A Candle in the Dark (34 page)

But except for that, he didn’t move away. He stood close, so close she saw the pulse in his strong throat, the flutter of the curls at his open collar from her breath.

“Thank you,” he said slowly. “For the dance. And for everything else.”

“I—” She didn’t know what to say. Ana looked up at him, trying to steady the trembling in her fingers, the quick, loud pounding of her heart. The room spun around her. “I—you’re welcome.”

His eyes were dark. There was some emotion in them, something she couldn’t name, something uncertain and yearning. It pulled at her, pierced her heart and her stomach, made her feel warm and shaky.

He swallowed, took a half step forward. “Ana—”

“Ana!” Jiméne came rushing up, his face lit with happiness, flushed with excitement. “Juan is about to start another dance.” He flashed a glance to Cain. “This one is mine,
amigo
.”

Cain stepped back again. His eyes were shielded. “Of course.”

Ana felt a stab of regret. But before she could object, Jiméne was pulling her back to the middle of the room, the music started, and she was whirling across the floor, trying desperately to keep up with Jiméne’s long, erratic steps.

She looked for Cain. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes were trained on her. Soft brown eyes, watching her spin across the floor, watching her laugh at Jiméne’s bad jokes. Never letting her out of his sight.

The thought heated her. Suddenly her palms felt moist and hot and her throat breathlessly tight. Ana forced her gaze from Cain, focused on the motion of her feet. Jiméne was not a good dancer, and he stumbled over her toes, laughing as he did so, his enthusiasm making up for his clumsiness.

“I am as bad as the ox, eh?” he joked.

Ana smiled. “Worse than an ox, Jiméne. Much worse.”

“I fear dancing is not one of the skills I was taught.”

“You didn’t dance in New York? I’m surprised you were invited to any parties.”

Jiméne raised a brow, his mouth quirking in a grin. “All the mamas in New York believed I was injured in the war,” he confided. “In my foot.”

Ana laughed, and Jiméne swung her around in greater and greater arcs. The room flashed by her, she felt strangely light-headed.

“Wait, Jiméne—” She gripped his hand, wishing the room would stop spinning.

He slowed immediately, staring down into her face. “
Carina
, you look hot. Would you care for some wine?”

“Wine? No. No.” Ana shook her head, trying to clear away the sudden fogginess. “I’m fine. We were just going too fast, that’s all.”

“I think perhaps you should sit down,
amiga
.”

The music slowed, and Ana felt herself being pulled toward the table. Truthfully, something to drink sounded wonderful. But not wine. After all, Cain was still here, still awake, and she didn’t want to tempt him. She looked over her shoulder, searching for him, but he was no longer against the wall. Or maybe he was, but her eyes were so unfocused she couldn’t see. And now her head was pounding, just a bit, behind her eyes.

“My, that dancing—” She touched her forehead, blinking at the brightness of the room. “I must have been more tired than I thought.”

“Of course.” Jiméne’s brows came together in a frown. “Just sit down,
cariña
, and I will get you something to drink. Then we will fetch D’Alessandro.”

“Cain.” She nodded. “Yes, do that, won’t you, Jiméne?”

She sank down onto the bench with relief.

He wanted to kiss her. Cain watched her in Jiméne’s arms, watched her hair flying behind her, the dark brown touched with red-gold light from the lamp. She laughed, unreservedly, sincerely, and the sound made him feel strangely weak and out of control. Christ, he loved that sound, he could spend the rest of his life listening to it, seeing the quick flash of humor in her tawny eyes, the flirtatious lift of her shoulder.

Yes, he wanted to kiss her, to make love to her. The memory of the other night came rushing back, the soft heaviness of her hair in his fingers, the warmth of her skin, her scent.

Cain’s stomach clenched painfully. He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing back the desire, wishing his emotions weren’t so damned raw. Hell, all she had to do was
look
at him and he was hard, and it had been so damned long since anything like that had happened he wasn’t sure what to do about it.

He wondered if he was imagining her melting toward him, if her smile really was warmer, if he was really seeing the flash of desire in her eyes.

And then she looked up, caught his gaze across the room, and he saw the warm flush move over her skin, her sparkling smile before Jiméne swept her away again.

