Decision made, he started toward the men, but the creak of a door behind him stopped his pursuit. He swung around prepared to bark out another order to stay out, but blinked in surprise at Gravenhurst’s drawn face. “Grey, come quick.”
A streak of fear went through him at his friend’s grave tone. “What is it?”
“It’s your sister. She’s ill.”
Grey glanced back toward the king. He needed to explain his sudden departure.
“I’ll explain to the king,” Gravenhurst said. “Go now. The physician says Lady Elizabeth doesn’t have long.”
The dire pronunciation knifed across his heart with more pain than any cut Gravenhurst had given him in training. Grey flew out of the king’s chambers without another word.
Fourteen
By the time Grey found the isolated apartment where his sister had been removed, fear had dampened his palms. When he tried to grasp the brass handle to her bedchamber door, his fingers slipped. Cursing, he wiped his hands on his trousers, then tried again. Inside, the room smelled of incense, rosewater and medicine, and the curtains over the window were pushed wide, allowing sunlight to flood it. His shoulders relaxed a little. He’d expected darkness and the sickly stench of death. Maybe Liz wasn’t as bad off as Gravenhurst thought.
But as he approached the bed, his stomach pitched. Liz was asleep, her mouth half open and a line of drool running down her cheek. Her skin looked strange, almost like the wax he sealed his letters with. With a shaking hand, he touched her cheek. By God, she was on fire. Glancing behind him, he swept his gaze over the washstand for the pitcher of water, but the stand was empty. Perhaps his aunt had gone for water, for surely his aunt was caring for Liz.
He knelt down beside his sister and picked up her limp hand. Grief tore through him when she didn’t stir. Grey studied her. What could be wrong? Fever, for certain, but what was causing it? Her thick black hair clung in wet tendrils to her forehead and neck. Beside her pillow was a wet, crumpled cloth she must have thrown off her head in a fit. She needed to be cooled. He picked up the cloth and growled. The damnable thing was hot. Where was the physician and his aunt?
Anger filled his belly and sent him surging to his feet to prowl the room. Liz wouldn’t die. He’d not allow it. She was too young and healthy. And he needed her. She was his confidant, his twin. She understood the loneliness he’d felt most his life because she too had felt like an outcast in their family. Father and Edward had always had a special bond, and Mother and Marianne had been thick as thieves to the exclusion of Liz. When their oldest sister had died, their mother died in spirit right along with her, which was one of the reasons he’d suggested Liz come to Court. Here, she could spread her wings and quit trying to become Marianne to please Mother. If Liz had contracted some vile disease here that killed her, he would never forgive himself.
He paced around the room. He felt helpless and caged. He wanted to flee, saddle up his stallion and ride until numbness took hold. This fear falling over him was unacceptable. Weakness was not an option.
He had to do something. He strode back and forth some more. No good. He was going to go mad. Liz muttered and stirred in her bed. He raced over to her side and fell to his knees. “Liz.” He smoothed the damp hair off her forehead. “It’s Grey. I’m here, poppet.” A crooked, cracked smile wobbled on her lips. Leaning over her, he pressed a kiss to her burning forehead and started to lay his head beside her as they had done as children, but her hand came to his chest to push him away.
“Don’t get too close.” Her eyes opened into slits, and her hand fell to her side.
“Whatever you have, I’m too strong to succumb.”
Liz shook her head. After an interminable moment, she focused her watery eyes on him. “No. You’re not. You’re—” A cough rumbled in her throat becoming so loud and violent that it curled her body into itself. Grey grasped her around the shoulders as her body shook with each cough and ran a hand gently through her hair. “Handkerchief,” she gasped between coughs.
He searched around her bed and found a pile of crumpled handkerchiefs. Frowning at the mess, he handed one to her and grabbed another one to inspect. The red stains on the white linen made his blood run cold. His fingers curled around Liz’s shoulder.
Was she thinner than she had been a week ago? A month? When the last cough died, she flopped back against the bed covers and lay with her eyes drooping and the handkerchief balled in her fist. He uncurled her fingers without her protesting.
Bringing the handkerchief closer, his heart squeezed painfully at the sight of more blood.
“Consumption,” she wheezed. “The doctor thinks I have consumption.”
A strangled sound escaped his throat before he could control himself. His insides knotted into fear. Consumption had taken Marianne from them and might as well have taken their mother. Consumption was horrible. God couldn’t be that bloody cruel to allow two of his sisters to be taken by the same disease. “Has everyone run off then?” Bitterness flowed through his veins. He remembered how some of the servants, including Marianne’s lady’s maid, had fled their house when the physician had pronounced she had consumption.
Liz’s eyes opened just a bit. “Not everyone. Aunt Helen won’t go.”
“That’s my girl.” Grey’s heart filled with gratitude and love.
Liz chuckled almost too soft to hear but the act caused another coughing spree to commence. After the attack ended, he pressed a glass of water to her lips. “Drink.”
She obeyed, though he wasn’t sure how much water actually made it into her mouth. It seemed more ended up on her night rail than down her throat. Once he found a towel and patted her dry, he settled beside her on the bed again. “Where is the physician?”
“Gone to get his bleeding kit.” Liz shuddered. She grasped for his hand and when he took up her hand, she curled hers gently into his as she used to do when they were children and would walk hand in hand around the lake. He blinked at the moisture in his eyes. Damned dry room. “Don’t let him bleed me.” Panic and fear edged her words.
He pictured Marianne, skeletal with blood dripping down her arms from the hundreds of puncture wounds administered by the physician’s spring blade. Liz didn’t need to plead her case. No way in hell would another well-meaning physician drain too much blood and send another one of his sisters to an early grave. He squeezed Liz’s hands. “I’ll kill him if he tries.”
“Good,” she murmured. “Make her go.”
“Who, poppet?”
“Madelaine. She won’t leave me alone either.” Liz coughed again, but this time there was no blood. He swallowed against the consuming dryness in his mouth. Liz smiled wanly. “She’s stubborn like Helen. But she must leave, so she will live.”
