Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (41 page)

If he lived, he would again.

His love for her was an intrinsic part of him, the strongest, most brilliant, and best part of him. He would no more wrench it, or her, from his heart than he would trade his soul . . . he would rather trade his soul than lose love, lose her.

Even if she wasn’t his in the worldly, customary sense.

In every sense that mattered to him, she would always be his to guard, to protect.

To love.

He looked at her, studied her from his new distance, through the strange distortion of the veil.

She’d said she didn’t care if he left . . . so why was she there?

Why was she . . . he broadened his senses and confirmed that it was only she . . . by his bedside, keeping vigil through the lonely night?

He focused on her again, saw, sensed, the tracks of the tears she’d shed.

Knew beyond question that she’d shed them for him.

Knew she cared.

Other words echoed in the distance of his mind; he focused, pulled them forward, remembered. Out by the bull pen, when his life had been draining from him and he’d felt so cold, she’d told him she’d changed her mind—she’d said she intended to marry him. They’d talked of their future life, of all the things they would do, would achieve.

The memories came rushing back.

She loved him.

The wonder of that distracted him. While he savored that new aspect of his shining reality, he floated back up to where he’d earlier been.

Hovering between life and death.

Once again, more insistent this time, he felt the tug, the summons to go. To let go of life and leave the world he knew.

Leave Heather. Leave their love.

He looked again—detached, dispassionate—at his body on the bed. The injuries were serious. Beneath the miasma induced by the herbs and potions they’d fed him, his corporeal self was writhing in agony. If he returned to that body, he would face days of searing agony, weeks of debilitating pain.

He switched his strange senses to Heather. Saw her as she truly was in that moment, vulnerable, lost, and unprotected. And it was her love for him, her acceptance of it, that left her so exposed. So emotionally unshielded.

If he left . . . who would hold her, shield her? Care for her, protect her?

Who would love her?

He couldn’t leave. No matter the agony of staying, no matter the price, he couldn’t walk away from her—not if there was any hope of staying, of remaining by her side.

The summons came again, more definite this time. He had to leave or stay—he had to make up his mind.

He didn’t have to search to know what to do. He simply opened his consciousness, and within it said one word. “No.”

And he was back in his body.

And the agony flayed him again.

“H
e’s burning up.” Heather looked up at Catriona. “What do we do?”

The worried look on Catriona’s face did nothing to quell the fear coursing through her. After him being chilled, his skin cold to the touch through the first night and the next day, this morning, when she’d woken and studied Breckenridge’s face, she’d seen a hint of color creeping into his cheeks. His hand had been warm in hers.

In her innocence and inexperience of serious injury, she’d thought that he was recovering. Talking quietly, telling him of all the things they would do once he got better, she’d waited eagerly for him to wake up.

Instead, a fever had built, and built, until now, in the late afternoon, it had reached the level of a raging conflagration, one that threatened to engulf and devour him from the inside out.

They’d gone from wiping his brow with iced water, to laying ice-water-dampened sheets over him, and constantly changing them, but nothing had worked to even stabilize his temperature.

It continued to climb.

Arms folded, Catriona stared down at him, then, as if she’d come to the conclusion of some inner debate, she nodded curtly. “An ice-bath. We’ve tried everything else to no avail, so it’ll have to be that.” She hesitated, then met Heather’s eyes. “It’s risky with that wound, but if we don’t get his temperature down, we’ll lose him regardless.”

“Now?” was the only reply Heather made.

Catriona gave the orders. Within minutes Henderson arrived with two footmen carrying a large tin bath. Under Catriona’s directions, they set it down on the other side of the room, away from the hearth even though they’d long ago doused the fire.

The first footman carrying two buckets of ice arrived five minutes later.

Algaria returned from the schoolroom and supervised. Richard came with Henderson and two other men. They stood ready to lift Breckenridge from the bed to the bath.

Catriona told them, “We’ll need to lower him in, then lift him out again.”

They fashioned a makeshift sling from a sheet. When Algaria deemed the ice slurry in the bath ready, the men shifted Breckenridge onto the sheet, lifted him in it, and lowered him into the bath.

