“Very few circumstances require such extreme measures. But this, I daresay, is one.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham while dismissing her most recent lady’s maid, the second in a single day.
Night fell early, thanks to the storm. No thunder, but plenty of wind. It howled and rocked Jonas in angry blasts. He attempted to resettle himself in the saddle and nearly screamed at the white flash of pain. Rain had soaked him through hours ago. The wet helped ease the heat in his skin, which throbbed and fogged his mind. His shoulder and leg were bleeding again.
But he was here. By God, he was here.
He pulled his horse up short beside the castle’s fountain, breathing and blinking as his own hands wavered in his vision. Rain cascaded from his hat’s brim. He knew he should move, but he could not remember how.
On his right, he heard the creak of Drayton’s saddle as the other man dismounted. “Bloody suicidal fool.”
In front of him, he watched Dunston dismount and approach. The dapper earl scowled. “I do hope this was worth your death, Hawthorn.”
He opened his mouth to tell him it was. That he would have gone farther and suffered worse to save her. But nothing emerged. His throat was dry. His face was hot. Slowly, he blinked.
“This will hurt.” Dunston’s warning came a second before he and Drayton yanked Jonas from the saddle. Pain exploded. Not merely in his limbs, but everywhere.
Blackness. Weakness. Dripping. Pain and pain and pain.
Dunston, who had looped his uninjured arm across his shoulders, held Jonas upright and dragged him before wooden doors. The doors opened. A white-haired man asked a question.
Jonas could scarcely hear for the wind and the rain and his pounding head.
The entrance hall echoed, but there was no more rain. Just more heat. Other men arrived. Footmen, he thought. Vaguely, he heard Dunston and Drayton talking. Two footmen tried to take his weight.
He groaned as pain radiated outward from his shoulder and leg.
“Mr. Hawthorn?” It was her voice. Pure and soft as snowfall.
Blinking, he forced his eyes to focus. Gray and white squares refused to un-blur.
“… has happened to him?” Her voice sharpened. She sounded distressed. “Fetch Lord Holstoke’s physician. Now. Go!”
He blinked again. Tried to raise his head. Christ, he was weak. Hot and weak.
Her face appeared before him, paler than usual but even more exquisite than he remembered. That smooth brow puckered with fret and fear.
For him? No. Unlikely.
He needed to tell her something. How beautiful she was.
Those rosebud lips were moving. Demanding. “… him upstairs. The blue chamber. He is not permitted to die.” Moonlight eyes riveted to his. Delicate nostrils flared. “Is that perfectly clear, Mr. Hawthorn? You will not die.”
Her command was his last memory for a long while. Next thing he knew, he lay naked and screaming in agony. No sound. The screaming was in his head. Firelight flickered on blue walls. Heat pulsed. He dragged his eyes open.
Saw … her. Dark smudges marred the skin beneath moonlit green. Wisps of midnight curled against creamy white cheeks. She sat beside his bed, hands folded and wringing. “Keep him alive, Phineas,” came her cool, soft voice. “Do as you must.”
Somebody poured a bitter brew down his throat. He choked and fought, but to no avail. Then came pain unlike anything he’d felt before. This time, his scream was real, ripping from his throat, echoing off blue walls.
The room went dark. When light returned, she was there. Moonlight eyes were rimmed red, gazing at the fire. She rocked herself back and forth in the chair as though she needed comfort. He tried to stretch out his arm toward her, but it weighed twelve tons.
He was hot. Bloody hot and thirsty. His head pounded. Hell, everywhere pounded. He wanted to speak but managed only a croak.
Her gaze flew back to him. She stood and hovered close, though her hands continued wringing at her waist until her knuckles blanched. “Rest,” she admonished. “You’ve done yourself quite enough damage already.”
“D-danger,” he said, his breath short on the single word.
“I know,” she replied with a fierce frown. “Lord Dunston informed us about your findings. What I do not understand is why you would undertake this foolish journey after you were … shot.” Her lips went tight and white. Briefly, she closed her eyes. “You could have died.”
“He is here.” Jonas panted. Gathered strength. “So, I must be here.”
She paced away, her shoulders trembling with agitation. He watched her retreat, but struggled to focus when she entered the shadows at the edge of the room.
“The—the sketch,” he rasped.
“Ruined,” she said quietly, keeping her back to him. “Your b-blood soaked it.”
His eyes closed. Blast. He would have to draw the blackguard again when he could lift his hand.
She turned. Glided toward him. Stood beside his bed with seamless composure. “Rest, Mr. Hawthorn. My brother and Lord Dunston will ensure our safety.”
“Your safety,” he said, the words nearly a growl as they rattled in his dry throat. “Yours.”
Her blinking grew rapid, as did her breathing. Those fine, delicate hands twisted together until he could not bear her distress any longer.
He forced his muscles to respond. Stretched out his arm. Reached for her hands. He was shaking by the time his fingers brushed hers.
As though he’d scalded her, she jerked violently and stumbled back several steps. She folded her arms across her middle, tucking her hands away. Her eyes flared wide as a hare’s when flushed by a hunter. Her bosom rose and fell at a panicked pace.
His arm dropped to the sheet. He couldn’t hold it up any longer, and she obviously did not want his loathsome hands upon her.
Haughty woman.
Haughty, exquisite, haunting woman.
In the silence, the pain softened. His thoughts grew heavy and slow, though his body floated above the bed.
Soon, he let his eyes drift closed, but he could still see her—cold as a winter lake. So bloody beautiful, she was both pain and pleasure. Heat and ice. Strength and fragility.
Darkness moved in. He slid into it gladly, numbness coating the pain. As it blanketed him, he imagined he felt a tickle against his lips. Delirium, probably. The fever or the laudanum. But it seemed real.
Then, a whisper fell, soft and achingly sweet. “Rest now, Jonas Hawthorn,” it said. “I am not so easy to kill.”
*~*~*