Chapter 27

27

Julian had lost track of the hours and days, keeping grim vigil at Caroline’s bedside.

She burned. The fever ravaged her body, leaving her wrung out and restless beneath the linens. Her skin was dry beneath his hand as he bathed her flushed cheeks with cool water.

When the dreams tormented her, Julian administered a few drops of laudanum, hoping to ease her torment. But the tonic only pulled her deeper into delirium, her lips moving as she whispered to ghosts.

Even in the throes of fever, he refused to relinquish her hand, his thumbs tracing the veins and delicate knuckles. Imprinting the precious topography to memory.

How often had he traced that elegant sweep of brow and cheekbone? His fingertips knew her features better than his own. Every nuance was inked into his bones, imprinted on his soul.

When they were young, he’d spent hours studying her as she sketched his nude form. Always more brazen with charcoal in hand, her tongue caught between her teeth in endearing concentration. Blushing the entire time. And later, after they married, he had mapped her in return – each freckle and contour – with hands and lips.

Those days were stained by the years of bitter silence that followed. But they had rediscovered tenderness amid the wreckage left by grief and loss.

Until Kellerman’s bullet had torn through her flesh, ripping that progress to shreds.

And now Julian watched her fight for each shallow breath. His days had distilled to the routine of wiping her brow, administering drops of tonic, begging her to hold on.

The hours crawled by as the mantelpiece clock marked their sluggish passage. One chime. Two. Five.

As dusk swallowed the sickroom, a faint whimper fractured the silence. Julian dragged his bleary focus from his ledgers. Setting aside the pen, he grasped Caroline’s questing hand.

“Shhh. I’m here.” His rasp of a voice still startled him. How long since he had uttered more than a few hoarse words?

Tonics hadn’t eased her distress. Her slender frame thrashed and convulsed as the fever took fresh hold. Julian filled a cup from the pitcher and gently lifted Caroline’s shoulders.

“Drink this,” he coaxed. “Come on, my duchess.”

After a few unsuccessful attempts, he managed to work some water down her parched throat.

As the night stretched on interminable and bleak, he waited for some sign the medicine had pierced the muddled haze of her mind. Some small mercy granting respite from her torment.

When the big clock downstairs struck four miserable times, Caroline’s restless thrashing finally eased. The lines marring her brow smoothed somewhat. The harsh rasp of her breath softened, losing its frantic edge. Julian exhaled as some of the panic choking him loosened its claws.

“That’s better,” he said, even as exhaustion blurred the edges of his vision.

Still, Julian fought the pull of sleep – just a few more minutes basking in the sight of her peaceful in repose.

“Julian.”

His name on her lips, faint as a sigh – yet it fractured the silence sharply as any gunshot. Julian jolted upright, alert. Caroline had not spoken more than a few delirious words since the night he’d carried her broken body home. Now she called to him across some vast divide, soft and plaintive. The sound carved out a jagged hollow inside his chest.

“Julian.”

His name. She called his name this time – not like in Edinburgh. Trusted him at that moment.

The hours crawled by, broken only by the relentless chime of the clock.

Stay with me. Open your eyes, Linnie.

Soon, the first delicate rays of sunlight washed the room in watery gold. Still locked in a restless sleep, Caroline sighed and turned her face into Julian’s throat. Her lips grazed the frantic pounding of his pulse. With infinite care, Julian settled her back against the pillows once more. He remained curled around her, unwilling to relinquish the exquisite intimacy of sharing breath.

When he next woke, it was to find Caroline shifting in his arms. Her lashes fluttered, gaze dragging itself into focus. Meeting his.

“Hello, my duchess,” he rasped. “I’m absolutely furious with you.”

Her chapped lips lifted faintly. “And why… is that?” she managed.

“Because you took that bullet for me.” His eyes scalded as he stared down at her, throat raw around the confession. How many nights had he wondered if he would hear her voice? “Never frighten me like that again.”

“You would have done the same for me,” Caroline replied weakly, brushing her fingers along his stubbled cheek. “You ran into a fire for me in Edinburgh. Shielded my body with yours during a bomb.” Her voice was faint. “If you took a bullet for me, I fear the ladies of London would be at my door, falling over themselves to steal you.”

A strained noise tore from Julian’s throat. Then he captured her lips in the softest kiss, pouring every shred of longing and relief into the contact. He gentled the pressure, terrified of causing her pain. But Caroline made a noise of protest, tangling her fingers in his shirt to keep him close.

So Julian melted into her once more. Let her mend the fissures that had cracked him wide open in her absence.

“I love you,” he said. His fingertips traced down her throat, reassured by the rhythm of her pulse. “Rest. I’ll be here when you wake.”

*

In the following days, Caroline regained some fragile strength as the fever released its claws one grudging inch at a time. The deathly pallor of her skin gave way to a healthier glow, bringing some comfort to Julian’s fraying sanity.

One afternoon, when he returned upstairs from conferring with the doctor, Julian found her sitting at the edge of the bed, wrapped in a robe and attempting to stand on wobbly legs.

“What are you doing out of bed?” he snapped, striding over to grip her shoulders before she could topple to the floor. “Get back under the damned covers before you collapse.”

“You’re hovering, Julian.”

“You were at death’s door a handful of days ago. So yes, I’ll bloody well hover until you don’t look ready to faint.” He tried gentling his tone, thumbs sweeping over her shoulder blades. “Back in bed.”

“Bedrest accomplishes nothing. Help me walk.”

Christ, this woman would be the death of him.

Caroline tottered the length of the room on his arm with halting steps. They managed a complete circuit before her limbs gave out, but the small victory made her smile.

As Julian tucked the linens around her, Caroline clutched at his wrist with sudden urgency. “Bring me the sketch you made of Kellerman’s ring.”

Julian tensed. “Did you remember something?”

“Maybe.” She shook her head. “Let me see it again.”

He went to his study and rifled through the sheaf of cryptograms and drawings until he located the crumpled page, then returned to his wife’s side.

Caroline’s blue gaze sharpened at the sight. “There.” She traced the small leaf in his drawing. “This is not part of the crest. This motif is a signature.”

Understanding crashed through Julian. “You recognise it?”

Caroline gave a faint nod. “It matches a ring my late father once owned. All his friends had the same – a group of privileged men engaged in drinking, gambling, and debauchery.” Her brow creased. “One was tried for treason, but the details escape me now.”

“Did this group have a name?”

She paused, considering. “Yes, but I was a child. Between the scandal and his gambling debts, we left London for our countryside property near your father’s estate. My father sold off the ring.”

“You’re certain of this?”

Caroline nodded. “Yes. The signature belongs to Aurelius Van Derlyn on Albemarle Street.”

He pressed a fierce kiss to her knuckles. “Well done, duchess.”