Arms tightly folded, Heather watched, and shivered.

The instant the men stepped back, letting Breckenridge sink into the ice-and-water mix, she stepped to one side of the bath, went to her knees, and took one of his hands in hers.

On the other side of the bath, Catriona hovered close, watching. After a few minutes, Heather realized Catriona was watching Breckenridge’s lips.

The instant they started to pale, Catriona said, “Out. Now.”

Heather stepped back, and the men stepped in.

They lifted Breckenridge out, then laid him down, wrapped in the ice-cold sheet on a pallet of towels on the floor. Catriona and Algaria worked swiftly to replace his bandages with dry ones.

They had to dunk him twice more before midnight.

After the clocks throughout the manor tolled that hour, with Breckenridge once more lying on the bed covered only by the damp sheet, Heather sat on the chair by his side, his hand again in hers, and watched him sleep.

On the other side of the bed, seated in a rocker with a warm shawl wrapped about her, Catriona kept watch, too.

In the quiet, in the silence, Heather finally found courage to voice the question that had hovered in her mind all day. “Why hasn’t he woken?”

Catriona, her gaze on Breckenridge, too, rocked, then softly said, “I think it’s because of the amount of blood he lost. Not enough to kill, but enough to . . . make him hibernate might be nearest the truth. That, and the infection on top of it.” Without taking her eyes from him, she went on, “The mind and body have ways of protecting themselves—the mind especially can send the body into this type of hibernating state, not true unconsciousness but a deep, deep sleep, so it can more effectively heal.”

Raising a hand to resettle her shawl, Catriona flicked a glance Heather’s way. “I don’t see him not waking as a bad sign—not yet. It might, in fact, be the opposite, an indication that his body is coping as it should and he’s healing. The fever itself is a sign that his body is fighting the infection.”

Heather nodded. The words were a comfort; she held them close.

Catriona reached out and laid her fingers on Breckenridge’s wrist. After a moment, she sat back again. “His pulse is still steady. Not as strong as I’d like, but there’s no hint it’s weakening, and at the moment his temperature is good. However, fevers being as fevers are, I’d expect his to rise again before morning.”

Settling in the chair, flicking the shawl across her shoulders, she caught Heather’s gaze. “I suggest we take turns getting some sleep. One of us needs to be awake in case his temperature spikes—as I expect—or alternatively if it goes the other way and he starts to shiver.” Closing her eyes, she wriggled down in the chair. “If he does start to shiver, or gets too hot again, wake me immediately.”

“All right.” Heather leaned on the bed, Breckenridge’s hand between hers, and settled to watch him through the night.

After two hours, Catriona woke and insisted Heather needed to rest. Heather knew better than to argue; laying her head down on the bed, she closed her eyes.

Sometime later, Catriona shook her awake. Heather blinked, focused. It was still night. And under her palm, Breckenridge’s hand was burning.

“We have to cool him down again.” Catriona urged her up and to the side.

Heather stood and moved out of the way, blinking in surprise to find Richard and the other men back again. They’d already refilled the bath with fresh ice.

They repeated what was now a well-rehearsed process.

Once Breckenridge was back on the bed, his skin cold and damp, and Richard and the other men had retired once more, Heather sank back into the chair.

Standing opposite, Catriona took Breckenridge’s pulse, then she glanced at Heather. “I’m going to return to my own bed. His temperature shouldn’t rise again before morning.” Folding her arms, she frowned down at him. “If he starts to shiver, or does get too hot again, promise me you’ll come and fetch me right away.”

Heather nodded. “I promise.”

Catriona turned away. “Try to nap if you can.”

Heather sighed, took his hand once more, and settled to her vigil.

T
he days that followed were the darkest of her life. Although they didn’t need the ice-bath again, Breckenridge’s temperature remained erratic, spiking unpredictably—pricking her fears every time it did.

Then he grew restive, flinging off the covers, shifting in the bed enough to make himself groan.

As from the first, Heather rarely left him. Her reward came toward the end of the third day, when her voice, her words, noticeably soothed him.

