Claiming the Forbidden Bride Read Online Free PDF Page A

believe had gathered around his bed.
    Finally, near dawn on the sixth day, her efforts were rewarded by the formation of a dew of perspiration along his upper lip. Exhausted, unable to remember the last time she had eaten a complete meal or slept for more than a few restless hours, Nadya discarded her basin and cloth as the rays of the sun crept steadily into the caravan.
    She sat down on the low stool beside her patient’s bed and laid the back of her hand against the gaujo’s brow, which was as cool as her own. Now that the fever was broken, his body would attempt to heal itself through sleep. Not the restless, fever-induced unconsciousness of the last few days, but a restorative rest that would almost certainly last for several hours.
    Since it was safe to leave him, she would ask Magda or one of the other women to sit with him. She needed something to eat. And after she’d seen Angel, a few blessed hours of uninterrupted sleep for herself.
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    Rhys opened his eyes and then quickly closed them against the light that had seemed to stab through them, like a knife thrust into his brain. On some level, he realized that he had been aware of the agony in his head for a long time. Finally, its persistence had dragged him from sleep.
    He had a vague memory of being carried from the field, but he couldn’t think what battle they’d been engaged in. As adjutant, he should certainly know, but in spite of his struggle to remember, there was nothing about any of that left in his consciousness.
    Perhaps that was because there was room there for nothing but pain. And a thirst so profound it was almost worse than the other.
    He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. Even in the makeshift field hospitals set up near the lines, someone always brought water to those awaiting treatment. If he could only make them aware of his need…
    He dragged leaden eyelids upward again, but more cautiously this time. Through the slits he allowed, he saw that what he had avoided before was a single candle. And that its light was not bright at all.
    He turned his head, trying to locate one of the orderlies or even a surgeon. A shard of the previous agony sliced through his skull.
    He clenched his lips against the resultant wave of nausea, one so severe it threatened his determination never to move again. Hardly daring to breathe, he willed himself not to be sick.
    He tried to think of something—anything—other than the overwhelming urge to vomit. And finally, in his travail,realized that in the split second his eyes had been open, some still-functioning part of his brain had recognized that, wherever he was, it was like no hospital he’d ever seen.
    And like nowhere else he’d ever been.
    Curiosity engendered by that realization was almost enough to quell his roiling stomach. His eyelids again opened a slit, and for the third time, he peered out between his lashes.
    The light was definitely a candle. It had been pushed into a twisted holder made of some unidentifiable metal, blackened with age or use.
    Beyond was a blur of colour, reds and golds predominating. He turned his head another fraction of an inch in an attempt to bring his surroundings into better focus.
    The wall opposite where he lay was so close that, if he had had the strength, he could probably have stretched out his arm and touched it. And every inch of it, from floor to ceiling, was crowded with objects.
    He allowed his gaze to follow their upward climb, trying to identify what was there. Baskets, woven of vine and stacked full of what appeared to be dried roots. Earthenware crocks, their tops sealed with wax. Glass jars whose contents were indistinguishable, dark and strangely shaped. And sitting incongruously in the middle of what he had now realized were a series of shelves was a rag doll, exactly like those sold in every penny shop in England.
    England.
    He was no longer in Spain, he knew with a flash of clarity. He hadn’t been for