Chapter Five
Stoker was roused from a deep, dreamless slumber by the smell of food. Onion, cloves, poached chicken—food. His mouth began to water before he opened his eyes.
“Stoker, you must eat,” said a voice—hervoice—and realization struck him like a punch to the gut.
He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, willing her away, willing himself dead rather than subjected to this helplessness. The hunger in his stomach and dull ache in his side receded. He knew only his pounding heart.
“Stoker,” she repeated, more sharply this time.
“I’m leaving,” he rasped. This had been his last thought before the pain and exertion had sucked him under.
He felt ridiculous speaking without opening his eyes, but he didn’t want to look at her. Even more, he didn’t want her to look at him, or touch him, or, God forbid,feed him.He wanted to be whole again. In absence of that, he wanted to be gone from this house. To be feeble and helpless and pathetic in the privacy of his own quarters. He wanted—
Clattery ministrations beside the bed distracted him from his long list. He blinked at the ceiling and then stole a glance from the corner of his eye.
He saw the yellow dress, a tendril of black hair bob against her cheek. A familiar yearning, faint but insistent, rose in the pit of his stomach; he felt it even over the pain, even over the mortification. She wasn’t looking at him, thank God. She wouldn’t see his regard in his face. He’d always been so careful not to reveal it in his face.
She dropped the salt cellar, swore, and then stooped to pick it up. Her hair was so black, it glinted bluish in the sunlight from the window. She’d twisted it on top of her head and secured it with a yellow ribbon. Never once had Stoker looked at her hair without the fantasy of seeing it long and loose down her back. For this reason, he so rarely gave himself the opportunity to look at her. Once or twice a year. Fleetingly. Ten minutes at a time. Long enough to notice her hair. And her skin, which was unblemished white, the color of fresh cream.
In their brief encounters, he always marveled at two things: her stunning beauty and that she’d married him. She could have had any man. Or, she could have had no man and been a gift to the world, simply by moving through it.
Now Stoker worked furiously not to stare. She didn’t like it; and, despite his desire to study her, feature by feature, he had learned at an early age to keep a distance from things he would never have.
Now she was dragging a chair across the room, her movements more intent than careful. When she arrived at the bedside with the chair, she created a table by balancing five books on a footstool, topped by a wooden box, a sixth book, and now the tray of food teetering on top of it all. The makeshift tower listed slightly and she took up a napkin and spoon.
“I beg your pardon?” she said casually, indulgently.
Stoker snapped his head back to the ceiling. He hated being indulged.
“I said,” he informed her, trying to sound sane, “that I will take my leave. Today—now.” The pronouncement actually managed to sound more petulant the second time around.
“Oh yes,” she said, “by all means, you should go. Heave yourself up and gather your things and walk right out the door.”
“I will hire transportation,” he said. He tried to shove up in the bed, but the jolt of fresh pain made him breathless and he collapsed against the pillows.
“Yes, I know you can hire a great many things,” she said, “but that does not mean these are wise or healthy things. It doesn’t mean it would be the rational behavior of a man of sound mind.” He heard the clink of her spoon against china and the thud of something being lifted and replaced to the floor. Liquid sloshing into a goblet. His throat burned. He was so bloody thirsty.
“Will you take some broth and water?” she asked.
“My mind is sound,” he informed her, even while he wanted to say,Yes.
“Brilliant. If your mind is intact, then we’ve made real progress. The doctor said your wits should eventually return, but there was never a guarantee.”
Stoker groaned at the thought of Sabine spoon-feeding him under the assumption that he might never regain his wits.
“Look,” she went on, “it’s obvious you are displeased with the arrangement, but I’ll not be responsible for the setback that would surely result from a... ahired transport. The doctor means for you to stay, and I am inclined to follow his orders. His directives have been very effective so far. And this includes the order that you should eat and drink as much as possible. So, while you glower and tell me how you will soon take your leave, can you also open your mouth and eat this soup? I’ve quite a full day, actually. You were much easier to feed when you were barely conscious.”
Stoker considered refusing the sustenance; turning away was quite literally the only stand he could take at the moment. But then his stomach growled audibly, the rumble filling the room, and it felt more ridiculous to pretend.
“There’s a good man,” said Sabine briskly, moving in with the spoon.
“Oh God,” mumbled Stoker, wincing at her encouragement, and Sabine said, “What?”
“No platitudes,” he said. “I will eat, but do not praise me like a child.”
“Oh right,” said Sabine, but then she drew back, dropping the spoon into the bowl. “This position flat on your back will never work. Can you—?” She stood up. She opened her hands over him, and then stopped. She snatched her hands back. “Harley the footman usually hoists you up to sitting before I feed you,” she said.
“I can sit,” he said. He had no idea if he could sit.
