“Nature called. Devilish hot under all those blankets. Where’s the whiskey?”
She pressed her palm against his forehead. “You’re still fevered. Get back into bed, and I’ll get the bottle.”
He started to grumble but coughed instead. “Can’t stop,” he muttered, between coughs and gasping for air. “Hate this.” He leaned on her shoulder as he limped back to bed.
Quincy winced, seeing the pain on his face as he clutched his hand to his chest. “Hold your breath,” she ordered.
Sinclair fell onto the bed rather than actually sitting down, and looked at her, incredulous. “You gone daft?” he squeezed between coughs.
“Trust me. It will help you stop coughing. For a moment, at least.”
He clamped his jaw shut. His body jerked twice as he fought back the urge to cough, and then was still. He raised
