Chapter 2 The Patient

Betsy Baldwin whistled tunelessly as she crossed the common on her way to work. Gazing up into the lazy descent of soft, fluffy snowflakes she sighed happily, dreaming of her spring wedding. Marcus had already been gone several months, traveling to Maine to begin building their cabin. His last letter was filled with details on the progress, something she would not have expected from a man of few words. He was getting almost as excited as she was, eager for their new life together after three years of engagement. She missed him more than she had thought possible, longing for the sound of his voice and the warmth of his dark eyes. Waiting had always been difficult for her, and the memory of his departing kiss had made it even more difficult. Blushing even after all this time, she glanced around suspiciously to make sure no one detected it. Thankfully few were up and about this early, and swinging her gaze toward the horizon she concentrated on the day before her. Ceara would be waiting for her to relieve her, and if they had a moment in private she intended to have a word with her concerning her own future.

Poor Ceara, she moaned in frustration. Her friend was too stubborn for her own good, turning down yet another proposal from Marcus' friend Peter. They had worked so hard to convince Peter that beneath Ceara's unladylike appearance lay a perfectly fine young woman who would make a very loyal and suitable wife. To his credit, Peter considered their recommendations and although he was 40 years of age and a widower he was also a generous and temperate man. Unfortunately their lectures with Ceara did not find so accepting an audience. Though she had pointed out to Ceara the fact that women like themselves who had virtually no dowry were quite simply limited in their choice of suitors. Yet after meeting him only once Ceara had judged him too reserved and lacking the spiritual depth she sought in a husband. Using her late father as an example, she had stated that she needed more in a man than a roof over her head and money: she needed a soul mate.

Striding down one frozen track in the road, Betsy dusted the snow off her shoulders and shook out her skirts. Her efforts startled a flock of crows in the field, who rose up as if in protest to her disturbing them. Frowning at the dark woods beyond, she blamed the forest for what had happened there two years ago, when Ceara was attacked and nearly raped by two soldiers passing through. She still had nightmares which robbed her of sleep and made her fearful of any man's attention which strayed beyond the polite strictures governing society, including considering a suitor. In Betsy's mind, all this added up to a dismal future as a spinster, a fate which she hated to see for her friend. Peter was the only one who might have the patience to deal with Ceara, as well as provide her with the sense of protection she so desperately needed but spurned. And now she had rejected him as well.

"Whatever am I going to do with you, Ceara?" she muttered, lifting her head and seeing the infirmary from a distance. "I cannot leave for Maine in good conscience unless I help you find your soul mate."

Dr. Koch finished his examination, nodding to Ceara when she met his gaze. He gently replaced the linen, lightly covering the abdominal wound as she laid another cool cloth upon the patient's brow. Rising from his stool, he gathered his instruments and went out into the hall, waiting for her to join him there. Drying her hands on her apron, she met him here, awaiting his instructions while keeping a listening ear toward his room.

"I'm leaving for the day," Dr. Koch informed her, glancing toward the only private room in the ward. "The sutures are clean and dry and the inflammation is subsiding. Keep medicating him for pain and do what is necessary to bring the fever down, as you have been. We'll know more in another day or two if the pneumonia is under control. "

She nodded. "All right—when do you expect to return?"

"Tomorrow afternoon, but if you need me just send someone and I'll come. Tie him to the posts if necessary: we cannot risk him reopening the wounds. And I want to see both you and Miss Baldwin when I arrive."

"I've already decided to stay overnight, in case she needs my help."

"Good," he nodded, moving toward the door. "If you find discover anything more regarding his identity, put it into his report."

"Of course," she agreed. "Though I doubt he will be willing to share much of it."

Koch shook his head with a tired sigh. "Deserters…as if we haven't enough trouble already. Every one of them heralds the arrival of his superiors back to where they are not welcomed."

"Yes sir," she agreed, biting her lower lip as she closed the door after him. Watching him go to his buggy and climb in, she slowly expelled her held breath. "Paperwork," she sighed, wondering how she might make it disappear.