He was not imagining it. The knowledge brought heat curling into his stomach, his loins. It was all he could do to keep himself from rushing up to them and grabbing her from Jiméne’s arms, pulling her outside into the soft moonlight so he could touch her the way he wanted to, feel the soft heaviness of her breasts and hear the startled intake of her breath.

Christ, he was out of control. Cain took a deep breath, leaned his head back against the wall, trying to concentrate on the conversations around him, trying not to think about her pink cheeks and the breathlessness of her laughter.

The music slowed, and he looked up, watching in surprise as Jiméne guided Ana back to the bench. She clung to him, her fingers tight around his arm, her eyes bright, and Cain felt a sudden, irrational stab of jealousy. Jealousy that had him walking across the room before he had time to think about it.

Jiméne bent over Ana, a concerned look on his face. He glanced up at Cain’s approach. “Ah, there you are,
amigo
. Ana is not feeling well.”

“Not feeling well?” Cain frowned and looked at her, his desire forgotten in sudden concern. “You said nothing of it before.”

She waved Jiméne back. “I’ve told him it’s nothing. Just a headache. I’m sure it’s just the excitement—”

“You feel warm to me,
cariña
,” Jiméne disagreed.

She laughed quietly, but when she pushed back a loose tendril of hair, her hands shook slightly. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Cain felt the first edge of uneasiness.

“She had the headache,” Jiméne said, straightening. “Go ahead, Doctor, give her a cure.”

Cain eyed her closely. “Would you like something, Ana?”

“No, thank you.” She shuddered, smiling weakly. “I’m fine. Only a little tired. I—I’m not used to dancing.”

She still looked flushed, perhaps too flushed. And her shining eyes, maybe they were too bright. Cain sat beside her, putting his hand to her forehead. “You do feel warm,” he said.

“You see? I told you,
cariña
, you are not well.”

Cain leaned closer. “How do you feel?”

She looked at him, her eyes searching his face, and he felt her hesitate, as if loath to tell him anything at all. Cain’s gut tightened, but he didn’t move away. “Well?” he urged.

“I feel… shivery,” she said with a deep breath. “And warm. Yes, I do feel… warm.”

“Some fresh air, D’Alessandro?” Jiméne asked.

Fresh air. Cain nodded. He rose and offered her his hand. “Come on,
querida
, Jiméne’s right. You could probably use some air.”

She put her hand in his, let him pull her to her feet. She stumbled slightly, falling forward, bracing her hands on his chest before she pulled away again. She smiled shyly and gracefully tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “Maybe you’re right. Some fresh air would do me—” She tripped again when he started to walk, clenching her fingers on his sleeve. “Sorry. This is… strange.”

An alarm went off in his brain. Cain gripped her hand. “Strange?”

She didn’t shrug him off. In fact, she grasped his hand as if she needed the support and closed her eyes. “My head is pounding. But I felt… fine. I felt fine earlier.”

“But warm.”

She licked her lips hesitantly. “Yes. I felt warm.”

“And now? Besides your head, how do you feel?”

“Maybe a little dizzy.”

Fear made a tight knot in his chest. He grabbed her shoulders, turned her to face him. “Ana. Ana, listen to me.” He gave her a little shake, forcing open her eyes, which had fluttered shut. “Ana—are you thirsty?”

She pulled away weakly. “Well, yes. Yes, I am, now that you mention it.” She glanced at the water jug sitting near the front door, and started toward it, stumbling a little, tossing back her hair. “I’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll just get something to drin—”

She fell forward, catching herself on the table, sinking down onto the bench. “My God,” she choked. “I feel terrible. Pounding—this—this pounding.”

In that moment, Cain’s joy was gone, relief fled. She had the fever. He had plunged back into the nightmare.

She fought him when he tried to lift her into his arms, but when he finally did, she barely uttered a sound of protest, and her body was limp and heavy. It was all the proof Cain needed.

Juan came hurrying over. “What is it?” He spoke rapidly, in Spanish. “What is wrong with Ana?”

“The fever.” The words felt forced from Cain’s throat. Just the thought of it filled him with terror. He looked down at Ana’s face. Her eyes were closed, she was half conscious, pushing fretfully at the strands of hair trailing over her face. The red flush on her cheeks was the only color to her skin.

“The fever?” Jiméne frowned. “Surely you are wrong,
amigo
. Moments ago she was fine. It is only just the headache.”

