“What was in my tea?” she asked in a panic, trying to rise from her chair. “What did you put in it?” The room revolved. She felt his arms close around her.

“Nothing but a pinch of valerian,” West said calmly. “Which wouldn’t have had nearly this much of an effect if you weren’t ready to drop from exhaustion.”

“I’m going to kill you,” she cried.

“Yes, but to do that you’ll have to have a nice little rest first, won’t you?”

Garrett tried to strike him with her fist, but he ducked easily beneath her flailing arm, and picked her up as her knees buckled.

“Let go! I have to take care of him—he needs me—”

“I can manage the basics of nursing him while you sleep.”

“No, you can’t,” Garrett said weakly, and was horrified to hear a sob breaking from her throat. “Your patients all have four legs. H-he only has two.”

“Which means he’ll be half the trouble,” West said reasonably.

Garrett writhed with helpless rage. Ethan was on his deathbed, and this man was making light of the situation. He contained her struggles with maddening ease.

As West carried her along the hallway, Garrett desperately tried to stop crying. Her eyes were on fire. Her head throbbed and ached, and it had become so heavy that she had to rest it on his shoulder.

“There, now,” she heard him murmur. “It’s only for a few hours. When you awaken, you’ll have any revenge you want.”

“Going to dissect you,” she sobbed, “into a million pieces—”

“Yes,” West soothed, “just think about which instrument you’ll start with. Perhaps that two-sided scalpel with the funny handle.” He brought her into a pretty bedroom with flowered paper on the walls. “Martha,” he called. “Both of you. Come see to Dr. Gibson.”

No mystic’s vision of hell, with sulphurous chasms and human forms charred to ember, could have been worse than the place where Ethan was trapped. Demons with steel claws leaped at him in the darkness. He thrashed to escape, but every movement drove the claws deeper into his flesh. They dragged him to pits of fire and roasted him over white-hot coals, cackling with laughter as he cursed them.

Sometimes he was aware that he was bedridden, while a calm-faced angel tended his tortured body in ways that unleashed fresh shocks of pain. He almost preferred the demons. His wracked mind couldn’t summon her name, but he knew who she was. She insisted on tethering him to the earth with those slim, inexorable hands. He wanted to tell her he’d slipped too far, there was no coming back. But her will was stronger than his weakness.

A tide of fire rose from the floor, blossoming with blue heat. He whimpered and gasped, climbing to escape it, pulling himself up from the deep well of curling flame. There was a circle of light above him, a man reaching down. Seeing his father’s muscular arms and knotted hands, Ethan reached upward frantically.

“Da,” he whispered. “Fire—pull me out—don’t let it take me—”

“You’re out. I have you.” A powerful grip enclosed his hand.

“Don’t let go, Da.”

“I won’t. Lie still now.” His father pulled him up and laid him back, and stroked something cold over his face and neck. “Easy. The worst is over.” So much kinder than he’d ever been in life, the mean edges of his temper weathered down to patient strength.

Ethan relaxed and shivered slightly as blessed coolness was distilled all through him, and the stroking cloth paused. Groping for his father’s wrist, Ethan blindly urged the big hand back to his face. The soothing movements resumed, and Ethan’s tired mind threaded its way into quietness.

He awakened to the steady light of morning on his eyelids, while someone tugged at his bandage, peeling it away like the skin of a fruit. Burning liquid was applied to his shoulder in steady, measured drips. During the process, a man was talking. Not to him, but at him, in a light, aimless flow that required no response.

It was bloody annoying.

“. . . I’ve never had this much to do with another man’s body before. For that matter, I don’t think I’ve had quite this much to do with a woman’s body. I may have to become a monk after this.”

The man was winding a bandage neatly over his chest and around his back, leaning close to lift him slightly with each pass.

“. . . as heavy as a Hampshire hog . . . more muscle than other breeds, which is why they weigh more than they look. Take my word for it, you’d be a prizewinning baconer. I mean that as a compliment, by the way.”

With an antagonized grunt, Ethan shoved at the man, breaking his hold and sending him staggering back. After a swift glance at his surroundings, Ethan half rolled toward the table near the bedside and grabbed a metal utensil. Ignoring the vicious stabbing ache of his shoulder, he stayed on his side and glared at the man by the bed.

It was West Ravenel, who regarded him with a slightly tilted head. “Feeling better today, are we?” he asked in a tone of artificial cheer.

“Where am I?” Ethan asked hoarsely.

“Our hallowed ancestral domain, Eversby Priory.” West glanced at the bandage on Ethan’s chest, which had begun to unravel. He reached for the loose end. “Let me finish wrapping that, or—”

“Touch me again,” Ethan growled, “and I’ll kill you with this.”

West drew his hand back instantly, his gaze falling to the utensil in Ethan’s grip. “That’s a spoon.”

“I know.”

The corner of West’s mouth twitched, but he retreated a step or two.

“Where is Garrett?” Ethan demanded.

“After performing surgery, traveling to Hampshire and staying up for thirty-six hours to look after you, she was obliged to rest a bit. Your fever broke during the night, which will undoubtedly be welcome news when she awakens. In the meantime, I’ve been taking care of you.” West paused. “So far, I preferred it when you were unconscious.”

Ethan felt a flush of humiliation creeping over him as he realized this man had cared for him during his delirious ravings. Oh God . . . the dream about his father . . . the moments of paternal tenderness he’d always craved from the man who’d raised him. And the handholding—had he imagined that, or—

“Relax,” West said calmly, although his eyes twinkled with amusement. “We’re family.”

It was the first time he’d directly addressed Ethan’s connection to the Ravenels. Ethan glanced at him warily, refusing to reply.

“In fact,” West continued, “now that my blood is running through your veins, we’re practically brothers.”

Ethan shook his head, perplexed.

“Transfusion,” West explained. “You received ten ounces of Ravenel ’forty-nine . . . a fairly decent vintage, it seems, since it brought you back to life when your heart stopped after surgery.” He grinned at Ethan’s expression. “Cheer up, you might develop a sense of humor now.”

But Ethan’s intent stare wasn’t one of dismay or resentment . . . he was amazed. All he knew about transfusion was that damned few people survived it. And West Ravenel, the cavalier ass, had willingly gone through a remarkable amount of trouble, risk, and discomfort for his sake. Not only in donating his own blood, but also in taking Ethan to Eversby Priory and looking after him, in full awareness of the dangers of doing so.