr. Kendall from now on,” Damien said quietly.

She looked across at her brother, who had walked to the other side of the bed and was tucking the blankets around the sleeping man.

“It’s the name he gave Albert and Elizabeth.”

“I see,” she said, adjusting the blankets on her side. She hadn’t thought of that issue. Her glance strayed to Quinn, who had closed his eyes, his thick lashes resting against the flushed cheeks. Although they’d helped many people who came to them, they’d never had a fugitive from the law under their roof. Of course he couldn’t use his own name. She chewed her lip, beginning to understand the full implications of offering Quinn refuge.

Subterfuge, deception…it all came down to the same thing. They’d have to lie.

She noticed Quinn still shivering despite the heavy blankets and placed a palm gently on his forehead again. It was quite warm to the touch. “Should we call Mr. Hershey?” she whispered to Damien.

Before he could answer, Quinn’s eyelids shot up. “Who’s that?”

“Our apothecary,” Damien said before she could answer.

Quinn grabbed his arm. “Don’t tell a soul I’m here.”

“It’s all right,” Damien soothed him. “You’re safe here.”

“Swear to me, don’t…tell anybody…”

“All right,” Damien agreed. Only then would Quinn release him. Florence tucked the blankets up closer to his chin. His jaw was clenched tight, as if to keep his teeth from chattering.

“I’ll bring him some hot tea,” she said, and bent to turn down the lamp. Then she retrieved the supper tray. Once they got him quiet, she’d bring more hot water and finish her job with the razor.

Florence wrung out a cloth and spread it across Quinn’s forehead, as she’d been doing over the past four days. It was now a fight for his life as fever racked his body. The man had not proved easy to nurse. His large, muscular frame thrashed about every time they tried to remove his wet nightshirt or move him the slightest to change the linens underneath him.

She regarded him now. He slept peacefully at the moment, his face at rest. Gone were any traces of the savage-looking man who’d abducted her. In his place was an individual with strong, handsome features. His jaw was square. Either she or Albert had been shaving him to ensure he remained free of vermin. She’d grown to know the feel of every plane of his face. She knew the curve of the cleft of his chin to the small dimple placed in the center of it. Her eyes traveled over his smooth skull. She’d managed to shave it while he slept. His head was nicely shaped, as well as his ears, she noted, which didn’t stick out, but lay flat against the sides of his head.

Her brother’s entry interrupted her contemplation. “How is he?” Damien asked in a low tone, approaching the opposite side of the bed.

She sighed and sat back. “More or less the same. One moment the fever breaks, then a few hours later it’s back. I don’t like the sound of his cough either.”

Damien nodded and bent over Quinn, feeling his cheek with the back of his hand. “Yes.”

“He continues delirious.”

“Yes, I’ve heard him. He seems most disquieted over several things. Probably due to his recent experience on the gallows and daring escape. It’s understandable.”

“Yes. He mentions a Judy and Mary and…a Joshua,” she said, recalling the names. “I wonder if they are his family.” She refrained from voicing the obvious—his wife and children. Strangely, she could not picture him as a husband and father, when she’d seen him only as alone and on the run.

“Likely. Why don’t you let me sit with him a while?”

Why did she feel loath to leave Quinn’s bedside? Florence glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Almost half past ten in the evening. “You need your rest. You are preaching tomorrow.”

“I won’t stay up long. It will give me an opportunity to go over my sermon.”

In truth, her neck and shoulders ached with fatigue. “If you’re sure,” she said slowly. At his nod, she rose from her chair and took up her needlework from the table.

When Damien had seated himself in her vacated chair, she lingered at the foot of the bed. “You haven’t decided yet what to do about Mr. Qui—Kendall?”

“I don’t think there is much we can decide until the fever passes.”

“And if it…shouldn’t?” It was the first time she’d allowed herself to voice the thought she’d fought to keep at bay. She couldn’t believe this man’s life was to be for naught.

Damien adjusted the blankets on that side of Quinn. “I don’t think the Lord saved this soul from the gallows to take him so quickly. We must wait and see what He would have us do.”

Her brother’s words reassured her. “Of course.”

With a murmured good-night, she departed the room. If Damien felt as she did, it must be more than her own personal desire to wish to see Quinn well and strong. All she desired was for the Lord to have His perfect way in this man’s life.