Aaron opened his eyes to near darkness, his pain raging through his side and back. At his side a lantern burned low, casting dark swirling patterns onto the ceiling above his bed. He stared at them in dumb fascination, his vision beginning to clear. His head felt as if it was stuffed with cotton, his ears half blocked to the sound of the wind howling beyond the single window of what seemed to be someone's old bedroom. He had no idea where he was, nor what had happened to him after he dragged himself from that stone wall. He had vague memories concerning his rescuer, but everything following his meeting with her remained blank, which caused him a great deal of anxiety.

Lowering his chin, he studied the light bandage over his belly, panting with shallow breaths to keep the worst pain at bay. He decided against lifting it to inspect the wound, not sure he could deal with the sight of it again. Trailing his fingertips over the linen strips binding his waist, he felt for the back wound, finding it heavily padded in contrast. He was lying at an angle, his wounded side tilted up by a wedge type bolster beneath his back. This was aggravating the pain from his old injury but he was too weak to pull it from beneath him, and he knew the effort would only worsen the pain from his other wounds. Settling his head back against the mound of pillows, he distracted himself by examining his surroundings. His eyes wandered along the cracks in the wall, past the distant wardrobe which faced him and circling around to the small table at his side. Besides the lantern it held several bottles, a glass and a pitcher. His throat was parched and his lips dry and cracked. He measured the distance between his left hand and the glass, deciding it was too great to span without risking falling from the bed. Taking a moment to close his eyes, he swallowed painfully and tried to plot his next course of action. Without realizing it, he slipped quickly back into oblivion before he could manage the effort.

Ceara threw back the bedcovers, catching his arm before he drew them back. He was shivering and she knew the fever was on its way back up. If he began thrashing again she would have to use the hated bindings, but if she did not he might try to get up again. She was losing her struggle against his superior size and strength, even in his weakened condition. Trying not to panic, she called Betsy and placed a knee on the edge of the bed to hold his shoulders down. Leaning over him, she felt his breath pant against her cheek.

"Lie still now," she soothed, lifting a hand to smooth back his hair and then shove his blankets lower. "You've got to cool off, and the linens aren't helping."

""s all the same," he whispered to her surprise, turning his head on the pillow. "…cannot make me…"

Quickly scanning his features, she noted the old scars around his ear and neck which testified of an alarming past. Surely he was reliving whatever he had suffered before, so unaware of the present did he seem. "I'll not force you to do anything but heal," she told him softly. "You must fight to live."

He smiled before breathing out a ragged sigh. "Lies," he whispered, his expression twisted by pain. "All lies…"

Betsy appeared at the door, gripping the frame as she stared at him in disbelief. "Not again!"

"Get the ropes," Ceara ordered, pushing his shoulders as he tried to get up yet again.

"But he's worse when we use them," Betsy complained as she marched toward the foot of the bed. Still, she picked up the padded rope and grabbed his right arm, slipping it into the binding. This she secured with a tug and a loop over the bedpost. "I fear it's the only way."

"It's just until he quiets down," Ceara pleaded, struggling with him until Betsy secured his other wrist. "If this fever rises any higher we'll have to get him into the tub."

"We won't be able to," Betsy predicted, rinsing out a sponge while Ceara opened his sodden bed shirt, shoving it back off his shoulders. She took another sponge and began cooling his arms with witch hazel, which made him shiver even harder. "We should give him another half dose," she decided, noting the careful sponging of his neck and chest Ceara executed. "Dr. Koch is being too conservative with him: he is obviously stronger than he appears."

"Or more willful," Ceara commented, submerging the sponge again. "I haven't your experience but I think you're right." Squeezing out the liquid, she gently brushed his chest to cool him off. Her eyes darted to his face as she worked, noting the tense set of his jaw as he fought to free himself.

Betsy finished his right arm and moved around the bed to tend the other. "He's a soldier all right," she stated. "God knows what he's already been through." When she finished she carried away the basin and began to mix a stronger draught of pain medication into his water glass.

