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Byron shrugged. “I hope not, sire. But I have done all that I can.”

De Longley looked back at her. He did not want her to die. How in the hell was he going to explain her death to the king? With a curt nod, he quit the room and left Lady Jordan’s fate to the angels.

The day dragged on and still Jordan did not awaken. Twice more they were forced to submerge her in cool water and Byron had taken to lancing the wound every hour, then packing it with healing herbs and mud to draw the poisons out. The willow bark potion kept her fever from going wild, but she could not shake it and she was weakening steadily. William was falling deeper and deeper into despair.

It was near dusk when Byron bent over her, examined her again, and straightened wearily.

“Captain,” he said quietly. “You might want to consider sending for a priest.”

William, leaning against the far wall, went rigid. Paris, knowing what was coming and unable to stop it, chased Jemma and the maids from the room on a hastily thought-up pretense. Once they were gone, what William said or did would matter little to Byron.

“She is not going to die,” William said through clenched teeth.

Byron looked at him. “A precaution, my lord.”

“Nay.” William boomed. “I will not hear of it. She’s going to live, do you hear me? I will not allow her to die.”

Paris stepped in. “Be reasonable, William. Think with your head and not your heart. If Byron says she needs a priest, then mayhap we should summon Father Sutton.”

William’s hands shot out and he grabbed Paris by the tunic, slamming his best friend into the wall so hard that the entire room shook. He continued to hold him there, gripping him so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“I said no,” he seethed “No priest. She’s not going to die.”

Paris was a little startled by the violent motion but did not fight back. Byron, for his part, had just received confirmation of what he had already suspected; William was in love with the fair maiden. He’d heard the rumors. Now he saw they were justified.

“William,” Paris said helplessly. “I am not wishing her dead by suggesting a priest. Surely you know that.”

William looked long and hard at him. The longer he looked, the more despair and anguish he felt. Paris gazed mildly back at him, afraid to say anything more lest he get his teeth knocked out. After a moment, William released his friend.

“Get out, both of you,” he growled. “Byron, leave your medicaments. I shall tend to her myself.”

Not the best idea, but the other two could do nothing more than comply. Byron shrugged and moved for the door while Paris lingered.

“What if de Longley asks for you?” he wanted to know.

“To hell with de Longley,” William snapped. But he forced himself to calm, turning to Paris. “Tell him I have retired to my chambers and am not to be disturbed. Tell him anything. Keep Jemma and the maids out of sight so he will think that they are with her. I have to do this, Paris. I cannot stand by and watch her die. If she does…if she does, I have to know that I did everything in my power to prevent it. She saved my life once. ’Tis my turn to return the favor.”

Paris clapped him on the shoulder sympathetically before moving through the antechamber and to the front door. He paused a moment before leaving.

“Should you need me, my lord, I shall be right outside,” he called. Receiving no answer, he quit the room and paused wearily in the hall outside.

William didn’t even realize when he had left. His focus was entirely on Jordan. God, he was exhausted.

He spent all night bathing and tending Jordan, doing exactly what Byron had been doing. She remained unconscious although he talked to her constantly, hoping beyond hope she would hear him. Twice his voice began to crack from pure grief, but he forced himself to overcome and continued on as if she was sitting up responding to him as she always had.

But eventually the chatter died down. During the quiet lull he would sit next to her and tell her stories of his squiring, of his life in Wolverhampton before he came to Northwood. He spoke of his mother, something he had never done before with anyone. But she could not hear him, anyway. He would stroke her hair, swab her limbs to keep her cool. Once he even took to tickling her foot to see if she would react. It was the last desperate act of a man drowning in sorrow.

He refused to believe she was dying. True, she was weak and her wound was raging with infection, but she would pull through. He had seen men hurt far worse recover. She simply needed rest and Byron’s potions and she would be fine, and when she had recovered fully he would take her to Normandy and they would live out the rest of their lives together.

He had kin in Normandy; in fact his great-great grandfather had been a general for William the Conqueror, the man of his namesake. He had been named for the man who had confiscated England from the Saxons. Aye, he would return to the land of his roots, but just as soon as he would convince himself that she would improve, he would take one look at her ghostly face and his hopes would plunge all over again. ’Twas a vicious, unending cycle.

Toward dawn her breathing slowed dramatically and he was seized with dread; he knew her time was drawing near. He was grief-stricken with the fact that there was nothing more he could do for her. He would go to his grave knowing he had done everything possible but it was a bitter pill to swallow for him. He was unused to defeat of any kind, and he thought it bitterly ironic that with all of his strength and skill, he could do nothing more for her. If he thought ordering her to live would have done any good, he would have done so.

But there was nothing more to be done. Still there was one more thing he could do for her; she would not die alone. Fighting off a scream of anguish, he pulled off his boots and crawled into bed beside her, drawing the coverlet over them both and gathering her into his arms tightly as if he could hide her from the death that was coming to claim her.

Tears came to his eyes and his throat constricted painfully. When the tears found their way down his cheeks, sobs came. He pulled her tighter as if he could will his life-force into her. His heart was breaking and he could not stand the thought that he was going to lose her. All he could do was hold her and tell her over and over again how much he loved her.

Somehow, she was limper than she had been before, but was still breathing. Strange that she didn’t feel so hot anymore, but it was probably because her life was slipping away and all of the energy was gone from it. He closed his eyes tightly, pressing his face into the top of her head.