Chapter Three

"O uch. Bloody hell, woman!"

Ruthie jerked her hand away from the ragged gash, the needle trembling furiously in her fingers. "I'm so, so, sorry, Mr. Holmes!"

Mr. Holmes's head plopped onto the pillow. His breath was ragged and shallow, as if he were in the middle of a never-ending race. It certainly felt like that to Ruthie. She'd only been stitching half an hour, but the process seemed interminable. After cleaning the wound, the doctor had left her to it with very little direction. Keep it straight was all he'd told her. Keep it straight! From the man who couldn't walk a line if his life depended on it?

And how was Ruthie supposed to keep it straight when Mr. Holmes shuddered and jerked at the mere touch of the needle on his flesh? She'd hoped he would pass out again and leave her to her business, but that had been wishful thinking. The dastardly man was bright-eyed and cognizant.

It was beyond annoying. And unhelpful.

"Stop apologizing," Mr. Holmes grumbled toward the ceiling. "And stop calling me Mr. Holmes. You're stitching my skin; I think that allows using my Christian name, don't you?"

"I don't know," Ruthie said. "I suppose it does." She had never called a man who wasn't related to her by his first name before. The intimacy sent odd tremors up her spine. And she'd certainly never sat alone in a room with one. It was positively foreign and exotic, like traveling to Paris…which she'd never done. She bet that Parisian women were always doing things like this.

She stuck the needle into him again, once more amazed that performing this gruesome action wasn't making her dinner come up like it had Reggie's. The first moment she'd pierced Mr. Holmes—Harry—Reggie had bolted from the room, leaving disgusting noises in his wake. Still, she had to give her cousin credit. He'd refused to leave her. Instead, he'd taken up Ernest's offer and was playing downstairs with "house money," whatever that meant.

The doctor had also refused to retire entirely, wanting to be close in case the patient took a turn for the worse in the night. Harry wouldn't allow him to sleep on the couch against the wall…something about syphilis, whatever that was. So the doctor was currently passed out on the floor next to the door. Ernest had had the benevolence to shove a pillow under his sweaty head, though he'd had to promise Harry that he would burn it later.

"Now it's your turn."

Ruthie narrowed her eyes on her line, making her stitches small and neat. It was a shame her mother would never know about this night, because she'd be so proud of Ruthie's steady hand! "My turn?"

"To give me your name. Ow. Fuck!"

Ruthie cringed. "Sorry! That just…surprised me, that's all."

Harry's exhausted expression morphed into curiosity. "Why? We've already deduced you're not truly Charles Waitrose. So, what is it? Charlotte?" He squinted playfully. "No, you don't strike me as a Charlotte. Maybe Annabelle?"

Ruthie smirked, shaking her head.

"Beatrice?"

"Ugh, yuck." She stuck out of her tongue.

Harry clutched his chest. "Ow, fuck. Don't make me laugh."

"Oh, sorry!"

"Fuck, stop apologizing—"

"Ruth," she answered, swiftly cutting him off, afraid that he would utter another foul word. "Or Ruthie, as my friends call me."

The lines bracketing Harry's mouth softened. His voice turned equally as gentle. "Ah, Ruth. The symbol of loyalty and devotion."

Ruthie returned to her task, focusing on her stitches. Staring at him when he had that look on his face didn't seem like the best idea. Feelings bubbled up inside her, ones she didn't realize she had. "You know the Bible?" she scoffed.

"Don't sound so surprised. My mother was Irish. I was raised on the Bible, force-fed it along with my stirabout."

"You don't sound Irish."

A wicked grin formed on his face. "Are you hintin' you want some brogue, lass? Oh, weel, I can be accomodatin' when I need to be," he replied in a mellifluous wave of sound that instantly reminded Ruthie of music. The fluttering was back in her chest. The doctor was going to be so disappointed in her. There was no hope that this scar was going to be straight.