"He thinks we're the enemy," Ceara excused, gripping his chin despite his growl of protest. "Hand me the spoon so I can feed it to him."

Betsy brought the glass closer, watching him turn his head away from Ceara's efforts. "We're only trying to help you," she told him, smiling despite her frustration when he laughed in triumph.

"He's got to be dyin' of thirst," Ceara said quietly, her eyes moving over his drawn features. His lips were cracked and dry, and she made a mental note to fetch her lip liniment and use it on him again, wondering how she could have forgotten about it. Then she smiled knowingly and got up. "Wait one minute," she told Betsy, going to her bag. "I have an idea."

"If you can make him take something I'll personally see to it that you get the next day off that comes round," Betsy announced, still holding the glass. She watched Ceara return to his side and lean over, touching a finger to his lips as gently as possible. Moving very slowly, she smoothed her liniment over the seam of his lips as he quieted suddenly. "You're a genius," she breathed, smiling as Ceara glanced up.

"He just needs a lady's touch," Ceara observed, turning back to her work. As she continued to smooth the balm over his lips his body relaxed. Betsy went to the opposite side and quickly slipped a dry towel beneath his arm while Ceara measured out a spoonful of his medication, leaning close to tease it against his lips. "I used to do this with the wee ones, and it worked every time," she said softly, squeaking with pleasure as his lips parted. Tilting the spoon up, she trickled the contents between his lips and he swallowed it, still resting quietly.

"That was all it took!" Betsy chuckled softly. "Here, give him a little plain water on the spoon."

Ceara obeyed, watching him accept it gratefully. Betsy ran to pour a shot glass of water and held it out as she slid a hand beneath his head. Lifting him only enough to keep from spilling the water, she teased the edge of the glass against his lips. To her astonishment he rose up and drank greedily, emptying the glass. Using the opportunity to pour the medicine laced water into the same glass, Betsy handed it over and they got him to drink that as well. Finally easing his head back toward the pillows, Ceara she watched his eyes drift open and eventually center on her face. Holding her breath, she studied the silvery glints therein, realizing how beautiful his eyes were.

"My angel," he whispered, closing them with a soft sigh. She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed again, finally relaxing his lips and the tension in his jaw.

Betsy laid a hand upon her shoulder. "Oh my," she breathed, laying a hand over her heart.

Ceara looked up at her. "'Oh my' what?"

"His eyes are gorgeous," Betsy whispered, glancing down at the well muscled chest and arms she hadn't paused to notice before. "And now that I take pause to notice, the rest of him is fine too."

Ceara frowned. "Fine or not, help me change him," she ordered gently, lifting his wrist from the binding and slipping his arm from the nightshirt. Together they changed his clothing and drew a light blanket up to his chest.

"He'll rest well now, and so can we," Betsy yawned, stretching her back as she planted her hands on her hips. "He's got to be the most difficult one yet."

"You could be correct, but we didn't make so much of a mess this time," Ceara observed, checking his bandages one last time. "If he sweats too much I'll call you to help me change the sheet."

"Thank you, I think," Betsy teased. "Now I'm off for a few hours of sleep." She patted Ceara's shoulder, again turning her attention to their patient. "He's a bit dark for my taste—my Marcus being so fair haired and all…does that make me prejudiced?"

"Definitely," Ceara smiled, easing back into the chair at the side of the bed. The medication was already beginning to work, she realized, still a bit stunned by the way he had seemed to look deep into her soul, even in his delirium. Pushing aside the thought, she swung her gaze to Betsy's strangely knowing look.

"You've got your own man, Bets," she reminded her. "And I have a feeling this one's already taken."

"Do you?" Betsy teased, raising an eyebrow. "What if he isn't—would you be interested?"

Having had this discussion times before, Ceara decided upon a new approach. "I might be," she smiled saucily. "He and I do seem to have a certain understanding between us."