“As it was with Mama,” Juan broke in quietly. “You were not here, Jiméne, but it was the same with her. One moment she was fine, the next…” He shrugged.

“But—but I cannot believe—”

“Don’t believe another time, Jiméne,” Cain advised grimly. He glanced at the thin pole ladder to the loft. “Just tell me where I can put her. The loft is out of the question.”

Juan pointed to a doorway close to the front of the room. “There,” he said. “Serafina and I will move back upstairs. Enzo and Amado will be with Jiméne.”

“I’m sorry.”

Juan shook his head. “You are welcome to anything of ours,
amigo
. For what you did for Mama, we are in your debt.”

Cain didn’t argue. His strength was not back completely, and he was quickly finding Ana’s delicate frame a solid one. His arms ached. He went through the doorway, brushing past hammocks to the roughly made bed-stand in the corner.

“My head hurts,” Ana murmured, lolling her head against his shoulder. “Pounding.”

Cain laid her on the bed, then looked at Jiméne, who stood in the doorway. “Get my case,” he ordered shortly, turning back to Ana, laying his hand against her cheek. She was hot, damned hot. How the hell had it sneaked up on her so quickly? He tried to remember if she’d said anything, done anything to show the onset of fever, but there was nothing. Nothing. Christ, what kind of a doctor was he that he hadn’t been able to see it coming?

A bad. doctor…

Ana moved beneath his hand, her eyes fluttered open. “Cain,” she murmured sleepily, looking up at him. “It’s too hot.” She pulled at her collar, trying for a moment to loosen the buttons until her hand fell limply against her breast. “Open a window, please.”

He touched her forehead. Her eyes fell shut again. Gently he smoothed tendrils of her dark hair from her face, traced her jaw to the jet buttons at her throat. One by one, he unfastened them, peeling back the sweat-soaked wool. He paused just before her breasts when he noticed she wore no chemise. Of course, he’d forgotten he had thrown away her corset. There was nothing but wool next to her skin—

“Here.” Jiméne sounded breathless. He handed Cain his medical case. “I gathered up what was in Mama’s room. It is all there.”

“Thank you.”

“This is—” Jiméne paused, as if gathering strength. “This is the same fever,
si
?”

Cain couldn’t look at him. He clutched the case in his hands. “I think so.”

“What will you do?”

Cain shrugged. His hands were trembling as he flipped open the case and stared down into it, seeing the leech box, the glass cups, the lancet, and below that all the medicines. He knew them by heart, knew what they did, and it was never any guarantee. Slowly, forcing every move, he drew out the bottle of quinine salts.

“Jiméne,” he said quietly, “will you get some water, please?”

He heard Jiméne walk away, and Cain curled his fingers around the bottle, trying to calm his shaking. It didn’t help, and he finally put the medicine aside, and his case, and reached for the woven blanket folded on the end of the bed. Quietly he shook it out and laid it over her.

She became restless almost immediately, shoving at the blanket, trying to roll out from beneath it. He tucked it around her shoulders and unbuttoned the rest of her gown, hiding her nakedness from himself and anyone else, working beneath the covers until he had drawn the wool down to her waist. Carefully, trying not to touch her skin, he slid it from her hips, pulled it from beneath the blanket and let the dress fall in a heap on the floor.

Cain closed his eyes briefly in relief, opening them to find she’d relaxed marginally. One slender pale arm trailed from beneath the blanket. Her long, heavy hair was caught beneath her head, trapping her, and gently Cain lifted her shoulders, pulling the loosened braid aside, letting the rich mahogany length of it fall over the side of the bed.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her full mouth moved slightly, as if she were talking in dreams, her eyelids fluttered, and her fingers clenched. She looked as if she were only sleeping, but Cain knew better. Soon this fitful, dreaming state would give way to delirium, and after that, to motionless, deathlike sleep. It was the stage he dreaded most, the stage that kept him constantly at the bedside, watching, waiting for the slightest breath, gulping wine to ease the worry.

Cain swallowed, burying the craving, turning away. Sometimes it never got to that stage. Sometimes patients died long before that.

But she wouldn’t. He murmured the words to himself, as if giving them sound would make it real. She wouldn’t die. He wouldn’t let her. He could be wrong, after all. This might be nothing but a minor illness, something soon over.