She placed her left hand on the side of his injury, steadying his skin as she tried another stitch. Harry still wore his shirt, but from the small patches of body Ruthie could see, he was pale and marble-like, the kind of creamy white that women in her social group would spend a fortune to achieve. His muscles twitched and rolled under her fingertips, making what she was doing all the more confusing. Harry Holmes couldn't be at death's door. He felt warm. He felt like life. And the more he spoke so casually to her—not at her, as she was so accustomed to—the more inconsequential his wound appeared, almost retreating right before her eyes.

"Why don't you always speak like that?" Ruthie cleared her throat, worrying that the deep hunger she heard was obvious to him. "With the accent, I mean."

"Ahh, well…Irish accents aren't good for business, lass. Tough but true. I threw that accent into the ocean the moment my mother dragged me on to the boat bound for this cursed country."

"So, you miss it, then? Ireland?" Ruthie asked. She caught him staring wistfully at the wall behind her, as if memories were playing out in front of him.

"Only in my dreams, when I can't help it."

Ruthie snorted before letting out a long, blustery breath. Just a few more stitches and she'd be done. Thank the dear Lord. She actually believed she'd done slightly more good than bad. With a terrifying—exhilarating—night like this, she honestly couldn't ask for more.

"Aren't you the man that said he could delay death? It seems odd that you can't battle dreams the same way. Bend them to your indomitable will."

"Point to you," Harry said thoughtfully, grimacing through a stiff chuckle. "But I've always thought of death as an adversary, you see, someone fighting against me, trying to take something from me. I grew up with nothing—less than nothing—and when that's ingrained in you, you learn to defend yourself rather quickly. But dreams"—he placed a hand on his forehead, holding it there for long seconds as he formulated his words—"dreams are a part of you. You can't fight anyone but yourself." He dropped his hand and gifted her with a tired, rakish grin. "And I'm the toughest bastard I know."

Ruthie returned the smile, finishing up her last stitch. She tied the thread and cut off the end with a decisive snap of the scissors that Dr. Cameron had left for her. "I think you might be right."

"Damn right I am."

Harry Holmes might be missing blood, but he hadn't dropped an ounce of ego this night. "Looks like my work is done here." Ruthie stood up from her knees and wiped her bloody hands on the front of her trousers. "I…suppose I should wake up the doctor and go find Reggie. I need to get home before my mother finds out I'm gone."

The smile stalled on his face. "Yes, Ruth, the decent and noble daughter, must never upset her mother."

"You don't know the half of it, Mr. Holmes."

Ruthie started to back away, but Harry's arm snapped out and caught her wrist, bringing her back to her knees.

"Mr. Holmes—!"

His eyes burned the words to a halt. They seared into her, shining into her soul with the unyielding force of a miracle come to life. His color was high, his hold strong. Sweat continued to pool on his forehead and above his lip. Ruthie was reminded of a trapped animal, in a corner and determined to claw and scratch his way out, no matter the consequences.

But she also saw fear. Unmistakable, unmitigated, pure, human fear.

The words rushed out of him. "I can't die tonight."

Ruthie placed a hand on top of his. He still wore his gloves. Ernest had attempted to take them off earlier, but Harry wouldn't let him. She'd always been embarrassed of her hands. Along with her height, everything about her always felt oafish and large. But now she appreciated the length of her fingers, the width of her palms. They covered him completely. "Shh. You won't. Don't think like that."

"You don't understand," he said. "I have too much to do. Too much to make right."

"Mr. Holmes…Harry," Ruthie said gently, attempting to ease his torso back on the bed. "You have all the time in the world. Don't worry. It's not good for you. Your body needs to heal. You should rest."

"I don't want to go to sleep." Harry's gaze bobbed around the room, almost like it was worried to rest on something, afraid that something was chasing him. "Please don't leave me. I feel better when you're here. I feel safe, and I haven't felt that way in a long, long time."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes—"

" Harry ."

Anguish overwhelmed her. He was asking too much. " Harry . I can't stay. But I wouldn't leave you if I thought you were going to die. I promise you. You're too strong—and stubborn—for that."