"All that 'spy' nonsense?" Betsy waved a hand in dismissal. "You don't really think he was telling you the truth, do you? Sounds like a handy excuse, one which deserters tend to use."

Ceara looked back at his face as he began to breathe more slowly and deeply. "I don't know what to think," she admitted, noting the masculine beauty of his well shaped lips. "He told me to leave him to die, just to see that I delivered his message."

Betsy took a moment to consider the implication of her words. "It would be a shame to lose him, spy or no spy."

"We're not going to lose him," she insisted, her eyes on his face. After a moment she heard Betsy's soft goodnight and the echo of footsteps retreating down the hall. Leaning forward, she pulled the blanket over his shoulders and reached for her Bible. Settling back in the chair, she opened to the Psalms, intending to read softly to him. It couldn't hurt, she thought, hoping the power in the words might give him added strength to fight his good fight. After she had read him ten or more sections she rested her hand in the seam and sat watching him until she lost track of time.

Aaron awoke slowly, his head swimming with mist and his body limp and worn out, as if he had run uphill for days upon end. Too tired to open his eyes, he listened for the sound of the howling wind but decided whatever storm had raged outside had since died down. After a few moments he began to notice another sound, like soft breathing, making him open his eyes. Someone was in the room with him, and he slowly turned his head toward the sound, staring in disbelief at the sight before him.

He was not, as he'd supposed, in a prison hospital, nor even a jail cell. Nor was he home, being cared for by his mother or sister. For in the chair pulled next to the bed sat a young woman who fit none of those settings. It was her. She sat facing him, sound asleep in her chair. By the dim glow of a lantern he studied her, ready at any moment to close his eyes and feign sleep should she awaken. Then, telling himself he had nothing better to do for the moment, considering the leaden numbness of his body and blessed freedom from excruciating pain, he allowed himself to apprise the enemy.

Her head was slightly bent to one side, and he studied the dark fan of her lashes spread over her high cheekbones. Her skin looked soft, and the dark rose of her lips even softer, almost inviting in sleep. Dragging his gaze away, he compared his present observations with those previously entertained, when he had awoken flat on his back upon the frozen ground with her bending over him, struck by the inconsistencies in her. Vividly recalling the exact pitch and volume of her chastising screech, he found her present quietness compelling. Her she was, sleeping peacefully at his side, obviously fallen slack on her watch.

"Some sentinel you make," he whispered, his eyes dropping to the soft rise and fall of her chest, veiled by the heavy woolen shawl crossing her front. They traveled upward along the black tendrils of hair which had escaped her bun, returning of their own volition to her lips. From deep within him something pulled at his heart which he feared might be longing, or worse, desire. Startled by its appearing, he shifted his gaze to the lantern, suddenly wanting her awake and looking at him. He had to look into the intense blue of her eyes to remind himself of her steely disapproval of him, hoping it would cure him of his momentarily lapse into sentimentality, if not humanity.

"Fool," he chastised himself, closing his eyes and turning his head away. It was the fever, he decided, always pushing him into wayward thought and imaginings. Shamed by his own weakness, he barricaded his mind from the trickle of excuses already filtering through his memory. He had been tortured for weeks after being betrayed, and barely escaped only to be engaged in a work that cost months of lonely, exhausting and dangerous travel. The many threats to his life and sanity rose again before him as excuses to indulge himself in a little comfort, all of which he shoved aside.

"I just need rest," he whispered, unable to return to sleep. Feeling edgy and lethargic at the same time, he let his gaze wander instead over the room, noting its sparse and humble furnishings. It was nothing like the home where his mother now lived, but reminded him of the distant past, before his father had been murdered and they'd been left alone. He thought of his sister and prayed she was well, his gaze returning to the woman in the chair who was close to her in age. Who was she, he couldn't help wondering, and where had she brought him?