Catriona, witnessing the event, humphed. “It’s as I thought—he’s not truly unconscious. He’s in a healing state.”

She seemed relieved, more assured, after that.

For her part, Heather couldn’t take the same comfort—she wanted to see his eyes again, wanted to see recognition and understanding.

At the back of her mind was the unvoiced fear that after so many days “hibernating,” when he returned he wouldn’t remember. Her, or anything else.

To counter her fears, whenever she was alone with him she talked—of their past, of their present, of their future. She put no restraint on her tongue but let her heart dictate, let her love drive her.

More than anything else, it was those moments of letting their love shine between them that anchored her and gave her some respite.

Everyone in the household helped in their way. Cook sent up trays regularly, and Algaria made sure she ate. Lucilla and Marcus, unusually subdued, crept in to see, to ask after Breckenridge, but didn’t stay long. Richard often looked in and stayed to chat, to tell her bits and pieces of what was going on in the world outside.

But it was Catriona who was most often her support, especially through the long watches of the nights, even though, now that it seemed clear Breckenridge was improving, she slept in her own bed. She returned periodically to monitor Breckenridge’s condition, to reassure Heather, and provide company and respite for a little while.

Toward the end of one such visit, with Heather seated in her customary place by the bed, Breckenridge’s hand as always in hers, Catriona sat in the rocker on the opposite side of the bed and studied her with that look Heather thought of as seeing beneath the skin.

After a moment, Catriona asked, “So, have you and he settled your differences and agreed to share your future?”

Heather hadn’t anticipated quite that question.
Your future.
Catriona made it sound as if they hadn’t really had any option bar that one, as if a shared future was the only future either of them could have.

“Yes.” Heather frowned. “At least . . . I believe we have.” When Catriona arched her brows, she went on, “Before everyone rushed up, we talked, said things—both of us. But it was such a jumble, and at the end I don’t know if he . . .” She drew in a breath. “I don’t know how much he’ll remember.”

“Hmm. In that case, I would strongly suggest you make your position on that subject absolutely crystal clear the instant he wakes and is in any condition to take it in.” Catriona held her gaze. “That’s important, Heather. I don’t normally tell people such things—we’re not supposed to influence—but you and he are supposed to be together. But in order to reap the harvest that is waiting for you ahead, you must believe. To your heart and soul, you must believe in your ideal for it to happen. You have to let that belief guide you in everything—your actions, your speech, your very thoughts.”

Catriona paused, then went on, her gaze steady on Heather’s eyes, “I don’t know why that’s so vital, only that it is. For what’s between you and he to be all that it could be, you must believe, so that he can believe, too.”

Heather drank in the words, felt their truth resonate. Logic and reason, she’d learned, didn’t always apply where love was concerned; perhaps faith—faith in love—was the only true touchstone.

Risky, perhaps, to have blind faith in an emotion, but she no longer had anything to lose. She nodded. “Yes. I will.”

To her surprise, her reply seemed to ease Catriona, who visibly relaxed, almost ruefully smiled.

“Good.” Rising, Catriona drew her shawl around her, then looked down at Breckenridge. “I don’t expect you to have any trouble with him tonight. Sleep. He’s not going to leave you.” With that, she turned and walked to the door.

Heather watched her go, watched the door shut. Replayed their conversation, then, feeling more settled, crawled onto the bed by Breckenridge’s side, laid her head down, and closed her eyes.

T
he days and nights had merged; she’d lost track of time.

The following afternoon, Heather allowed herself to be bullied into taking a relaxing bath. Into washing her hair, donning fresh clothes, refashioning her chignon. Eating a proper meal.

Feeling significantly refreshed, she returned to Breckenridge’s bedside to relieve Algaria. Although the fever had abated and he seemed less wracked, he’d yet to awaken, but Catriona and Algaria expected he soon would.

She’d just settled on the straight-backed chair when she, and Algaria, at the door, heard the clatter of hooves and the rattle of wheels in the forecourt.

Algaria met her eyes. “Someone’s come running.”