Harry released his hold and fell back to the mattress. "You don't know me," he said bitterly, locking his eyes on the ceiling once more. "I've done things…" He blew out a breath. "I've done… things ."

The comment was so vague, and yet Ruthie understood what he was trying to say. She sat on the bed, taking his hand once more. "You're not going to die."

"Oh, really?" he scoffed. "How much would you bet on it?"

Ruthie's neck straightened so quickly that she heard a pop in her spine. "Bet?"

"If you hadn't noticed, you're in a gambling hall. The finest one in the world," Harry murmured. "So, what would you bet? A pound? Two pounds? Five?"

How had their conversation taken this turn? Ruthie shrugged. "I don't know—a pound, I guess."

Harry tossed up his arms. "Oh, Jesus Christ. I'm bloody done for! A fucking pound."

"Oh, fine, then ten pounds! There. Are you happy? I bet you ten pounds that you will survive the night. Can I leave now?"

"No." He reached for her once more, clasping her hand and laying it on his chest. "You can't leave until I fall asleep."

Ruthie tried to tug her hand free, but it was no use. Even wounded, Harry was too strong for her. "That's absurd. I have to go—"

"Woman, I've worked since sunup and been shot. I'll be out in minutes. Just have a little patience, for fuck's sake."

Ruthie frowned at the surly patient. "You really shouldn't speak to me that way."

"Ha!" Despite his outburst, Harry's heartbeat slowed under her palm. Was it really because of her? Did she truly make him feel safe? It was the loveliest thing anyone had ever said to her—not that many lovely things had been said to her, but still…she'd treasure it forever. "I knew you were a lady." He caressed the top of her hand with his thumb. "I told you. It showed in your skin."

"You think you're so clever," Ruthie retorted dryly. "I'm not a lady. My father…" She paused. Was she saying too much? Should she tell him anything about her life? Instantly, she concluded that it was harmless. What did it matter? She'd never see Harry Holmes again after this night was over. Ruthie was sure of that. "My father was a baron. Not a very important one, but a baron all the same."

Harry's eyes were closed now, and his breath relaxed into an even rhythm. "A baron's daughter…" After a moment, he added, "Ruthie, the ever-loyal companion, is too honorable to let me die."

"You know your peerage and the Bible. Impressive."

"I'm a man of many surprises."

Ruthie desperately wanted to tell him to surprise her by staying alive through the night but held her tongue. Instead, she replied, "So, you think I won't let you die? I was always told I had no special skills, but, apparently, my mother was wrong. I can stop death. That'll show her."

She was expecting a polite chuckle, but nothing came from Harry, who lay placidly below her. She waited a few more minutes, but as she began sliding her hand out from under his, he finally spoke.

"What do you think it's like?"

Ruthie leaned over his chest to catch his thin, haunted words. "What is what like?"

"Death."

"I'm not sure," she answered slowly. "The church tells us that heaven—"

"I don't want to hear what those bastards at their pulpits have to say. I don't want silly stories. I asked what you think. Tell me."

No one had ever asked Ruthie what she thought about things. Her entire life she was taught to listen and obey, do as her family dictated. Now that someone finally wanted her opinion, she gave it proper consideration. She gave him her truth.

"When you were first shot and were lying on me, I remember thinking how calm you looked," Ruthie began, gaining confidence as the confession poured out of her. "I wondered why people could fear death so much when it didn't appear terrifying at all. It seemed…peaceful."

She tensed, ready for his laughter or scorn, but neither came. Instead, Harry squeezed her hand tighter. "Those are the words of a young person—a person with their whole life left in front of them."

Ruthie cocked her head. She didn't feel young. Most days she felt like the oldest person on the planet, full of worries. "You don't know me," she said, echoing his earlier statement.

He squeezed her hand once more. "I know you won't leave me tonight."

Ruthie's voice came out more bitter than she intended. "Because I'm like Ruth from the Bible?"

"No," he said, "because you're Ruthie. My Ruthie."