Chapter 6

Ashley, astonished, answered, "Yes," and his gaze darted Blake's way and back to Cam. "Ashley Linden…just Ash, please…how do you know Blake?"

"He asked me to come." Cam had Ash's slender wrist in a professional grip, counting pulse-beats. Blake's head did a small electric-storm crackle at the incongruity, the overlay. Cam's easy command, that large capable hand on a wrist, encircling…but Ash's, not his own…even more lovely and elegant, of course, and yet right now Ash was ill…

Cam muttered something in uncomplimentary-sounding Gaelic under his breath, released Ashley's arm, added, "Also get a bit of fresh air in here, would you? Just enough to open this room up. Who told you to shut everything up like this, honestly…"

Blake had got up automatically at the casual order, and opened the window a crack, and found himself looking back for approval. Cam nodded at him. And the amount of relief Blake's whole self felt, at that approval, was frankly absurd.

Ashley was looking back and forth between them, and tried to speak, and crumpled into a coughing fit. Blake ran back over, and held out tea, and said, "He was ill when I came home—I mean when I arrived, yesterday…but it's got worse, the way he sounds now…ever since this morning…"

"Aye." Cam had fished an instrument out of the medical bag, something that looked unimpressively like a stiff tube of rolled heavy paper; he said, "Breathe for me, lad?" and appeared to be listening, through the tube, to Ash's chest. He made a disapproving noise, after, and shook his head. "Should've sent for me earlier, not wasted time, not with this…"

Blake, curious, said, "It helps you listen?"

"Hmm? Oh, aye. Old trick, not one your fancy physicians use, but it's helpful. Would you get some hot water up here, and just treat this like tea, it's Peruvian bark…" Cam dove back into the bag. "Do you happen to know if there's willow bark in the house, at all?"

Ashley's eyes were closed, he might not've heard. Blake said, "I can find out," and yanked the bell-pull so hard he wondered whether he should apologize to it. "I can get some if you need it. Anything."

"Oh, I've got some, just not so much, I've been using this supply…not thrilled about the way that was sounding, I'll tell you that, but it's the fever I'm more worried about, just now…that strain on his body…" Cam's hands were very gentle, large and firm against Ashley's body. "Can you sit up a bit, for me? It'll make that breathing easier…"

It did, or it seemed to, somewhat. Hot water arrived; Cam did some mysterious alchemy with bark and steeping, and then added honey. "Here you are, lad, drink that for me. Slowly, mind."

Blake came to help. Steadying. Ash made a small face after the first sip. Cam laughed. "I know, aye? Awful. 'Tis what the honey's for, but it doesn't help much, I'm afraid."

"More," Blake said, hands around Ash's, around the cup. "Come on…"

"We'll want to be doing that every few hours." Cam ran a hand through his hair; the deep autumn red, Blake noticed abruptly, had a few silver strands. Not many, but some. He wasn't sure how old Cam—Doctor Fraser—was; older than himself, he'd guessed back in Edinburgh, but not too much so. Enough for a shiver of authority, for that solid competence. "I'll stay, if you're not minding that. It'll get worse before it gets better."

Worse. The word raked a scalpel down Blake's spine. "Please stay. Anything you need, anything we can give you…"

"Oh, proper tea might be nice. For us, that is. Something decently strong, mind." Cam was watching Blake's hands, around Ash's; Blake knew he was, caught those emerald eyes looking, did not know what expression got swiftly tucked away behind controlled maze doors. "I did say better, and no promises, mind you, but I know what word you heard, just now, so I'm reminding you I said both."

Blake felt the corner of his mouth try to lift into a reluctant smile. "Thank you."

"No need," Cam said, "but I'll say it's a good thing you and I met again, this morning…" His voice held wryness, not scolding, but something like resignation. Blake remembered that morning too well: himself panicking, his worlds falling together, himself fleeing. Of course Cam thought the worst of him. How could it be otherwise?

And yet, and yet. Cam had come. Because Cam was that sort of person. A hero.

Ashley, between sips, inquired, "You two…you met earlier? Today?" His voice was back to that small withdrawn shyness, not so much illness as hesitance, afraid to interfere.

Cam's gaze crossed Blake's; Blake said, "We saw each other in the street, on my way here; Cam's here with Straithern and his wife, helping them," and Cam's gaze flicked away.

Ash nodded, wearily.

Blake took the empty cup. "We'd met in Edinburgh before that. At a bookshop." True, as it went.

"He ran into me," Cam offered. "Literally. No umbrella, either. Like a puppy in the rain, he was."

"Puppy," Ash murmured.

Blake said, "Puppy?" and sighed. Cam could mock him across the length of England and Scotland combined, as long as Cam would also stay and help. "I suppose I was. You know, all big feet and rain, completely clumsy, you'd think for an explorer I'd be better prepared, go on and laugh…"

Ash did, though it turned into a cough. Cam was looking at Blake, speculative, eyebrows up.

Blake said, "What?"

"Oh, nothing, lad, just thinking about some things I didn't know, then…"

"Well, don't. There's not much to know, anyway. Shallow. Like the puddles. Ashley?"

