The Gift of Love (The Book of Love #8) - Meara Platt Page 0,77

Dahlia’s uncle had warned him to stay put for another two days. He supposed he had no choice. Parliament would not be in session until Monday anyway. He would accomplish nothing other than hurting himself if he chose to disobey this simple instruction.

When he tried to move his arm, he felt it weighed down. “What the...?”

He looked over and grinned.

Dahlia had wrapped herself around his upper arm, clinging to him as she slept. Her face was buried between his shoulder and the pillows at his back, so all he saw was a mass of beautiful hair. She must have taken the pins out last night and left the silky mane long and loose.

She had spent the night atop his covers and refused to climb under them because he was naked. He realized she must have become cold at some point, and rather than leave his side to grab a blanket, she had sought the heat of his body for warmth.

“Ronan?” She stirred when he reached out to run his hand lightly over her hair. “How are you feeling? How’s the fever?”

“Gone, I think. I’m much better, Queen Pea.”

She did not appear to believe him and stared at him with her big eyes. “And your breathing?”

“No crackling or wheezing in my lungs.”

“You sound good,” she admitted, tipping her head toward his chest to listen for any railing sounds. “Do you feel a burning in your lungs?”

“Much less than before.”

She sat up and put a hand to his brow. Then she touched his neck. “Your fever has gone down considerably. But you’re not quite done with it yet.” When she smiled at him, he thought his temperature might spike again. All to do with the heat of desire and nothing to do with the physical mangle his body was in just now.

With her hair unbound and the sleepy look in her eyes, she looked like a sultry wood nymph. Everyone knew wood nymphs had beautiful bodies, and Dahlia’s was exquisite.

He could do nothing about it yet because of the damn unguent. It was meant to save his life, and he was not so foolish as to refuse to have it applied. He could wait two days to get himself healthy and spend a lifetime with this beauty who was to be his wife.

After spending last night with Dahlia beside him, he had no intention of waiting to get married. He would accomplish this today, assuming Finn had been able to obtain the special license on his behalf.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, taking him out of his musings.

“What am I allowed to have?” He could eat an entire wild boar, but he doubted he’d be permitted anything that hearty. No, he’d be placed on a diet similar to that of a toothless ninety-year-old.

“Porridge. Broth. You are also allowed fish and cheese, but Uncle George recommends plenty of liquids first. He also recommends keeping ice on your ribs to reduce the inflammation. I’ll fetch some and wrap it in a cloth for you. Good thing there’s plenty of it at this time of the year. I’ll go downstairs and see if anyone is stirring.”

Ronan watched her as she took a moment to pin her hair up and then smooth out the wrinkles in her gown. It amazed him how pretty she looked in the early morning light.

Waking up to a female in his bed was not something he was used to, for it was never his practice to stay with a woman after he’d satisfied himself. Of course, these were not the sort of women one wanted to look at too closely, especially in the light of day. Even the finer ladies - and some of them were quite elegant and beautiful - had a jaded, used look about them.

But Dahlia was a breathtaking vision. “I’ll be right back,” she said, casting him an impudent smile. “Don’t you dare climb out of bed.”

She hurried out.

The door had been kept open overnight, a nod to maintaining a shred of propriety. Holly and Joshua were not going to force Dahlia to leave his bedside, but neither were they going to allow that door to close before they were husband and wife.

It was an unnecessary restriction.

He’d been in too much pain last night to accomplish anything.

No sooner had Dahlia gone downstairs than Robbie walked in. He had yet to wash up, and he looked half asleep. His shirt was untucked, as though he’d tossed it and his breeches on merely as an afterthought. “I just saw Dahlia