“Mattie,” he said. “Knew I would see you again.”
She licked her lips and turned back to the grooms. “All right,” she said, “he’s alive. Let’s get him home and keep him that way.”
She wriggled closer, thinking to wedge herself beneath Christian’s arm and heave him to his feet. But he was heavy—soheavy—she could scarcely lift the dead weight of his arm, let alone his entire body. One of the grooms struggled to loop a rope around Christian’s horse. The other tied the rope to the two they’d brought with them, clearly meaning to lever the lame horse out of the sand.
That was good. Christian would not want them to abandon the horse.
He tipped his head down against hers, his mouth near her ear. “Knew you would come,” he said. “My brave girl.”
“All right,” she said again. “Excellent. You’ve a future as a clairvoyant. Time to stand up, Christian.”
He did not seem to register her words. He pressed his face against her cheek, and she shuddered at the deathly chill she felt where his skin touched hers.
“Had to tell you I love you,” he said.
She froze. Her heart seemed to freeze too, and then beat again so hard it felt like a blow. “No,” she said, and she pushed and shoved and fought with his big, heavy body, urging him to his feet.
“It’s all right,” he said.
They were standing. Somehow, she’d gotten him to stand, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. She spread her feet and held his weight.
“No,” she said, “it’s not all right. You have to walk. Lean on me andwalk,for God’s sake.”
“Love you, Mattie. So glad you came.”
She felt ice everywhere: in her boots, on her cheeks, creeping down her spine with the eerie finality of his words.
“Stop it,” she said. “Do you hear me, Christian de Bord? I am telling you tostop.”
He had told her to remember it many times. The word—the only word she need say to bring everything to a halt. She had not said it until now.
He hesitated at the word, and she felt a pained clench somewhere in her diaphragm.No,she wanted to say,no, no, I love you, don’t stop.
But instead she said, “I have no interest in deathbed declarations, Christian. I am taking you home, and you can tell me tomorrow in bed, over a cup of chocolate.”
He relaxed a little against her, and she tripped, barely able to keep them both upright.
The horses. They just had to make it to the horses. The grooms would help her get Christian into the saddle, and they would ride home together, and everything would befine.
“You ask too much,” he mumbled. “Bed. Chocolate. Too much.”
“It’s not too much,” she hissed. They were close. They were almost there. “Keep moving. I won’t tell you I love you back until we’re naked in your bed, do you hear me?”
He stumbled and leaned harder into her. “Mattie girl,” he said. “Too late. I already know.”
And then everything happened at once. Christian’s mare was dragged bodily to her feet, breaking free from the heavy grip of tide and sand. The groom dropped the rope and threw himself toward Matilda. And Christian—his arm locked around her shoulders—went limp and dragged both of them down to the ground.
Chapter 19
When the sun woke Matilda in the morning, Christian was still asleep.
Mrs. Perkins had been a wonder—as cool and calm as a field general as she’d ordered the slow warming of Christian’s chilled body, the lukewarm beef tea spooned into his mouth. She and Beatrice had seen him settled in his bed, and Matilda—when she’d reentered Christian’s chamber after changing out of her sodden wool garments—had caught Mrs. Perkins brushing back his hair.
They had studiously avoided any discussion of this show of affection.
He’d been clean and warm when Matilda had settled herself into an armchair beside his bed. She could not stop touching him, reassuring herself that he was safe and breathing. She stroked the nape of his neck, the triangle of bare skin at his throat. She slid her fingers down the long slope of his arm.
She’d almost hoped to rouse him, though she knew she should let him rest. But he did not wake, only murmured something unintelligible and slept on.
