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Hamish and Jeremy provided some much-needed relief after a particularly trying evening wherein Oliver took a wildly inaccurate swing at Christopher’s jaw, threatened to set fire to the cabin, and then threw Christopher’s boots into a barrel of stagnant rain water. In general, however, Christopher was reluctant to foist responsibility for Oliver onto his friends for any longer than absolutely necessary.

And so, the first week passed in a steady rhythm of indignation and colourful Italian blasphemy. Christopher had quadrupled his Italian vocabulary … unfortunately with words he couldn’t repeat to Sofia. Well, perhaps one day, in the bedchamber and under the right circumstances.

He swapped places with Hamish or Jeremy only long enough to attend Gabriel in the mornings and update Sofia, who was barred from entry but frequently delivered breakfast and supper. More often than not, it went untouched by Oliver, who had dropped an alarming amount of weight. Christopher had taken to eating at least some of Oliver’s portion to avoid the worried expression that crept over Sofia’s face when she stopped by to retrieve the plates.

After that brief introduction, Davies came by every day. He brought some kind of tea that came with complicated instructions and the insistence that Christopher prepare it for Oliver four times a day. No one argued with old Davies, so naturally, Christopher did as he was told. Davies also brought horticulture books and sometimes sat beside Oliver’s bed, simply watching him with a peculiar expression. Each time the gardener arrived, Oliver became a respectful man for the period that he remained, then lapsed back into his natural state upon the gardener’s exit.

Exactly seven days after Oliver’s first encounter with Davies, Christopher woke to shuffling noises in the bedroom beyond the closed door. A moment later, Oliver stepped out on unsteady legs, dressed in shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow and wrinkled trousers which would have fallen under the force of gravity if not for a set of bracers.

“You’re not serious.”

Oliver shrugged, then crossed the room to pour himself a glass of water.

“With all due respect to Davies and his 327 years of wisdom, he has no idea what you are going through. You’ll topple onto the blade of your shovel and all my efforts at helping you become hale and hearty will be for naught. Then I’ll have to explain to Sofia how her brother came to be exsanguinating in the front garden. The only favourable part of this series of events will be the blessed brevity of her tongue lashing, mostly because she will be too busy clobbering me over the head with that same shovel to yell at me. No, Oliver. Go back to bed.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you are dramatic.” Oliver shook his head at Christopher and stepped into his boots. “I think that old man knows exactly what I’m going through. He brought me that revolting tea, and it helped. And he knows that if I stay sedentary for even a moment past the point where I feel I can feasibly lift a bottle to my lips, I’ll go mad. If he says what I need is to dig twelve holes, I’m going to pick up the fucking spade and start digging.” Then the irritating man grinned at Christopher. “Just think … if I kick the bucket, I’ll have saved you the trouble of starting the hole.” And then he walked out the door.

Grabbing his boots, Christopher followed without pausing to slip them on, grimacing as the moisture of the dew-covered grass seeped into the fabric of his stockings. “Wait up. If you’re going to work yourself into a swoon, I should at least be close enough to catch you before you hit the ground.”

Oliver stopped mid-stride and looked meaningfully down at Christopher.

“All right, more like slow your plummet to the ground.”

Oliver’s progress was slow. He paused often as he dug, resting his forehead on the end of the shovel when dizziness returned. Christopher thought it was as much from hunger as sobriety.

Within thirty minutes, Oliver’s shirt was soaked. By the conclusion of the first hour, his panting was continuous and accompanied by a painful wheezing sound. Still, he carried on digging like a bottle of his favourite drink waited for him at the bottom of that hole. He accepted water, but any further argument from Christopher was met with stony silence. So, Christopher sat in the shade with a book, waiting for the stubborn arse to collapse under his own weight.

Sofia arrived with lunch just as Christopher turned the page to chapter seven. At the sight of her dirt-splattered, rumpled brother, she froze, uncertainty etched into the lines of her face. Christopher clambered to his feet, ready to intervene if required. Oliver, still shockingly vertical, stopped his determined stabbing of the ground and looked up. The shovel fell from his fingers with a clatter and he took a step in her direction. Still, Sofia remained rooted in place, her fingertips white where she gripped the tray. Oliver extended one hand. “Piccola pulce.”

Sofia deposited the tray hastily onto the ground and launched into her brother’s arms. Oliver clung to her like she was the only thing keeping him sober and standing. Whispers in Italian flew back and forth between them before he let her feet slide to the ground with obvious reluctance.

Sofia reverted to English, clearly for Christopher’s benefit. “Go clean up at the pump, for all the good it will do.” A genuine smile lit Oliver’s face for the first time in days as he moved to obey his sister, a lightness in his step despite his obvious exhaustion. Oliver had needed this. Needed Sofia as much as she had clearly needed him. Their mutual joy made the difficult hours of the past week feel suddenly insignificant. Sofi crossed to Christopher, tipped onto her toes, and pressed her lips to his cheek. She lingered there, and by the time she pulled away, his heart was skittering enthusiastically.

“Come, walk with me,” she said, taking his hand. She remained silent until they were out of earshot. “He looks terrible, but wonderful.”

“And me? How do you find me?” Christopher teased.

She turned to face him, pressing her hand flat against his chest. Warmth spread from the skin beneath her palm, suffusing his body. His time with Sofia over the past week had consisted of brief conversations during which Christopher had been careful to limit their physical contact, certain that if his touch escalated beyond a brief caress of her cheek, he would be away from Oliver for longer than advisable.

She pressed him back into a beech tree, pinning his body between the rough bark and her warm, lush curves. “I find you … dear.” She scarcely got the words out before she was climbing him to kiss his mouth, his cheek, his neck. Her fingers pulled at the hem of his shirt, then flattened against the bare skin at the small of his back.

“Sofia, we don’t have time.” Christopher hissed out a breath as she sucked at the tender skin above his open collar, reducing him to a state of single-minded hunger in a matter of seconds.

“Any moment now, I’ll forget that you even have a brother.”

She snorted a laugh against his neck, and even that was arousing.

“All right, you two. Keene, I’m starving, but if I have to watch you manhandling my sister for another minute, my appetite is going to wither to dust.”

Christopher jolted backwards at the unexpected voice, but managed only to bump his head. With nowhere to go except into the tree, their relative positions remained largely unchanged. Sofia seemed entirely unconcerned by the location of her hand beneath his untucked shirt.

“You’re being a pest, brother. I do not require a chaperone.”

“You may not, but poor Christopher appears to be seconds away from having his skirts thrown over his head and being thoroughly compromised. Look at the poor lad. He’s gone red as a strawberry.”

He had. His cheeks were burning. But despite the twinge of embarrassment at being caught panting like an amorous adolescent, he experienced an odd sort of satisfaction from Oliver’s friendly ribbing. Upon further consideration, it occurred to Christopher that in recent days, Oliver’s anger seemed to be more a generalised frustration than a specific dislike of him.

“Yes, well, let’s get you that food,” Christopher said, tucking his hands into his pockets and following behind the siblings.