"I'm fine, only tired…"

"It's all right." Cam put a hand on Blake's shoulder. "He can sleep, for a bit. Healing. More of that tincture, in an hour or two. For the fever."

"Thank you," Blake said. "Thank you."

In the night, in the sickroom, the world moved like a dream. Ashley sleeping, fitfully. The scents of barks and herbs and firelight and the strong dark pot of tea Cam had requested. Rolled-up shirtsleeves and spare towels. Cool cloths to keep Ash's temperature down. Water for hydration, when Ash was awake and sipping medicine as well. Honey, dribbled into the mixture. Every small detail distilled, crystallized, spun out in sugar and fear.

Blake's head ached with tiredness, with secrets, with the knowledge that he could only do whatever he could do, and it would not be good enough. If someone saved Ash it'd be Cam. If Ash woke, healed, they might still be friends, or they might not; and then Cam would leave.

And he did not want that either. He wanted Cam to hold him again, the way those muscular arms had on a wintry night in ruthlessly spartan physician's rooms, a shield and a salve for bruises and a kiss brushed against Blake's forehead.

Cam watched him pour another cup of tea—theirs; Ash was sleeping—and then watched him more, evaluative, as Blake held it out. Cam said, "For me, then?"

"For you." Blake sat down, or more accurately collapsed into a chair. The pretty style was deceptive; the furniture's bones were hearty. "There's enough for one more cup, I think, when you want it."

Cam nudged over a tasseled footstool. Sat down upon it. Somehow remained effortlessly powerful, evaluating the night and Blake and every bit of scientific observation. He'd tossed the greatcoat over a chair-arm. His waistcoat was dark and sober; the folds of his sleeves were no longer neat. His forearms were strong, taut with muscle. "He doesn't know about your inclinations, does he? Or should I say, ours."

"No. I don't know. I think he suspects." Blake had the oddest impulse to move, to get out of the chair, to stop being taller than Cam. His bones had become pure weariness. The headache carved silver sickle-slices behind his eyes. "It's complicated. Or not. As far as inclinations…I like…I don't know. Everything, that way."

"Everything."

"You know what I do like." He shut his eyes, opened them. "The role. It's not so much about whether it's men, or women, or…any sort of anatomy. It's about…" He was tired, and he hurt everywhere, and he was talking and he could not seem to stop. Cam was gazing at him, and the gaze was a silent order, and Blake whispered, "I just want that, what you did for me, I want to feel like someone—like I'm someone's, I can be someone's, I can be good, I can be whatever you need from me, please just use me, please tell me I'm worth using," and then he put a hand over his own mouth, because he had not meant to say that, to confess that. Behind the hand, he said, "Pretend I didn't say that."

"Oh, lad." Cam got up from the footstool, set the tea down on the closest table, came over to him. "You're so lonely, aren't you? And I thought, when you turned up in Edinburgh…famous traveler, writer, and all…I thought you'd be different. More arrogant. If I'd thought about it at all."

Blake tipped his head back to look up. "You knew who I was?"

"Of course I did. Read your first book, didn't I? Saw some watercolors, sketches, all that. Even up in Scotland, you know, we heard about the Earl of Thorns and his exploits."

"Oh God," Blake said, and put his head in his hands, and rubbed his temples in the hope that'd make the headache less. "I'm sorry."

"For what? You were lovely. And if I was surprised, well, I was. What with all the ladies, respectable and otherwise, in your books. But then I wasn't surprised, just about as soon as I'd met you." Cam paused. "Headache?"

"A little. It's fine." He dropped the hands. "What does that mean, as soon as you met me?"

"Well, for one, the way you looked at me, in the rain." Cam grinned at him, though the grin came tinged with rue. "I thought…I don't know what I thought. I wanted to…take you home, I suppose. Someplace safe, where I could give you what you needed, and maybe hold you, after."

"I wanted that," Blake admitted: truth, here and now, in this space beyond time. This bubble of existence, in an endless night full of him and Cam and Ash's sleeping form. "I want that. The way that felt, with you…"

"And you've got him here at home."

"I don't. He doesn't—it's not…"

"That doesn't mean it's not true for you."

"I don't know what I want." He heard his own voice, too rough. "I don't know . I want—but I know I can't—and then you were here, you're here , and I feel—the way you help people, the way you know people, I saw you again this morning and I…" He fought the emotions, nearly lost. "I can't think about it right now. I don't have room."

At that exact second Ash stirred, mumbled something incoherent, went still. Blake bolted up; Cam was already in motion.

Not good. Warmer. That worse , stampeding in. The night was more than half over. Dawn, soon enough.

Cam put a hand on his shoulder. "We're all right. I've seen this before; it's progressing right on schedule, as it were. Nothing unexpected. You should get some rest."

"I can't."

"I'll be here."

"I need to know—"

"What?"

"—that I did everything I could!" The shout only wasn't a scream because he stopped it. "Because I have to, I have to be good enough, I have to—please. I need to be here."

Cam sighed. "Lad—Blake—"

Blake dropped to both knees, there on the rug. At Cam's feet. "Please."