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"I know it."
"Right. I'd forgotten you'd been to my home before. You know the way out."
And with that, he stalked from the room, and left Collin alone with a heart hollowed out by fear.
The fever has broken.
The note did not change over the full minute that he stared.
The fever has broken.
Five days. Five days she'd been suffering, delirious and wracked with pain. Collin pressed his hands against hot eyes. Thank God. Thank God she was not dead.
"Is it.. ." The hesitant voice of the innkeeper's wife barely penetrated the rushing in his ears. "Is it bad news, then?"
"No." He swallowed the raw edge of his relief. "No. Her fever broke. I must go."
A rush of boots over the wood floor. Their boy gone to saddle Samson, no doubt. Collin rubbed hard at his face and pushed back from the table. Opening his eyes, he found himself the recipient of the first kind look he'd gotten from the plump woman who brought his ale and tended his laundry.
"Will you break your fast before you go?"
"No."
Collin bounded up the stairs. He changed his worn clothes and shaved with cold water, rushed through his washing. He would not come to her sickroom stinking of smoke and whisky, would not give the duke an excuse to kick him out.
Finally presentable, he stalked downstairs and out the door to ride for Somerhart. He'd only been allowed to see her twice, both times with her brother standing sentinel, watching every move. So he'd held her limp hand and whispered in Gaelic, speaking of her body and her soul, commanding her to heal herself. Somerhart's eyes had glinted when she soothed under Collin's touch, his icy gaze turning from angry to measuring.
She had even whispered his name once, so softly that he still did not know if he'd imagined it. That murmur had lifted his heart with hope. . . And then she'd begun thrashing and trembling on the pillows and her brother had jerked his head toward the door with a withering glare, and he had not seen her again.
A groom stood waiting for him at the front steps, a shadow of blue against the glaring white facade of the house. The moment Collin's foot touched the ground, he was assailed with anxiety. Was she awake? Would her eyes widen in horror at the sight of him among her family? She might not even know what had happened, might not know that their secret lay exposed.
Collin gave a polite greeting to the butler, instead of rushing past him as he had done before. The man was cool. . . Cooler than he was to anyone else, Collin could not say.
"His Grace awaits you in the library," the man intoned, taking his hat before he turned to lead the way.
Collin stared at the balcony above and did not curse. The library first. Fine. Alexandra was out of danger. He could stand to wait a moment.
When the library doors opened, when he saw Somerhart standing in the window, fear spiked his blood. Something was wrong. The always impeccable man was disheveled, his face tired and creased with worry.
"What is it?"
Somerhart blinked at him, hand tight around the handle of a porcelain cup. His frown was blank, as if he couldn't quite place this strange man in his home.
Collin's chest twisted. "She's worse."
"No. No. She's resting. She's better. I, on the other hand, am exhausted."
Collin's shoulders slumped with relief, his knees too, forcing him to collapse into the nearest chair.
"I must look even worse than I feel."
"Can I see her then?"
"I just left her. She's just fallen asleep."
Dryness burned his eyes. They felt large, swollen till they pressed against their lids, scraping the flesh. Collin rubbed them carefully, heard the whoosh of her brother dropping into a chair close by.
"She nearly died last night. I nearly lost her."
