And still, he burned. Was that his heart, or just his shoulder?
Water. He needed—
No. Already drank it. Or spilled it. Or both. Was there more? He could not remember.
The tin cup was on the floor again. Or still. It clanged once, softly. That had happened before.
He groaned—soft, ragged—and rolled, or tried to. The blanket tangled again around his knees. No. Not a blanket. His coat. He had been wearing it and now he was not and now it was a pillow and none of it made any sense.
It was so cold. Except when it was hot. Everything was burning.
Elizabeth.
His mouth formed the shape of her name, but no sound came out. He thought he had spoken it aloud. Maybe he had. Maybe that was what brought her. She always came when he called. Or maybe he dreamed her—he did not know the difference anymore.
Sometimes she stood in the corner and watched him. Sometimes she came close. Whispered to him. Touched his hair.
He told her to leave. She never listened. He told her he was dangerous. She laughed. He told her he would die soon, and she pressed her lips to his and told him not yet.
Other times it was not her. Other times it was fire and pain and the sharp snap of gunfire in the dark. Sometimes he was crawling, sometimes he was running. Once he reached for her hand and found blood instead. His or hers—he could not say.
He remembered trees. Wind. Her breath in his ear. He remembered hiding. Holding her. Fighting for her. He remembered dying.
Maybe he had.
And then—
A sound.
Not in his head. Not this time.
Footsteps. Real. Heavy. Sharp-heeled boots on floorboards. Not hers. Too loud. Too certain.
The door slammed open. He flinched—tried to sit up—and the world reeled sideways.
A voice, harsh and distant and terribly familiar. “Bloody hell.”
Darcy blinked. The light behind the man was too bright. It cut around his silhouette like a halo. Or maybe a noose.
More footsteps. Another voice. “Get the surgeon. And water—clean towels. Christ, Darcy, what the devil—”
Fitzwilliam?
No.
Yes.
Could not be. Richard was away. Chasing traitors.
The floor tilted again. A hand grabbed his shoulder. He shouted—tried to shout—maybe it was just a moan. Too much pain. Too much.
“Easy, cousin,” the voice said. “Easy now. You are safe.”
Safe.
He almost laughed.
Then another voice. Lower. Older. “This wound is badly infected. We must clean it immediately—I cannot believe it is not yet gangrene. Another day, and we would have lost him.”
