“I know, I know. Men make the worst patients. Can you imagine if you had to deliver babies? The human race should never have made it so far.”

He turned on his heel. “I'm going to my room.”

“Oh, good. You should. You'll feel much better, I'm sure, if you get some rest.”

Blake didn't answer her, just strode toward the stairs. When he reached the first step, however, he realized that she was still right behind him. “What are you doing here?” he snapped.

“I'm following you to your room.”

“Are you doing this for any particular reason?”

“I'm seeing to your welfare.”

“See to it elsewhere.”

“That,” she said firmly, “is quite impossible.”

“Caroline,” he ground out, thinking his jaw was going to snap in two at any moment, “you are trying my nerves. Severely.”

“Of course I am. Anyone would in your condition. You are clearly suffering from some sort of illness.”

He stomped up two steps. “I am not ill.”

She stomped up one step. “Of course you are. You could have a fever, or perhaps a putrid throat.”

He whirled around. “I repeat: I am not ill.”

“Don't make me repeat my statement as well. We're starting to sound rather childish. And if you don't allow me to tend to you, you'll only grow sicker.”

Blake felt a pressure rising within him—something he was quite powerless to contain. “I am not ill.”

She let out a frustrated sigh. “Blake, I—”

He grabbed her under her arms and hauled her up until they were nose to nose, her feet dangling helplessly in the air. “I am not ill, Caroline,” he said, his words clipped and even. “I don't have a fever, I don't have a putrid throat, and I damned well don't need you to take care of me. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “Could you possibly put me down?”

“Good.” He set her down on the floor with surprising gentleness, then turned and marched back up the stairs.

Caroline, however, was right behind him.

“I thought you wanted to avoid me,” he snapped, whirling around to face her once he reached the landing.

“I did. I mean, I do. But you're ill, and—”

“I'm not ill!” he thundered.

She didn't say anything, and it was quite clear she didn't believe him.

He planted his hands on his hips and leaned forward until their noses were scant inches apart. “I will say this slowly so that you will understand me. I am going to my room now. Don't follow.”

She didn't listen.

“My God, woman!” he burst out, not two seconds later when she collided with him rounding the corner, “what does it take to get a command through your skull? You are like the plague, you—Oh, Christ, now what is the matter?”

Caroline's face, which had been so militant and determined in her efforts to nurse him, had positively crumpled. “It's nothing,” she said with a sniffle.

“Obviously it's something.”

Her shoulders rose and fell in a self-deprecating shrug. “Percy said the same thing to me. He's a fool, and I know that, but it still hurt. It was just that I thought…”

Blake felt like the worst sort of brute. “What did you think, Caroline?” he asked gently.

She shook her head and started to walk away.

He watched her for just a moment, tempted to let her go. After all, she'd been a thorn in his side—not to mention other parts of his anatomy—all morning. The only way he was going to get any peace was to keep her out of his sight.

But her lower lip had quivered, and her eyes had looked a little wet, and—

“Damn,” he muttered. “Caroline, come back here.”

She didn't listen, so he strode down the hall, catching up with her just as she was heading down the stairs. With quick steps he positioned himself between her and the staircase. “Stop, Caroline. Now.”

He heard her sniffle, and then she turned around. “What is it, Blake? I really should go. I'm sure you can take care of yourself. You said so, and you certainly don't need me to—”

“Why do you suddenly look as if you're going to cry?”

She swallowed. “I'm not going to cry.”

He crossed his arms and gave her a look that said he didn't believe her for one second.

“I said it was nothing,” she mumbled.

“I'm not going to let you go down these stairs until you tell me what is wrong.”

“Fine. Then I'll go up to my room.” She turned around and took one step away, but he caught a handful of the fabric of her skirt and pulled her back to him. “I suppose that now you're going to say you're not going to let me go until I tell you,” she growled.

“You're growing perceptive in your old age.”

She crossed her arms mutinously. “Oh, for goodness sake. You're being quite ridiculous.”

“I told you once that you are my responsibility, Caroline. And I don't take my responsibilities lightly.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that if you're crying, I want to put a stop to it.”

“I'm not crying,” she muttered.

“You were about to.”

“Oh!” she burst out, throwing her arms up in exasperation. “Has anyone ever told you that you're as stubborn as…as…”

“As you?” he said helpfully.

Her lips clamped into a firm and slightly twisted line as she glared daggers at him.

“Spit it out, Caroline. I'm not letting you pass until you do.”

“Fine! Do you want to know why I was upset? Fine. I'll tell you.” She swallowed, summoning courage she didn't feel. “Did you happen to notice that you compared me to the plague?”