“Come.” Sweet Bridget took her hand, squeezed it, and tugged Isabella. “You must take supper and rest. You have been sitting with him for hours, when a maid shall do just as much—”
“I wish to stay.”
Bridget’s brows rose, as if with questions.
Questions Isabella didn’t know the answers to herself. “He seems to be comforted when I sit with him. A familiar voice, I suppose.” Whether that was true or not, it was the only excuse she could think of. “Now go and tell a servant to bring a plate up to me. I shall eat dinner here.”
With a sigh she tried to cover with her hand, Bridget nodded and moved for the door. She paused, however, before exiting. “Miss Gresham?”
“Yes?”
“I daresay, you have behaved rather bravely this day. I have never seen you face unpleasantries so boldly and unshrinkingly.”
The praise soothed Isabella’s distress. She smiled. “You are dear, Bridget. Now run along.”
But when the door shut, all her anxieties galloped to full speed yet again. Bridget was right. Isabella had confronted Father, ripped back Mr. Kensley’s bloody clothes, stared at his injuries, and never once turned her eyes away from him. What made him so special?
She hoped to goodness her attachment was not linked to him because …
Well, because he’d spoken in truth that day in Father’s study.
Because he was her brother.
A kink pulled at her neck as Isabella peeked open her eyes to the blinding morning sun. A groan rumbled through her. Daylight already? How long had she been asleep?
Mr. Kensley’s moan urged her from the discomforts of the chair, and she peeled off the dry cloth draped across his forehead. Her hopes sank.
His skin still scorched her fingertips.
All night long, she had sat with an elderly maid, Helena, who had kept fresh water in the pitcher and reorganized the medicine chest, likely to keep from falling asleep.
Now the old woman slumbered in an odd position in the chair by the hearth, her soft snores filling the room.
He moaned again.
Isabella sat on the edge of the bed, reached for his hand, and pressed it against her chest. He was missing two fingernails. As if he’d clawed his way up the cliff Mr. Abram had assumed he’d tumbled down after …
Someone shot him.A shudder darted up her spine, another unpleasantry she desired to look away from—but couldn’t. Who would do such a thing? Why would anyone want him dead? He, who was young and handsome and affable?
How terrible it was to see him this way. Helpless and broken. Like the flotsam or jetsam she searched for along the beach, lost and alone, no longer cared for by anyone. Did someone care for Mr. Kensley? Who loved him?
She imagined a thousand people loved him. What with his smile, his pleasant manners, his carefree jesting. Most anyone could find him endearing.
Except Father, of course.
“Let me out.” Rasping. Feverish. “Please … let me out.”
She squeezed his hand against her. “Shhh, Mr. Kensley. You are quite safe now.”
His head fell to one side. He breathed heavily, painfully, then squinted glassy eyes into her face. “Miss … Ettie?”
The name seemed to give him comfort, so she nodded. “Yes. Miss Ettie indeed.”
His eyelids sank shut again, his expression lax, and Isabella tucked his hand back beneath the warm bed linens. She awoke Helena and bade her sit by Mr. Kensley, then departed the chamber with a long yawn.
A hot breakfast, change of clothes, water and soap, and a comb through her disheveled hair were quite in order. She massaged her neck as she turned down the hall.
“Isabella.”