She muttered something in her sleep, her whisper drawing his unwilling attention back to her lips. He waited but heard no more, yet could not seem to pull his gaze from her person. The light cast a soft shadow over the curve of her cheek and he decided that the shape of her face would best be described as a heart. Her hair framed it like soft black fringe, teasing the high collar of her dress and curling provocatively toward the curve of her breast. Forcing his eyes away, he noted how her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing delicate wrists and arms. He vividly recalled her hands unfastening his clothes and tending to his wounds, then supporting his head and massaging his neck when he felt so ill. Her strength belied her size, for she had somehow dragged him up and onto his feet, the rest of his journey here still a mystery but no doubt guided by her aid. But most of all he remembered the other voice she used, the low pitched husky one which encouraged him and promised him the better benefits of the Psalms. It was that voice which had filled his dreams, promising him the protection of his God, telling him to lie still, to drink and to live when he no longer cared to.

Why had she been dressed as a boy, he wondered once again. Tonight she was wearing a navy gown unadorned by lace or ribbon. Even the sleeves were plain, perhaps explained by the large book which lay open in her lap and was no doubt a holy one. Suddenly suspicious of her intent, he fought to identify the words she had used to guide him along rivers of light which mirrored his delirium, describing a world of praise and music he could not understand. She was part angel, he decided, if angels could take on human form. Her anger with him had surely been borne of fear, for her compassion and generosity outweighed her less tolerant qualities. Still, as he laid eyes upon her holy book he had the distinct impression that she was out to convert his black soul. Pursing his lips, he steeled himself against the probable exhortation she would give him when she awoke, and he wanted nothing to do with that brand of faith which leaned heavily toward judgment and prohibited passion and human love. Closing his eyes in regret, he turned away, swallowing against the bitterness in his throat. But still he could not find sleep.

After some time he heard a sigh, followed by the soft swish of fabric as the chair creaked softly. Her breathing had changed and as he held his breath he tried to relax his features so that she would not suspect he was awake. Unfortunately a cool hand touched his brow, the thumb stroking gently over his temple. He stiffened, feeling the brush of her fingers over his cheek. It was too much like a caress and made his pulse race despite his insistence that such would never be her motive. She was a nurse and was testing the intensity of his fever, nothing more. Yet it frightened him that even a mere touch of comfort could awaken his imagination so powerfully.

"You're awake," her husky whisper declared, followed by a waiting silence.

Slowly turning his head, he looked up into her darkened eyes and smiled wickedly. "So are you."

He heard her sharp intake of breath and a jolt of excitement leapt within him. She rose up to a more stiff posture, perched on the edge of her chair.

"How long were you lying there, pretending to be asleep?" she accused softly.

He held her eyes as his lips curled knowingly. "Long enough."

She huffed in mild affront and shifted to the edge of his bed, causing him to stiffen even more. "Are you in pain?"

"Define 'pain.'"

She turned her head. "I'll get you something—"

"No," he interrupted, wincing at his order and forcing himself to use a different tone than that which he used with his men. "I'm fine."

She studied him more carefully than other women had dared, piquing his curiosity. He liked that about her…no charming smiles, no batting of eyelashes, no deceitful games, just an honest appraisal.

"You're too weak to fight me every step of the way," she chastened him softly. "If you are feeling pain then we haven't medicated you properly and that needs to be adjusted. But I will get you to cooperate with me, one way or another."

Intrigued, he stared at her coolly. "Are you threatening me?"

"No, but If you don't do as I ask I could make your time here very trying, Lieutenant."

He let his guard down somewhat, hating his own title, especially riding upon her lips. "Don't call me that."

She shrugged. "All right Sir, Mister, You—"

"Aaron," he sighed, suddenly caring nothing about his identity or position. "My name is Aaron."

Her eyes traveled over his features before she leaned closer. "Is that your real name?" she whispered, her lips curving up.

His eyes were drawn to her mouth, and something sunk into his gut. Forcing his gaze back to her eyes, he narrowed his scrutiny. "All right—what do you want?"

She smiled and turned to reach for a small glass of liquid. "I want you to drink this," she announced, brining it before him. "Just to fight back that raging infection in your side."

