“It’s not your fault I fainted walking out of the church.”

“No, but it’ll give the papers something to write about.” He pressed her hand to his freshly shaved cheek. “The poor Shaw heiress overcome by the idea of her wedding night with the scandalous Murphy brother.”

Her rasping laughs turned into coughs. She closed her eyes again and focused on relaxing her chest. In. Out.

“Have you ever felt,” she wheezed out, “as if you were trying to breathe through water?”

“Jaysus,” he swore. “Don’t do this to me, sweet girl. Give me a little longer, eh?”

She blinked her eyes open and lifted a hand to the corner of his eyes where the skin was creased with age and worry. “Your eyes are all red, Tom.”

He blinked and looked away. “Must be all the smoke. And worrying about you.”

“I told you…” She traced a fingertip around his stern mouth. “I’m not going to get better.”

“And I told you I was marrying you. And I did, wife.”

She smiled. “That’s right. We’re married.”

“We are.”

“I like you so much, Tom. Far… more than I could have imagined. So unfair—”

Another coughing fit took her, and Tom helped her sit up, rubbing her back and placing the cool cloth at the nape of her neck.

“Tell me what to do,” he whispered. “Anything.”

“There’s nothing… The onions will help,” she rasped when the cough had passed.

Mrs. Porter bustled in, a smelly poultice in her hands and a stern look on her face.

“Mr. Murphy, sir, I must insist you clear your brother and sister-in-law from the room. The less company the better for Miss Shaw. I’m in no danger of infection, you see. I had it as a child and recovered. But the rest of you could be at risk.”

“I’ll clear them out,” he growled. “But then I’m coming back to sit with Mrs. Murphy, so don’t you bar the door.”

She pursed her lips. “As you like.”

The door closed a few moments later, and Mrs. Porter opened up Josephine’s gown, carefully placing the steaming poultice on her chest. It was so hot she felt as if her skin would peel off.

“Oh, the smell,” she groaned. “What horrid thing did you add this time, Louisa?”

“Smells like clear breathing is what it smells like. And the Murphys’ cook had garlic. She said it might help.”

“Well, it certainly”—Josephine coughed some more—“smells vile enough to be medicinal.”

Mrs. Porter sat silently for a few more moments while Josephine breathed in the onion fumes.

“I think I heard them mention the house in Bray.”

“Bray would be nice,” she wheezed. “Take… you and Tom.”

“And his valet, of course. Young man by the name of Henry. Seems a nice boy, and Mr. Murphy said he was good driver too.”

The house at Bray was hers. Father had put it in her name years before. Josephine found she liked the idea of sharing the simple house with Tom. They’d planned to travel to Wicklow for their honeymoon, but Bray would be far more relaxing.

She felt herself slipping to sleep as her breathing eased. “Tell Tom…”

“What, dear?”

“See him in my dreams.”

Mrs. Porter brushed Josephine’s hair back from her damp forehead. “Course you will, lovey. Rest now.”

But when she dreamed, Josephine was steeped in nightmares. Tom was there, but his eyes were bloodred and his skin ice-cold. He took her in his arms and kissed her, but when she pulled away, her mouth was bleeding and a childish voice whispered:

Are you afraid to die?

THE next time she woke, Tom was carrying her. She took a breath and realized the horrid onions had done their job and her breathing had eased. She pressed her cheek into Tom’s shoulder, amazed by his strength.

“You’re not even breathing heavily,” she murmured.

“Are you awake then?”

“Hmmm.” She burrowed into his shoulder. “Are we in Bray already?”

“We’ve just arrived.”

“How long did I sleep?”

“Your fever broke around noon today, Mrs. Porter said. We both slept until late afternoon, then I decided we’d better get started. You woke a little in the carriage, but not for long. No coughing.”

“Oh good.” She took another easy breath. Ah, the wondrous onions. Vile, but effective. “I feel like a damsel in a novel with you carrying me like this.”

A laugh rumbled in his chest. “Just to the house.”

“No, no,” she murmured. “You must carry me up to the top of a tower and ravish me. Or perhaps carry me over a hill as we run from bandits.”

“I’m afraid there will be no ravishing until your strength is back.” His voice wore a smile. He almost sounded as if he was laughing. “What an imagination you have, Josie.”

“You have no idea.”

“Are you a good one for stories? I love a good story.”

“You might say that.”

She felt him jostle her feet a bit as he maneuvered her through the small entry hall. The sea air nipped her too-long nose, and she could still feel the edge of the fever, but she didn’t care. She felt as romantic as a heroine in one of her Gothic tales.

Which, being Gothic, didn’t bode well for her long-term health.