His world had become a nothing but a gray cloud of pain. He would dream that his blood was turning black, tentacles of the putrid stuff sprouting from his apendageless wrists and reaching up to poison his heart. Agony consumed everything, the fever burned away all hope. All thought, dreams, or memory. Until he could no longer visit his sanctuary. Until he could no longer conjure her face. He gave himself over to the mist, melded with the pain, and ceased to fight.
That’s when she said his name.
She called for him through the cloying mist. Her voice followed by waves of cool pressure on his skin bringing blessed relief. She told him to fight, begged him to live, and a fire ignited inside of him again. Frantic, he reached for her. He desperately fought against a mire threatening to swallow him, immobilizing his limbs.
He tried. God, how he tried. How had she found him in hell? She didn’t belong here, but he couldn’t bring himself to let her go.
A male voice joined hers. Grating and unwelcome. Pain accompanied it and their voices became more frenetic.
Cole tried to snarl, to warn the man away from his woman, but he couldn’t summon the breath. A lake of fire and brimstone drowned him before he could summon her name again, and dragged him down into darkness.
* * *
Imogen spent three days with her heart palpitating so intensely she could barely function. So very much was at stake, and the anticipation of disaster overcame everything, driving her halfway to madness.
The only reason she retained her job was because she’d been right. During the emergency procedure, Dr. Longhurst found infection not only in Trenwyth’s muscle tissue, but also in his bone. He’d done what he could, but the fever still refused to subside, and the fear was that too much damage had already been done.
Trenwyth’s death would not only be a tragedy that could have been prevented, but also the impetus for so much more calamity. Dr. Fowler would have an excuse to be rid of Longhurst and herself, and he made it no secret that doing so would cause him extreme pleasure.
Men like him hated nothing so much as the proof of their own folly. Even though Imogen mentioned no word to the staff about his refusal to perform the procedure, he still pierced her with his repugnant glare whenever she was unable to avoid his presence.
Her nights became a blur of chaos and catastrophe. Anxiety and exhaustion made her clumsy and forgetful. Del Toro threatened that if she spilled something on one more patron, or broke another dish, he’d have to start charging her to work for him.
It seemed that the thread of balance she’d woven into her life had become as tenuous as Trenwyth’s survival. Any moment now, the thread could snap. Any moment and the fingertips by which she clung to the edge of the abyss would lose their desperate grip, and she’d shatter at the end of an absurdly short fall.
“Any news, dear girl?” Lord Anstruther queried as he’d done every day when she’d brought him his tea and paper. “Any change?” He looked more brittle than ever before, the edge of his lips tinged in blue.
“I’m afraid not, my lord.” She gave him the same answer, and they shared a moment of frustrated concern for Trenwyth. “He’s breathing steadily, perhaps a bit less agitated, but he still refuses to wake.”
“Well, I refuse to die until he wakes, and that’s my last word.” Anstruther lifted his arms so she could set his tray across his lap, simultaneously wagging his finger toward the ceiling.
“Have you taken to issuing edicts to God?” she teased.
“Only to Sarah.” He winked at her. “I’ll leave it to my dearly departed beloved to organize the afterlife for me. If the Lord is so omnipotent, he’ll know ahead of time that there’s no arguing with her.”
Even in her distracted and fatigued state, the wicked earl was able to pull a laugh from her. “Are you certain it’s a good idea to wax so blasphemous at a time like this?”
“It’s the only option of vice I have left to me.” His wit was interrupted by a wheezing breath. “I haven’t the capability for much sin in or out of this bed these days.”
Fighting a smile, she adjusted his pillows, made him another poultice for his chest, applying it with a warm, moist wrap.
“You take such good care of me, Nurse Pritchard,” he said with uncharacteristic solemnity. “I’d be more miserable under the care of anyone else. I don’t suffer fools, you see, and you’re not just kind, but you’re sharp and not easy to astonish. A rare trait among women of my rank. You remind me of my Sarah.”
This wasn’t the first time she’d heard this from him, but the compliment never ceased to flatter her, as he clearly held his late wife in such lofty esteem.
“If you’ll pardon my vulgarity, it occurred to me that you may not have been able to bring me the renderings you promised due to lack of … that is … insufficient funds.” His eyes darted away from her, as his noble reticence to discuss money reminded her of just how distant their worlds were from each other. “I had Cheever procure several sketchbooks, canvases, and instruments by which the commission could be accomplished.”
His gaze was equal parts hopeful and abashed, and Imogen couldn’t remember ever finding someone quite so charming in her entire life. How could she tell him that his concern over her financial status was only half of the cause for her delay? The extra time she’d spent caring for Trenwyth already cut into her clandestine profession at the Bare Kitten. In the estimation of a highborn man, a few evenings spent at the museum once her shift at the hospital ended should be nothing at all. A pleasure rather than a chore. Had she her druthers, he’d be absolutely correct.