“He’s here,” Alex answered in French, his voice dark and low. Lucia winced, realizing she’d just barged into an unfamiliar house in a hostile country sputtering loudly in the enemy tongue.
“Her carelessness is going to get us killed,” Camille sneered.
Lucia ignored them. John was all that mattered. “Alex, please. May I see him?”
Alex glanced at the doctor, who nodded. “Upstairs.”
Taking her arm, he showed her the way, pausing outside a closed door.
Chapter Twenty-six
“Have you seen him?” Lucia asked, staring straight at the dark wooden door.
“No, but Joubert said he’s hurt.” Alex’s look was grim. “Shot in the right shoulder.”
Lucia tightened her jaw. He heart was pounding, and she felt dizzy at his words, but she had to be strong for John. Alex put his hands on her shoulders, and his touch steadied her.
“Joubert removed the bullet, but John lost a lot of blood.” His voice was calm and soothing. “The wound became infected, and Joubert wasn’t sure he’d make it. Your brother’s just beginning to recover.”
“Can he travel?”
Alex frowned, and before he could give her an answer she didn’t want, she said, “Let me see him. Alone.”
Alex frowned.
“Alex, he’s my own brother. Just give me five minutes with him.”
He nodded. “I’ll be downstairs. Yell if you need me.”
“I won’t.”
He squeezed her shoulders reassuringly, then Lucia stood alone before the door. Her brother had always been so strong, so infused with life. What would she see on the other side of the door? Gathering her courage, she turned the brass doorknob and entered. Across the room, John lay on the bed, his eyes closed.
She blinked. He looked very much as she remembered him from two months earlier. Tall and fair like her, with dark blue eyes and curly blond hair, although his was more of an ash blond, he looked like a man sleeping peacefully. With a shaking hand, she closed the door and went to him. In the dim light from the small window, she could see he was pale and his arm was wrapped in a sling. She took the chair beside the bed and clasped his hand. He opened his eyes with a slowness she would not have believed him capable of two months before.
He stared at her, closed his eyes, and blinked at her when he opened them again. “Lucia?”
“Yes. It’s me,” she whispered, leaning over to caress his brow.
“What are you wearing?” he mumbled.
Lucia paused. This wasn’t exactly the reunion she’d imagined. “Is that all you can say? I’ve been worried sick about you.”
“Is this a dream?” he asked groggily, and she immediately felt his forehead for any sign of fever.
“No, darling. I’m really here.”
His eyes took her in again. “But your dress—”
“John!” She punched him lightly, and he groaned.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” She grasped his hand again, her anger rising. “But really! Who cares what I’m wearing! I’m here.” Brothers! They never changed.
“I was shot in the shoulder,” he said, and she smiled.
“I can see that. Do you know who shot you?”
He shook his head. “No, but it was one of our own.”
