Chapter Twenty-Five

Theo woke to full sunshine. Somehow, she'd slept until late morning, and she leapt from the bed, throwing a dressing gown over her nightgown, and hurried to Nathanial's side. By some miracle, he seemed no worse than he had the previous evening.

"How is he?" she asked the valet anxiously.

"As well as can be expected, Your Grace. He has eaten the orange, as you can see, and I believe that did him good."

"Did you give him his medicine?"

"I did," he replied imperturbably, "and he is due another dose soon."

Theo took the chair on Nathanial's other side. Her gaze was not a practised one, and she did not know how a man this injured and ill was supposed to look, but she could not help noticing how pale he was, and how prominent his veins seemed to be under his skin.

"And the doctor?" she asked. "Has he returned?"

"He will return this evening unless we send for him sooner, Your Grace. "

Theo took Nathanial's hand, finding his pulse just as the doctor had done, and found it erratic. "Oh Nate," she murmured. Perhaps this was the moment she should give into hysterics; she had an inkling that hysterics were very much called for in these kinds of situations. Novels had taught her that, and so had the smelling salts left carefully on the nightstand for when she inevitably succumbed to that female temptation.

But the smelling salts alone made her resolve not to become in the least hysterical, no matter how tempting it might be. Besides, she did not believe Nathanial had given in to tears when she had been ill, and if he could maintain his composure, so could she.

"Thank you," she said to the valet. "I can take it from here."

He inclined his head. "Yes, ma'am."

The door closed behind him and although Theo had sent him away, she immediately wished she wasn't alone with a man whose breathing seemed increasingly laboured.

"You shall not give in," she told him fiercely, holding his hand against her chest. Someone had changed his bandages, she noticed, and there was no blood on them now. That was something, at least—and she needed something. She needed all the somethings she could get.

Nathanial, if anything, appeared to fall back asleep. Theo took refuge in being irritated, knowing that if she stopped allowing herself to be annoyed even for a moment, she might lose herself in the grief that beckoned ever closer.

"You stubborn, odious man," she said, and for a moment she believed he might have heard her. "You bring me here for safety and wind up getting shot. Do you know how selfish that is? How inconsiderate?" She looked down into his face and the way his eyes darted under the blueish lids. In a quieter voice, she said, "Do you know how much I love you?"

The room was silent but for his wheezing breaths.

The days crawled by. Something of a routine emerged. Theo sat by his side all day, changing the cloths on his head, and sometimes rolling him over to place wet cloths on his back, although she could not do so alone. At night, she slept on the truckle bed in the corner for a scant few hours while a servant watched over him.

His condition worsened.

At first, she barely noticed. He hadn't seemed to see her when he looked at her the few times he was awake, although he had responded to her soothing. But as time went on, he stopped responding to the sound of her voice, and seemed to believe the world was alive with danger.

"It's to be expected," the doctor had said on one of his visits. "His condition will worsen before it improves."

If it improves, Theo had thought, and the undercurrent of dread that had been alive inside her since Nathanial's accident turned into fear.

Until, one morning five days after Nathanial's fever had begun, Theo woke to silence. Her neck was sore from having slept on the uncomfortable chair by the bed—now she understood why Nathanial had taken such objection to the armchair in her room—and for a moment she merely tried to ease the crick with her fingers, digging right into the muscle.

Then, she noticed the quiet.

For so long, her days had been ruled by the wheezing, rasping breaths of an invalid. In some of her more desperate moments, she had counted them, determined they would not fail when she stood guard. Now, those breaths had quietened. Not gone, but quietened .

She was out of her chair before she knew she'd moved, her cramped muscles complaining, and pressed a hand to Nathanial's head. It was warm, but not hot. A comparable temperature to her own.

The fever had broken.

At the feel of her hand, his eyes opened, finding hers, and for the first time in a long time, they were clear. "Theo," he mumbled.

Theo should have stayed calmly by his side and told him clearly and concisely what had happened. Instead, she burst into tears, shocking them both, and threw her arms around him. He made a tiny noise of pain as her body connected against his, but his arms came up around her.

"You fool," she sobbed into his shoulder. "First you got shot, then you got a fever . . . Do you know how worried I've been?"

"I'm here," he murmured, one hand stroking her hair. "Theo, my love, there's no need to cry."

She knew that, she did, but her relief was strong enough to provoke tears and, embarrassingly, shuddering sobs that racked both their bodies.

But through it all, though he was no doubt weak from lack of food and disoriented, Nathanial held her close, reassuring her with murmured endearments, every breath whispering another promise against her ear.

He would be well. He would survive.

With difficulty, she pulled away and stared at him through blurry eyes. He was thinner than she remembered, even though she had watched him slowly waste away. Then, he had been unconscious, in the grip of the fever. Somehow, it felt different now he was awake.

"Water," she said, recalling herself. "You should have some water. And food. I'll call for some broth to be brought up."

"Theo. "

Her hand shook as she poured him a glass, just as he had done all those weeks ago when she had awoken from her illness. "Here, Nate. Drink this. You'll feel better."

"Theo—"

She pressed the glass to his lips and after a moment, he drank, allowing her to care for him as she had so many times before. But when he finished, he reached out and took her arm before she could reach the bell pull.

"How long have I been feverish?" he asked, his eyes searching her face.

"About five days."

"And you have been nursing me all that time?"

"Lord Stapleton helped. He has been very helpful." She pulled her wrist away and hurried to the bell pull, yanking at it with more force than strictly necessary. When she returned to the bed, he was watching her with concern.

"You look pale," he said.

"I can guarantee that is nothing to how you look," she said tartly, but she took his hand and carried it to her cheek. "How do you feel?"

"No worse than I look, I imagine," he said dryly, and patted the bed beside him. "Come, join me. You look as though you have had less rest than I."

She shook her head. "How can you worry about me now? You were shot."

"I have not forgotten."

"You might have died ."

He attempted a smile. "Has anyone ever told you your beside manner is abhorrent." He tugged at her wrist until she obeyed his summons and sat on the bed beside him. "I'm sorry I worried you," he said gently. "But I won't have you sacrificing your health for mine."

Theo lay on her side facing him. Though he had been awake for only a few minutes, he already looked exhausted. Perhaps this was how she had looked when she had awoken. "Sleep," she told him.

"Only if you join me."

Sensing he was stubborn enough to refuse if she did not agree, she nodded. "Very well."

"You will stay with me?"

"Yes, Nate. I will stay."

His eyes closed with relief, but his grip on her hand didn't slacken. "Good," he murmured, and she worried he was delirious again. "I like waking beside you."

"There's something else," she said, hating that she had to mention this now.

His eyes fluttered open. "Another death threat?"

"No, I—"

"Has someone else poisoned you, my love? I warn you, I cannot exact vengeance in this state."

She sighed in exasperation. "Be serious , Nate."

"Very well." His fingers toyed with her hair even as his eyes fluttered closed once more. "What else have you to tell me?"

"I sent word to your mother that you were ill," she said apologetically. He winced.

"No doubt she is on her way."

"With your sisters. I'm sorry."

"All three?" He groaned. "Would that I had waited another day to wake."

"What will you tell them?"

"Enough of the truth as will satisfy them," he said without opening his eyes. "It was a hunting accident and I contracted a fever from my wound."

"Do you believe it was an accident?"

There was a grim cast to his mouth, and a muscle clenched in his jaw. "No," he said after a moment. "I don't believe it was an accident at all."