She began again. “That is, I noticedyou. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that it was, indeed,youand you were not dead after all. The doctors wanted to move you to a proper bed and keep you on, but I could hardly abandon you there. Not when they had already failed to notice something as significant as your beating heart.”
She made a face, remembering. “I cannot say I recommend the hospital shipDreadnought, given the choice. Even the most fit patient was uncomfortable, to say the least. I could not, in good conscience, leave you there.”
“You are under no obligation to me,” he breathed, eyes still closed. He shifted again and winced.
Sabine squinted at him. “A simple ‘thank you for saving my life’ would be sufficient in this moment, Stoker.” She forgot herself and stepped to the bedside, staring down at him. “I don’t require gratitude, of course, or even expect it, but cordiality would be appreciated.”
He didn’t move; his eyes remained closed.
Sabine marveled over his detached rudeness. She’d hardly thought he would be cheerful when he came around, but she had gone to considerable trouble to affect what she thought of as his “rescue.”
She reminded herself that she didn’t know Jon Stoker, not really. Perhaps he was always like this. She’d spent all of two half days with him when they’d married; and they’d interacted only intermittently after that. Rarely did she see him in person.
She tried to remember her own demeanor when they’d first met, when she’d been the damaged one—eyes blackened, lip bloody. She’d been helpless and furious and embarrassed, and she’d tried not to look at him. But had she grunted out short sentences and failed to show gratitude?
No,she reasoned,I did not.
Sabine looked at him and said, “We are not well acquainted, you and I, and no one relishes infirmity, but I did snatch you from the jaws of death. Surely, you don’t resent the effort.”
Prudence demanded that she not lecture him, that shenot carewhether he was resentful or silent or wouldn’t look beyond the end of his nose. Honestly, she’d hoped he would be gone or in the process of going when he came to. She’d sent word to his friends by private courier. Surely, they would arrive any day.
Now he turned his head and looked up at her. The brilliant green had returned to his eyes, the redness and cloudiness gone. She sucked in a little breath.
“Forgive me.” His tone was not the least bit repentant. “I am not resentful, I am mortified. I am not accustomed to beingcared for.”
“Oh,” she said, softening. “Well, I am not accustomed to providing care, so perhaps we are even. But never fear, I have written to your friends, and they will come for you soon, I am certain.”
His head snapped back. “Which friends?”
“Your partners, Joseph Chance and the Earl of Cassin.”
He considered this and then nodded. “I worried that you meant Bryson and Elisabeth Courtland. I would not want them to see me—” he looked down at his body “—in this condition.”
Bryson and Elisabeth Courtland were the wealthy couple who sponsored Stoker when he’d been a street boy. They had provided his education and were the closest thing he had to a real family. The couple had endeavored to meet Sabine after she and Stoker married, but she had resisted. She was not really married to Jon Stoker, not in a traditional sense. When the time came to send for help, she had considered them, but ultimately she decided the explanations and assumptions would not be worth the bother.
“No, I did not contact the Courtlands,” she said.
“Thank God,” he said. “Elisabeth Courtland would make a fuss and be sick with worry. My debt to Bryson and Elisabeth extends two lifetimes already.”
“Well, you have no debt to me,” Sabine said briskly, “and you needn’t be mortified where I’m concerned. My rooms are modest and there is almost no staff. You will find that I am a distracted and, dare I say, reluctant nurse. I never pounce. I will not wring hands or swab your brow or administer any treatment not explicitly directed by the doctor—and several of those I have omitted because they seem extraneous or I can’t be bothered. As I mentioned, I have paid one of the Boyds’ footmen—you’ll remember the Boyds? I have paid one of their footmen to manage your, er, personal needs.”
Now it was her turn to wince. She cleared her throat and released Bridget to the floor. The dog immediately leapt onto the bed, and Stoker grunted in pain.
“And I have a dog,” she said. “She is terribly behaved and comes and goes from your sickbed as she pleases, which is frequent. Considering all this, you may yet have me send for the Courtlands after all.”
Stoker eyed Bridget as she sniffed her way up his body, her short dog legs wobbling for balance on the uneven terrain of the bedcovers.
“I won’t,” he said, wincing. “But I will hire my own doctor and staff and relocate. I keep a suite of rooms in Regent Street when I am in London. There is no reason for me to intrude on you. Despite the fact that you discovered me on a charity ship, we are both aware that I can provide for myself.”
This plan sent a jab of something sharp in the area of Sabine’s chest.Relief, she guessed.Or gladness?
No... she was not glad or relieved. She was—
Well, to begin, the room felt suddenly chilled. She frowned at the open window. Bright sunshine coursed in, mocking her. It was August, and there was no chill.
“Actually,” she heard herself say, “the doctor has said you absolutely may not be moved while the stitching in your side heals—that is, if you expect your stab wound to effectively close and stave off further infection.”
Bridget continued her scrambling progress up his body, stepping on his groin, his stomach, his chest—tiny paws painfully close to the wound in question. Stoker let out a ragged gasping sound.
