“Wrong? Wha’ can be wrong? My brother be alive.”
Laughing, he drank more whiskey and offered Maximilian the bottle. “To me brother.”
Shaking his head, Maximilian refused the drink. “Well, you are certainly not fit to join us at supper,” he said, dryly. “Your mother will be displeased.”
“Mother.” Wilmot spat. Then he burst into more laughter. “To me mother,” he said and upended the bottle to swallow another large gulp. “Is it cursing to say ‘me damn dam’?” Giggling hysterically, he set the bottle down and covered his face with hands and sobbed. “I am sorry, Max.”
“Sorry? Sorry for what?”
Wilmot did not answer, but wept, his shoulders shaking, his tears blotting his loosened cravat and linen shirt. “I be a sorry fool,” he muttered. “Not fit to live.”
Growing concerned, remembering Wilmot’s attempt to take his own life, Maximilian rested his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Yes, you are. Do not say things like that.”
Giggling through his sobs, Wilmot murmured, “You should have let me die.”
“That is the whiskey talking, Willie,” Maximilian said, trying to soothe him. “You are just drunk, that is all.”
“I am drunk,” Wilmot agreed, laughing again, lifting his wet face. “I plan to stay drunk, too.”
“It is rather difficult to get through life that way.”
“Do not care. I do not care about anything anymore.”
“Then I will do the caring,” Maximilian said, standing. “I will continue to care about you. You are my brother.”
Wilmot gazed up at him, squinting. “You will?”
“Of course. Now come on, it is time you went to your chambers to sleep this off. I will make the excuse that you are not feeling well.”
Extending his hand, Maximilian waited until Wilmot took it. For a long moment, he did not think Wilmot would. At last, he slapped his hand into that of Maximilian’s and permitted him to haul his brother to his feet. Wilmot’s knees almost buckled, and Maximilian steadied him with his hand under his arm. “Good man,” he said, encouraging. “Now I will get you to your rooms.”
“You are a good brother to me. The best brother I ever had.”
Maximilian smiled wryly. “I am youronlybrother.”
Trying to ignore Wilmot’s nasty whiskey breath, Maximilian helped him off the battlements and to his room. By the time they reached them, Wilmot’s hysteria seemed to have passed, and he staggered a great deal, almost on the verge of passing out. Not up to his usual strength, Maximilian grunted with the effort of all but dragging his brother across the threshold and into his rooms. Wilmot’s valet rushed to help and took some of Wilmot’s weight upon his own shoulders.
Together, they eased Wilmot onto his bed, fully dressed. Maximilian breathed in deeply and rubbed his aching head. “Look after him,” he said. “He has had a bit too much to drink.”
The valet nodded and offered him a quick bow. “I will, Your Grace. It seems that this is becoming quite the habit.”
Maximilian frowned. “You mean you have often cared for him after he has been drinking?”
“More often than not lately, Your Grace. Last night, he came in quite intoxicated and hysterical. Laughing and crying. Kept repeating that he could never be forgiven and was going to hell.”
Chapter 36
After an intolerable three days in bed, Eugenia defied Maximilian’s orders and returned to her duties as Lady Helena’s maid. Of all her injuries, only her throat continued to pain her. She drank water laced with honey to soothe it and did her best to ignore it. The mild burns on her face healed quickly, but the dead skin layer peeled in a way that left her horrified whenever she stared into a looking glass. “I cannot let Max see me like this,” she muttered.
Lady Helena laughed. “I suspect that is one price of your courage,” she said. “Or is it foolhardiness? When you run into a burning building, I suppose you will need something to show for it.”
“Will I scar?” Eugenia asked, desperation in her voice. “Am I scarred for life?”
Lady Helena closely examined her skin. “I doubt it. It is no worse than if you had a sunburn.”
“But sunburns leave freckles,” Eugenia moaned. “I am deformed now.”
Just as Lady Helena laughed at her worries, so did Maximilian. In the relative privacy of a corner near their meeting spot, he bent to kiss her. “Freckles or no,” he said, grinning. “You are beautiful in my eyes.”
