Secrets of a Perfect Night Read Online Free Page A

water to Agnes, set some bricks by the fire. Once they’re warm, wrap them in flannel and bring them up—Aunt Esme knows where the old flannels are.”
    “Miss Esme’s already got bricks warming.”
    “Good.” Nudging the door shut, Abby carried the steaming ewer to the basin on the chest of drawers. She splashed water into the basin, then tested it. She added cold water until the temperature was right, then, picking up one of the washcloths she’d left ready,she drew back the curtain and climbed onto the bed, settling the basin beside her. Adrian hadn’t stirred.
    She washed his face first, then washed the ice from his hair and rubbed it dry, then quickly worked her way down his back and long legs, covering him with dry towels as she went. She spent some time trying to coax some color into his feet, but got no reward for her efforts.
    Setting the basin aside, she spread towels beside him, then rolled him onto his back again. She flicked a towel over his naked loins, then added more warm water to the basin and quickly set to, washing away any residual ice, briskly buffing his skin dry as she went.
    By the time she reached his hips, all modesty had flown—she was far too worried to care about propriety. There remained no sign of life in his body; fear tightened its grip on her heart.
    Besides, she’d seen him naked before, touched him before—her memories were crystal-clear. But when she held him again and found him so cold, it nearly broke her heart. She’d taken that part of him inside her—it had been so hot, so strong. He was presently so icy and so small—she didn’t like his state at all.
    Her worries escalated as she finished with his legs and found his feet still blue-white. His hands were no better; no matter how hard she tried, she could raise no blood under his skin.
    With a greater sense of urgency, she rolled him again, this time onto the clean, dry bedsheet. Pulling the old coverlet from beneath him, she tossed it asideand spread the down-filled quilt that had been warming by the fire over him.
    She stared at him for a minute, then she scooped up the towels and coverlet and hurried out.
    Five minutes later she returned, flannel-wrapped bricks balanced on a tray. Tom and Agnes, similarly burdened, continued on along the corridor to the attic stairs. Bolt had yet to regain consciousness. Despite the fact Adrian had, Abby wasn’t sure he was in any better case than his tiger. It hadn’t been Bolt who had pushed himself to the last gasp to reach the cottage, and then exerted himself even beyond that to help her get him upstairs.
    She packed the warm bricks around Adrian, then stood back.
    There was nothing more she could do. The realization left her feeling almost panicked; to settle her nerves, she fussed about the room, tidying, rebuilding the fire, setting his boots to one side of the hearth to dry.
    She returned to the bed and checked, but he was still cold as ice.
    The door opened; Agnes looked in. “How is he?”
    Abby shook her head. “He’s still so cold.”
    “Aye, well, all we can do now is keep them warm. I can watch over his lordship as well as his man. No sense you getting up through the night, too.”
    “No—I’ll watch here.” She wouldn’t sleep anyway, not until she knew he was all right. “Bolt might wake up, or Dere might, and want something.”
    “True enough.” Agnes nodded at Adrian. “S’pect he’s a demanding soul, too.”

    “He can be,” Abby murmured.
    “Best we get to bed then, and get what sleep as we can. You finished here?”
    Abby roused herself. “Yes.” With one last look at Adrian, she crossed to the door. “It must be quite late.”
    “Gone eleven,” Agnes said.
     
    At twelve o’clock Abby returned to the room. She’d got into her bed but hadn’t been able to settle, much less sleep. How could she sleep when Adrian might…
    Be dying.
    “Don’t be silly,” she muttered as she closed the door softly behind her. “There’s no history of