“NO!”Graham yelled, refusing to let go of him. “You can’t have him! He’s mine!” he hissed, seeing something step out of the mist on the shore.
It was the original Lord of this castle.
Graham pleaded with him.
“Duncan! Help me save him! Help me save the man I love!” he called, and that’s when the grip on D’Artangnan was broken.
Whether it was the haunted water setting him free, or assistance from Duncan, he didn’t know, but that wasn’t important.
Saving D’Artangnan was.
Gone was his heartache, and gone was the hangover. There was a new mission that had to be completed.
Graham wasted no time.
Getting D’Artangnan onto his back, he checked, and he most definitely wasn’t breathing.
If he didn’t get him air, and soon, he would die, and that would be one more nail in Graham’s coffin. He’d carry this on his shoulders forever too.
Pulling open the man’s wetsuit, he touched his neck. There was a pulse, but it was so faint.
“Don’t,” he whispered, tipping his head, and breathing into D’Artangnan’s mouth.
His lips sealed to his, and he fought for him like he’d never fought before.
If this man was married and had a family, he had to save him for them.
He owed him that much. After breaking him and sending him away, he had to make sure he could go home to the people he now loved.
As he kept breathing for him, Graham could hear that static-y sound of the dead talking near him.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please let him live.”
As if his prayer was answered, the man began coughing. Then, when D’Artangnan started tossing up water, Graham rolled him to his side, and held him there.
“Please breathe for me,” he said, as the coughing continued, and life was coming back.
That’s when he saw how blue the man’s hands and lips were. His skin was cold to the touch.
He had to get him warm or he was going to succumb to hypothermia.
The first place he thought of was the room he’d woken in, since there was a fire already going in there. That would be a good place to get D’Artangnan warm.
Picking him up, and that was no easy task, he tossed him over his shoulder. Thank God he did manual labor around the estate, or he wouldn’t be able to move the mountain of a man.
He was still coughing and trying to get his lungs clear as he hung over his shoulder.
Somehow, he had to get the much bigger man up the hill and to a fireplace.
“I’ve got you, D’Artangnan,” he reassured, holding him in place as he hustled it up the hill and to the kitchen. Kicking the door open, he used his bare foot to shove it closed.
They were almost there.
As he carried him up to the Master’s Suite, he laid him on the floor in front of the fire, and began pulling off his wet things.
The wetsuit was first to go, and all that was left was his sopping wet underwear. That’s when Graham saw it.
The tattoo was on his leg—exactly where it had been placed almost ten years ago.
