Page 16 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Ten

Perfect! The man had fallen asleep. Using her teeth, Isobel worried at the knot in the girdle, careful not to rouse him. It seemed to take forever but, eventually, she managed to undo it, and untie the cord that ran from her wrists to his. He shifted, and she stilled, but he didn’t wake.

The next task was to remove his knife—not easy when it was secured to its sheath with a peace string—but eventually, she succeeded. She meant him no harm, but a knife was always a useful thing to have.

Now all she need do was put on her shoes, and see if she might climb out through a downstairs window. There was confusion about what she’d do once that was achieved. Some idea of riding back into town and finding an apothecary had entered her head, but that was as far as she’d managed to plan. Getting the next draft of her medicine before her fever rose any higher was her principal aim.

The man let out a moan. She froze, then edged closer to where he sat on the carved press, head lolling towards his chest. He twitched then, one fist clenched as if he clutched a sword, and his head went up.

She must go now—she must run before he awoke. She knelt to lace her shoes, and heard him say, quite distinctly, “No, Edward! Stay with me. Send for a surgeon, make haste!”

She knew that name. Didn’t she? Why was her memory so clouded? No matter. She dare not tarry.

He groaned, his head moving from side to side. “Too much blood. There’s too much blood.”

Her gaze was fixed on his face. If he opened his eyes and saw her, all would be lost. A tear slid slowly down his cheek, and his whole body writhed and trembled, like an animal in its death throes.

No. Don’t stay. Go now. This is no concern of yours.

Only—she couldn’t bear to watch his suffering. She grasped his shoulder and shook him firmly.

His eyes flashed open, and he focused on her, his jaw slack with surprise.

“Isobel? What is it? You look unwell.”

“You were having a dream. Not a pleasant one—I had to wake you.”

He straightened, reached for the candle that flickered in the sconce behind him, and raised it, running his eyes over her.

“You’ve freed yourself.” His voice was level, his face unreadable.

“I know.”

“And you didn’t run, because I was having a nightmare?” He stood, taking her gently by the elbow.

She’d been a fool—she didn’t need him to tell her that. “You spoke in your sleep. Of Edward. I have a brother by that name.”

Placing the candle back in its sconce, he drew her close, enfolded his arms around her and took her in an embrace so tender it stole her breath.

“My poor girl. You still don’t truly understand, do you? But when you do, I fear it will hit you as hard as it hit me, as the hammer strikes the anvil. The pain is excruciating—and I know I’ll never forget what I saw. It tortures me often in dreams.”

She understood more than he knew—she’d seen that revealing tear. That a man so strong, so determined, could weep for the loss of a friend, was a revelation.

Her hand rested over his heart, reassured by its firm beat, by the powerful muscle that protected it. Without volition, her head nestled against his shoulder.

She should feel something. Her brother was no more. This man mourned for him—she must do so, too—yet, the fever, the urgency within her, refused to let her. Each time she tried to concentrate, it was as though her mind were slipping on ice.

“Isobel. By Jupiter—you’re burning up. This won’t do at all. I’m taking you out of here—I was a numbskull to bring you hither in the first place. We’ll find some distant tavern, feather beds for both of us, and a physician. I don’t care if Pike finds us—I’ll make him regret having done so.”

No sooner had he made this decision, than she was lifted up, wrapped in a cover from the bed, and carried downstairs. Not long thereafter, she was bouncing uncomfortably on horseback through the black of the night, clinging to the horse’s neck and fighting the nausea and stultifying brain fog that assaulted her.

After an agonizing eternity, there were lights, careful hands, warmth—and a hot, throat-searing drink that made her cough and sent her into merciful oblivion.

But not for long. It felt as if she slept and woke, and woke and slept, and couldn’t be sure exactly which was which. How long this delirium lasted, she’d no idea, but eventually, the sweating abated, she was bathed in cool water, and the panic in her breast eased.

“Goodwife? Madam? How do you fare?”

Isobel groaned. “My head.” She’d never felt so ill before. What was it? The sweating sickness? The plague?