“You are at Sowerby House. I would have taken you to Hollyvale, but somehow, I imagined you would both feel more at home here.”
Both.She raised her head. “Simon—”
“He was pulled out of the fire first. Had you not been chained, we could have removed you before you sustained any of these burns.”
She glanced down at herself in the bed. Her hands were bandaged, along with sections of her arms, and the burnt edges of singed hair tickled her chin. “He is alive.”
“Today, yes.” As if tonight he would be gone. Or tomorrow. Or the day after that. “He suffers grave burns on his back, broken ribs…” He seemed as if he would go on but thought better of describing such misery. “He has not yet awakened. His fever, I fear, is too high for the doctor to remedy.”
“I want to see him.”
“You are too weak.”
“Please.”
“I am afraid I cannot permit it.”
Wincing, she threw off the covers. “Then I shall crawl to him myself—”
“That will not be necessary, Miss Whitmore.” Mr. Oswald grinned, though something about his face seemed unsettled. He hesitated before slipping his arms beneath her and lifting her from bed. “I shall take you myself. But do take care not to move greatly, for I should very much dislike to bring you pain.”
“I am not so very injured.”
“Suffice it to say it would have been much worse if Mr. Fancourt had not shielded you. I imagine he saved your life.”
With his own.
“As did I, of course.” Mr. Oswald thudded the bedchamber door closed behind them, then eased her into the sconce-lit hall. “Last morning before I left for my Whigs meeting, I took to sorting through the remains of the Sowerby study in preparation for my own plans. I found a locked drawer, utilized my old talent of picking locks, discovered a very interesting letter, then showed it to Sir Walter later that day. He explained a lot concerning Mr. Fancourt’s misconceptions.”
“But how did you know where—”
“There are only so manyWs about, Miss Whitmore. And Sir Walter, the barrister that he is, knows more of London residencies than I do.” Mr. Oswald paused before a door. “But we shall talk more of that later. I imagine you wish to be alone.”
She nodded, bolstered her strength when he settled her feet to the floor, and grasped the cold knob with sweat already dampening her palms.
“One more thing.” Mr. Oswald stilled her before she entered. “If you wish to say anything to Mr. Fancourt, I imagine it should be goodbye.”
Her legs nearly caved.
That was one thing she could never say.
The coward within her wanted to bolt. The room was too silent, the windows closed, the candle faint. She smelled Simon in the first breath, his scorched skin in the second.
She approached the bed.
Positioned on his stomach, shirtless, the raw wounds of his back were exposed. She tried not to look. She sank on her knees before the bed, face level with his, and brushed a hand down his battered face.
His skin seared her finger.
“Simon.” She did not imagine he would respond to her call, but his brows knitted. “I am here,” she whispered. “You must be strong.” Silly, that she should tell him that. If he was anything in the world, it was strong. Deep inside of him, farther than anyone could see.
He should not die like this.
Not here.
He belonged back in those mountains he so much loved, where he had been free and built the life he’d always dreamed of. He should die with rich dirt beneath his head and the open sky above him. He should die for something worthy. Forsomeoneworthy.
Not her.
