Flavio looked into her face, searching for some redeeming thread. She closed her eyes, breathing painfully. “If Quillan won’t speak against you, neither will I.” She opened her eyes and faced him. “If there are none to condemn you, what right have you to condemn yourself? Ask God’s forgiveness.”
He swallowed, then followed bleakly with his eyes as she turned away. She stopped at the door, reversed herself to cross the room. Without looking at Flavio, she lifted the rope and carried it out with her.
As she walked home, her heart swelled with love for Quillan. However misplaced his silence was, he kept it honorably. What a different man she joined in one flesh than she might have. God had removed her from a love that was corrupt to a redeeming love, for both herself and Quillan. Maybe even her angry flight had been God’s urging. How else could He unite her with the man He had chosen? Oh, Signore. Your ways are bigger than mine. Grazie, Dio. Grazie.
Carina came in like a breeze, her cheeks no longer wan but touched with color. Her hair tumbled loose and her limbs moved with grace and ease. Quillan watched silently as she brought a small bowl to the bedside and pulled a stool close. He could turn his head, but it hurt the collarbone, so he followed her with his eyes.
This was the first day he felt clearheaded enough to respond. His other awakenings, day and night—how many days he didn’t know— had been foggy and confused, ending in exhaustion. He was so tired of being tired. Gently, she eased his head and shoulders up and pushed a wedge-shaped pillow beneath. One thing hadn’t changed. He was too weak to assist or resist, and it galled him.
“There,” she said, stroking his head. That galled, too. He couldn’t touch her back.
She sat and took a bowl into her lap, stirring with the tiny spoon inside, releasing steam and aroma. Quillan swallowed in anticipation. Had anything but water passed his lips?
She brought the spoon to her own and sipped. “A little hot.” She stirred more and the beefy bouquet reached his nose and teased. At last she brought the spoon to his lips.
Quillan frowned. “Unbind my arm and I can feed myself.” Trussed up like a chicken with his arms across his chest, he could do nothing!
“Take the broth, Quillan.” She touched the spoon to his lips. They parted in spite of him and he swallowed.
Her smile was infuriating, so indulgent. The spoon touched his lips again and liquid seeped through. Broth, food for babies and invalids. He wanted real food and working arms.
“Sei impaziente.”
“Impatient? What do you expect?”
She swirled the spoon in the bowl. “You don’t have to holler.”
He scowled. “I’m not hollering.”
“Your face is.”
“My—”
She snuck another spoonful in, and he swallowed furiously. “Stop that.”
Carina cradled the bowl in her lap. “What should I stop? Feeding you?”
“Stop feeling so smug about it.”
She laughed. “You like helping, but you don’t like to receive it, do you?”
Receive? Being fed like a baby, an invalid, like Leona Shepard, out of her wits and— “I see the storm in your eyes.”
Quillan glared at his wife. “Are you enjoying this?”
“No more than you, when you ordered me to bed.” She bent and kissed his forehead.
He struggled against the tight wrapping, which trapped his left arm to his chest, and the sling that immobilized his right in its cast. Even that much movement brought pain. And exhaustion.
“If you’re too difficult, I’ll have Papa feed you.”
Quillan couldn’t make his face more murderous. He wanted to throw the bowl of insipid broth right through the window and stalk out of that house. He wanted no part of Dr. DiGratia or any of them. Trying to win Carina’s family had cost him too much. He would take Carina and go.
“You’re in pain, aren’t you? Why don’t you ask when you need medicine?”
“I don’t need laudanum, I need peace. And I won’t find it here.” Again that feeling of entrapment. He had no control!
She set the bowl down and kissed his lips. He couldn’t reach his hands into her hair or hold her there when she drew away. Having his arms bound and useless scared him more than he wanted to show. It was horrible to be so trapped, so helpless.
“It’s all right. You’re welcome here.” Carina lifted the bowl again. “Father Antoine validated our marriage, Quillan. They accept—”
“I don’t care about any of that. I don’t want their acceptance, their pity. . . .”
She drew back, irked. “No, you have enough of your own, it seems.”
The rebuke stung. Did she blame him? Wasn’t it enough that he protected Flavio, kept silent about his throwing the dynamite, causing all this wreckage? Quillan felt a wave of terror. Would he be crippled and helpless the rest of his life? When the casts came off, the bandages removed, would he hobble around like Alan Tavish, or like Cain with only one leg?
What was wrong with his leg? All he got from Dr. DiGratia was, “We must wait and see.” He didn’t want to wait! He wanted his arms back, his legs to work, his bowels to digest more than broth!
“Caro mio.” Carina kissed him again.
He wanted to grab her, hold her. And he could do nothing! “Don’t patronize me. I don’t need human acceptance and comfort. I surrendered it all.”
Her face changed. “Was that so hard? Haven’t you done that all your life? Turned your back on anyone who could hurt you and depended on yourself?”
Why was she scolding him? “Not myself now. On God.”
“Bene.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Did God set your bones? Mend your intestine? Has God fed you and bathed you and seen to your comfort?”
He flushed hotly but couldn’t answer that. He was living and breathing today because of the care he had received. And it wasn’t directly God’s hand, of course. It was Dottore DiGratia’s.
“Maybe you need to surrender your independence.”
He did not want to hear that. Did she know something they wouldn’t tell him? Would he be helpless, forever dependent on others, unable to reject their succor? Fear seared his innards.
“Now that would be surrender, eh?” She leaned close, kissed one eye and then the other, kissed his cheeks, then his lips again. He groaned.
The door opened and Dr. DiGratia came in. Carina straightened, but her face was flushed and her mouth turned up, her features maddeningly like her father’s. Surrender his independence? Never!
Quillan scowled from one to the other. “I want my arm unbound.”
“Do you.” The doctor spoke dryly, obviously not at all concerned with his wants. He walked over to the bed. “Let me see.” He pressed with one finger on the collarbone and Quillan hollered. The doctor straightened. “Maybe not just yet.”
If his arm had been loose Quillan would have coldcocked him, even if it broke the collarbone again. Carina looked reproachfully at her father. So now she understood?
Dr. DiGratia shook the thin glass tube he’d been sticking into Quillan’s mouth every day, several times a day. He poked it in once more. “Under your tongue.”