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?
Someone prised her lips open with a spoon. Expecting the familiar draft of poppy juice, she was surprised to taste something salty.
“What’s this? Who are you?” Her voice was croaky, petulant.
A woman leaned over her, a few grey curls escaping her linen coif. Not someone she recognized.
“Goodwife Franks. The innkeeper’s lady. This is bone broth—you may have meat when you’re stronger. We’re trying to keep the fever down.”
Isobel struggled to sit up. “Why can’t I move?” She was seized with horror. She was imprisoned again, as in her nightmares. Only this time, there were no serpent-haired women glaring at her, or many-headed dogs lolling their enormous tongues as saliva pooled at their feet. This looked like a perfectly normal person. And yet… she was still held captive.
“You mustn’t exhaust yourself. We’ve just tucked the covers in to stop you thrashing about, lest you be hurt. Here, open wide. The broth will do you good.”
As the panic died away, the warm goodness of the soup suffused her body, and drowsiness returned. Mayhap this time, when she slept, the terrifying visions would not return.
The room lightened, darkened, and lightened again. She slept, she woke, and drank broth—which seemed thicker each time she tasted it. On occasion, she was helped from the bed to relieve herself. She hated these times—her bones ached, she could barely stand upright, and she shuddered at the touch of the hands that held her steady, fearing at any moment they would grip and tear into her flesh like the talons of a harpy.
Sometimes there were others in her sickroom, her cell, or whatever it was. One was a man, who stood by her bed and gazed at her with sorrowful eyes, but forbore to touch her. Occasionally, she sensed his presence in the room, but couldn’t see him. There was someone else, clothed in black, who terrified her, but his voice was soft, and often, during his visits, she’d be given a drink that calmed and made her feel better.
Gradually, in her waking moments, she felt the strength flow back into her limbs. She was confused, forgetful, not sure of the difference between nightmare and reality, but the fear ebbed, and the turmoil of mind and body eased. She was permitted to sleep however long she wanted, and when no ill dreams assailed her, she always felt better on waking.
After a deep sleep that felt as if it might have lasted days, she opened her eyes and stared for a long time at the ceiling, taking in the detail. The ceiling had remained constant for some time now—it was there when she slept and there when she awoke. It was a simple plaster one—peeling, pitted by the passage of time—and an orange flicker of lamplight danced over its surface, making a play of light and shadow. She felt calm today, and almost content. Yet despite the obvious reality of the ceiling, a powerful sense of unreality cloaked her, as if she were still in a dream.
To test out whether or not she was awake, she stretched her limbs, then noticed how lumpy and uneven her mattress was—like the ceiling, it must have seen the passage of many years. Turning her head, she found herself facing a wall of crumbling wattle and daub—not a brick or stone to be seen. Had she traveled back in time in this particular dream? If so, how could everything seem so real?
She blinked. Her eyes, her head, and her stomach were sore. In truth, her whole body ached as if she’d tumbled from a horse and been trampled. There was a foul taste in her mouth as well. Groaning at the discomfort, she rolled over to inspect the rest of the room. And discovered she was not alone.
Alongside the door, on a crudely carved settle, lay a man, sleeping. His tousled fair hair and striking features stirred memories. A dark stubble roughened his jaw and cheeks, and even in sleep, he exuded a powerful masculinity. Truly, an exceedingly handsome fellow—but how came he to be in the same room?
Staring around in increasing perplexity, she discovered she had not traveled back in time. The high-quality doublet and cloak hanging behind the door were cut in the latest fashion, with a multitude of expensive embroidered buttons down the front of the doublet. A pair of paned hose was flung across a chair, along with nether hose and a brace of garters.
Merciful heavens! Had the man discarded all his clothing? Slipping out of bed, she tottered across the room to see. Why was she so unsteady on her feet—had she imbibed heavily last night? It felt as if she’d drunk a whole cade of wine.
He was attired only in his shirt, with a blanket over his lower half. The shirt was open at the neck, and loose-sleeved—the material was so fine, it clung to his broad chest. She was sure she could see the hue of his skin beneath it.
Blushing furiously, she took a slow breath to still the racing of her heart. And then looked down at her hands.
She wore a ring—one she’d never seen before. She held it up to the light. It was gold and bore a backwards impression of the letters C and W, surrounded by curlicues. A seal ring, but not hers. Nor her brother’s.
She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Edward was dead. That was why she felt a gaping hollow in her chest where her heart should be. She’d known for many days—weeks, even—had she not? Yet she’d not been able to comprehend it. Now, she believed it. Now, she understood she would never see him again. A gulping sob escaped her as hot tears stung her cheeks.
“Isobel?” The man sat up and swung his legs to the floor. She remembered his voice, she thought, and his face, as in a distant dream. She sensed she need not fear him.
He held her gaze, pale eyes scouring her face. “Have you been restored to us?”
She looked down at herself, at the unfamiliar ring, and the coarsely-woven nightgown. “I know naught of these things. Who put them on me? And why am I not at Marston House?”