Chapter 8

Blake woke feeling worse—thick and heavy and unfocused—but forced himself into alertness. He'd done it before, on rafts and boats, surrounded by dangers; he could do this now.

He was warm, under the blanket, in the chair. His neck hurt. He uncoiled stiffly. Mid-morning light spiked lances through his skull.

Cam—who'd let him sleep too late, that traitor—turned from Ash's bed. "He's sleeping." Sleeplessness etched more lines around his eyes, his face; but his expression held the satisfaction of a physician who'd won a fight. "That fever broke, about an hour ago. Out of serious danger."

Blake staggered over, tripping across blanket, relief, enervation, his own kicked-off boots. He joined Cam at Ash's bedside, and took in the sight: healthy sleep, good sleep, hectic fever faded. Beautiful, so beautiful, a study in angelic gilt-tinged color against expensive creamy sheets; maybe never more lovely, given back to him, saved.

"I am," Cam said, low, "a mite concerned about his lungs, how that sounded…I'd say he's out of danger, but he'll be convalescing for a while. No strenuous activity."

"He likes books. He's a scholar." Blake touched the bed, the topmost blanket: water-sapphire against his own sun-browned callused hand. "He was a professor of classics—Oxford—until he inherited the title. Only sixteen months ago. This isn't what he wanted; no one expected it."

"And you were there for him."

"No." Failure, cowardice, and every book and every thrilling tale in his memoirs had been a lie. Because he'd bolted, rather than dance upon fire every time Ashley asked him for a story or looked at him or smiled. "I was away. Traveling." He touched the blanket again. "I should have stayed."

"You're here now." The paintbrushes of morning light drew attention to Cam's height, the squareness of his jaw, the way he took up space without arrogance but with confidence. In the water-lily blues and golds and creams of the bedroom, he stood out: rich color, red hair with flecks of grey and emeralds in his eyes and that dark pewter waistcoat. Everything lush, vibrant. Commanding, but with tired edges: it'd been a long night. "He knows that."

"He'd do it for me." Maybe. Probably. Out of the love of a friend, the kindness of Ash's heart. The room spun; Blake, dizzy, put a hand to his head. "Thank you again. You didn't have to come, and—and what you did—I can't ever repay you."

Cam's gaze swept over him, and abruptly that expression went from pensive to professional concern. "Are you feeling ill, yourself?"

"Do you think it was infectious?"

"You're not coughing and it'd be quick for that. You've been traveling. When'd you start feeling ill?"

"I'm not. I never get sick. I—"

At that second Ash blinked, yawned, opened his eyes, and said, "Blake?"

Blake dove to his side. "Yes. Right here."

"I feel…much better, I think." Ash even found a smile. "Exhausted…like that herd of elephants you wrote about seeing, you know, like being trampled…but I'm better."

"Good."

"I didn't tell you…I'd wanted to say…" His eyes searched Blake's face. "I thought I was going to die, and I hadn't told you this, and it's important."

"Hmph," Cam put in. "You weren't going to die. Not with me here."

Ash laughed, huskily. "And you, as well…thank you. You…" He paused. "You came because Blake asked. And—and maybe I shouldn't say what I wanted to say, then. If you…the two of you…I'm realizing how much I don't know. How poor a friend I've been to you."

"Never," Blake said. "Not ever. One of us had to be respectable."

"If you felt like you couldn't tell me…" Ash's gaze went to Cam, back to Blake. "If there was something, someone…important to you, and you thought you couldn't speak of it, to me…I thought you knew, I thought…but I should've said. Aloud. So you could hear me say it. I'm so sorry."

"Stop talking," Blake said. "No overexertion. Your lungs."

"But I should say it," Ash said. "I'm sorry, and—and the worst of it is, I think I'm too late, because you've got someone, and—"

"I've what?"

Cam stirred, a shift of weight; but he did not interrupt.

"I can't not say it," Ashley said. "I did think I might die, and—Blake, you know I love you. You must know. If you don't—I'm sorry I didn't say it."

"Of course you love me," Blake managed, heart in his throat. "We're friends. We've been friends since Eton. I did your mathematics problems and you read Cicero and Tully and Ovid so I wouldn't have to. I love you, too."

"But…Blake…yes, of course, but that's not what…" Ash blinked at him. Struggled to sit up more. "Are you all right?"

"Fine. Worried about you."

"You don't look well."

"That's what I said," Cam said. "And I'm the physician in the room."

"Blake," Ashley said. "I think you should listen to Doctor Fraser."

"I'm fine!" The headache felt like rainbows fracturing. Like the glint of sun from ice-floes, blank and white and vicious, slicing through cold air. "I just…I might go and lie down. For a moment."

"Yes." Ash was sitting up more now, reaching out. "You should. But—you heard me, didn't you? I love you. I'm in love with you. I need to say it. I need to know you've heard me. Even if—if I am too late, at least I'll have been honest—"

"You don't need to pretend, I know you don't—and you don't need to say it because you think you owe me, or you feel sorry for me, because of how I feel—" He took a step away. Stumbled over nothing. His vision wavered. "You're awake and I love you and I'll just go lie down…"

He heard Cam swear, a bitten-off Gaelic oath; he heard Ash's voice, quick with distress; but he couldn't hear much, because the flat dull roar swept up and over him. He was dimly aware that he must look ludicrous, someone who'd climbed mountains and excavated Roman ruins now collapsing on Ash's pretty bedroom rug; but then he couldn't think about it anymore, as the world went away.