He tilted his head to study her. "How do I know you aren't trying to drug me and have your way with me?"

She laughed aloud, catching herself. "I've already done that," she explained, holding the glass higher. "It's your only alternative to shaking chills and delirium, so I think you'll do well to take my advice, Aaron."

He sighed in frustration as she brought the glass to his lips. He raised a hand of warning, careful not to touch hers. "I didn't agree—"

"You sighed," she challenged, touching the rim to his lips. Too thirsty to argue, he tilted his chin down and drank half the contents, the blessed water bathing his parched throat.

When she took it away she eased his head back to the pillows, feeling dizzy from the effort. "I must have my wits about me," he explained, feeling her hand touch his shoulder.

"I understand," she said softly. "But fear not—that was ground willow bark for your fever, not for pain. And just so you'll know, I have other ways to make you take that medication."

"I doubt you managed to accomplish that, Miss—"

"I did, but getting anything past those cracked lips of yours is indeed a challenge," she informed him. "I believe your thirst won that battle for you."

He looked up, noting the tiniest of smiles upon her lips. "I earned those cracked lips," he grumbled.

She smiled happily and rose to her feet. "I'm sure you did—now, are you hungry?"

He thought about it, closing his eyes in defeat. "Famished but not willing to risk it."

"Is there anything you crave?" her lilting voice asked him. "Anything you dream of eating or drinking right now?"

He thought about it a moment, smiling wickedly. "An orange."

"Oranges? In November..."

"You did ask."

There was a long pause during which he rested back, closing his eyes. Then her voice startled him.

"I'll be right back."

He opened his eyes and turned, but she had already left. Curious, he listened to her steps tap down the hallway and then there was silence. Sighing and feeling strangely comfortable, he closed his eyes again and did not notice her return until a fruity fragrance rose to his nostrils.

"Will dried cranberries do?" her voice teased as one touched his lips. His eyes shot open as she popped it into his mouth, forcing him to chew as she beamed down at him with obvious pleasure. He swallowed and nodded.

"I believe they might."

"I'm so glad I found them!" she said softly, feeding him another, as if he was a baby. Even more astoundingly, he let her.

The seconds ticked by slowly as he felt a strange intimacy with her, indulging himself in that simple pleasure. The soft touch of her fingers upon his lips stirred him deeply, feeding his emotions until he felt his reaction begin to affect more than his emotions. Aware of her hand moving back to his lips he pursed them, staring back at her confused expression. Her smile faltered as she sobered immediately, glancing away and picking up the small bowl she'd balanced upon his chest.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, her voice breaking. "I should let you get some rest now."

"Thank you," he said quietly, waiting for her to meet his gaze. He lifted a hand toward her before he remembered her reaction the first time he grasped her wrist. When she saw him stop himself she looked even more embarrassed before she turned away to straighten the top of the table.

"You feel threatened by my touch," he said quietly, noting how she stopped abruptly but would not look at him. Suddenly he wanted to know everything about her, despite the fact that he had not felt that way about anyone before. Nor was he in a position to indulge in anything remotely resembling friendship. Still, he couldn't seem to help himself and reasoned that it was his illness and all the medication he'd taken.

"It's not you," she assured him, finally turning her head but hesitating, as if she could not explain it herself.

"It's none of my business—"

"I shouldn't have been teasing you," she admitted, shaking her head. "It was just that you seemed to take such pleasure in the taste of a few dried berries…"

"I enjoyed it," he admitted, holding her gaze when it shot back to his. He smiled hesitantly. "It helped distract me from my pain," he explained, not being completely honest with her. "Is that not part of your job?"

She thought about this a moment, the reserve in her expression easing somewhat. "Yes, I suppose it is…part of my job."

Turning back to the lantern she lowered the light, turned to lift the blanket higher to his neck and bid him a quiet goodnight. As she left he was keenly aware of losing something, yet he could not quite decide what that was. Closing his eyes, he gave himself up to his weakness and fell into a deep sleep.

c. 2008 by Christine Levitt