She brushed a wayward sable curl from Anthony’s brow. He was clean now. His bloody clothes had been cut away, and linen bandages wrapped over his shoulder and around his chest, leaving his other shoulder and arm exposed. The scent of the tincture the surgeon brought filled the chamber. Anthony seemed to sleep peacefully enough, but he looked broken, and yet she knew he possessed a strength most could only strive to emulate.
With his chest bare she could see the full extent of his war injury—of how something had crossed down the side of his face and caught again on his shoulder and appeared to deepen as it reached his arm, just as he had said. Uneven scars from hasty stitches were purple and pink on otherwise fair skin. Now his opposite shoulder and arm were bandaged—not because he was fighting for king and country but because of her.
For her.
His chest rose and fell in deep, rhythmic breaths, and she leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
She did not know what would happen next. But she had fought for Henry. And now she would fight for Anthony. It was glaringly clear now. Hollythorne House was their home, but now it would not be complete without Anthony. She loved him. Every memory,every heartache, every smile was written on her soul. On her heart. Circumstances of every kind threatened to unbind them, and yet they had found their way back to each other.
She reached out and took his large hand in hers. It seemed so much larger than she remembered. Much rougher. Calloused and scarred. It was so different from Roland Prior’s. And she never wanted to let go of it.
***
Noises.
Movement.
Searing pain.
Anthony was pretty sure he was dreaming—trapped in that unconscious space of alertness and decision, daydream and lucidity. He’d been here before, in the days following the Battle of New Orleans while in the field hospital and on the hospital ship. His eyes were closed. He attempted to adjust his hand, but his fingers were swollen. He seemed to vaguely recall a bout of fisticuffs.
Pain scorched through his shoulder and down his arm. His head was heavy and thick, as if emerging from a drunken fog. He pried an eye open and was met with a brightness from a candle that felt like a fiery poker stabbing his eye. He promptly closed it again. As he became more aware of his limbs, it all rushed back.
Charlotte and Henry were safe.
He’d been shot.
Walstead was dead, he thought.
Timmons had betrayed him.
Anthony drew a breath, then stopped. The simple action incited pain in his ribs and lungs. He was certain he lost consciousness at some point when the surgeon was here. It was the last thing he remembered.
He did not open his eyes, yet he slowly touched the linen bandage across his chest.
“Are you awake?”
The feminine, eager whisper enticed him from his foggy slumber.
He did not want to open his eyes, fearing the soft voice was but a figment of his imagination.
He heard sounds of movement as someone approached the bed. The scent of lavender met him.
He eased open an eye, squinting to adjust his sight to the bright candle glowing on the bedside table.
Pain dominated, and yet she drew every bit of his attention. He attempted to change his position, to push himself up slightly on the bed. But his head spun, and blackness eclipsed his vision. His arm gave out beneath him.
She was at his side instantly, both hands, cool and soothing, on his good arm. “Shh. Be still.”
He heard her draw a chair close to the bed and settle near to him. A gentle, soft hand covered his. She leaned near, and soft chestnut hair fell over her shoulder and brushed against his bare arm.
He might be intoxicated.
Surely someone had administered something for pain, and the effects of it lingered.
Charlotte took the hand of his good arm in her own and pressed her lips against it. The movement slow. Deliberate. “We must find a way to keep you out of danger, Anthony Welbourne.”
“Don’t worry.” His words were gruff and harsh against his parched throat. He attempted to clear it before speaking an absolute lie. “’Tis nothing.”
