“You have not moved,” he said softly.
Eleanor kept her gaze on Arabella. “No.”
James came closer. His eyes went to Arabella’s face, then to the physician’s notes on the small table.
“How is she?” he asked.
Eleanor’s throat tightened. “Sleeping. Breathing. That is all I can say without tempting fate.”
James nodded once. “The physician will return at noon.”
“Yes.”
He looked at Eleanor then. Really looked.
“You should eat,” he said.
Eleanor’s mouth tightened. “I cannot.”
“You must,” James replied.
She turned her head sharply. “Do not command me.”
James stilled. “I am not trying to command you.”
“It sounds like you,” Eleanor said, voice low.
A brief silence.
James exhaled. “You are right. Forgive me.”
Eleanor looked away again, shame and anger tangled together. She had no desire to fight, but the edge in her would not disappear simply because he was remorseful.
James moved toward the tray on the side table. “May I try something?”
Eleanor did not answer.
He poured water into a glass and lifted a small piece of bread from the covered plate.
“Eleanor,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”
She turned her head reluctantly.
His expression was steady. Not cold. Not distant. Almost gentle.
“Just one bite,” he said. “For Arabella’s sake, if not your own.”
Eleanor’s throat tightened. “Do not use her.”
“I am not,” he said. “I am reminding you that you must remain standing. She will need you.”
Eleanor stared at him, then at the bread in his hand.
Her stomach turned, but she forced herself to open her mouth.
James offered the bite carefully, as if feeding her were a sacred act. Eleanor chewed mechanically, tasting nothing.
“Another,” he said.
