She sucked in another deep breath and swung her legs off the side of the bed. Her mouth felt dry and her tongue was like sandpaper. Once she had a drink, maybe she would be able to remember. As her traitorous legs took her weight, however, they buckled, and she flung out a hand to steady herself, knocking the nightstand. Something—a book, perhaps—fell to the floor with a soft thud, and she cursed, borrowing a word from Henry’s vocabulary.
There was a sound behind her; the unmistakable sound of someone waking. “Really, Theo,” Nathanial said sleepily. “That is not an appropriate term for young ladies to use.”
Theo fell over. Her knee slammed against the carpet and her legs buckled, sending her face colliding with the floor. Now she had new aches to add to the old.
“Theo, Theo.” Nathanial was beside her now, faster than she could have accounted for, and he lifted her up as though she was a child, without so much as a grunt of effort. He was fully clothed, she noticed, the rougher material scraping against her nightdress.
Carefully, he laid her on the bed and she scrabbled to get back under the covers, pulling the sheets back over herself. It was impossible to see his expression in the darkness, but she thought she saw his mouth turn down.
“Now,” he said, “what were you trying to kill yourself to find?”
“Water,” she croaked.
“You might have said.” He lit a candle, placing it on the table beside a large jug. A glass, it transpired, was the object that had fallen, and after retrieving it, he poured her a drink. “Here. Don’t drink it too fast.”
She clutched the cool glass and tipped it clumsily into her mouth, not caring that she spilt some down her front. The water tasted heavenly—she hadn’t known it was possible for anything to taste so good. It soothed the sourness of her tongue, the dryness of her mouth. She felt as though she could finally breathe. The nausea receded slightly.
“There,” Nathanial said, taking the glass from her. “Do you feel better?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.” His voice was soft and affectionate in a way she hadn’t thought she would hear again. “Why would I be spending my nights in that devil-made chair if you weren’t ill?”
Theo cast a look at the chair in question, an armchair pulled close to the bed. In her eyes, although admittedly there was little light, it looked perfectly comfortable. She had sat in it several times herself and not suffered any ill effects.
As though he could sense the direction of her thoughts, he said, “Let me assure you that after three nights in that chair, I have come to hate it body and soul.”
“Three nights?” Theo’s mouth dried again. “I have been here for three nights?”
He took hold of her hand and turned it over, caressing her palm with the tips of his fingers. Her entire body warmed. “You have.”
“Why?”
“That is a matter better saved for another time.”
“I hardly think so,” she said, doing her best to imbue her voice with a little sternness. Where had the brooding, angry Nathanial from her memories disappeared to? He had not touched her in this way, or spoken so kindly to her, in so long.
“Do you want more water?” he asked.
“Nathanial. Stop changing the subject.” She took a deep breath. “And why are you being so kind to me?”
The fingers on her hand stilled. “Do you truly think so badly of me?”
“You were so angry—”
“You nearly died, Theo.” His voice was a hiss in the darkness, the words even more stark because of it. Her heart lurched, tumbling in her chest over and over at the sound of them. She had nearly died. Nearlydied.
The illness on the boat had been a symptom of something worse. Something so terrible she could hardly breathe past it.
She had almost died.
He cursed under his breath and tightened his hold on her hand. “Forgive me. I should not have said—”
“How? Was it . . .” She remembered the sun, the way she had felt as soon as she had stepped into the cloying heat. “Heatstroke?”
His laugh was harsh. “No.”
“Then what?”
