Stoker shifted in the chair and winced. “I made it worth his while to run errands to my rooms in Regent Street and do something about my madman’s hair and beard.”
“And to install you in my private study?”
He made a scoffing noise and winced again. “Installis a very apt description of how I arrived here—but yes, he was good enough to help me. I’ve rather urgent letters I need to get out—the small matter of my missing brig and crew, the fact that I was left for dead, et cetera. And the desk in the bedroom had no ink.”
His words were matter-of-fact, but she could hear the underlying struggle. He was winded and hoarse.
Even so, she felt compelled to repeat: “This is my private study.”
“I was endeavoring to make today’s post.”
“Four days ago you were as good as dead, and today you are endeavoring to make the post?”
“Yes, in fact. Making the post is one of many steps I intend to reclaim my life. I will also do things such as venture beyond my sickroom and wear breeches if I can help it.”
“Are you suggesting that you’ve been restricted under my care?”
“No,”he said with forced patience, “I’ve been undyingly grateful for your care. But now that I’m up—or at least now that I’m not quite so low down—I am running mad with all the things that I would have done.”
Sabine understood his madness, truly she did, but her own anxiety overshadowed it. She was unnerved by the sight of the large form in her chair. Her desk was hardly tidy, but she could see he’d moved books, flipped pages on her calendar. Heaps of fresh parchment were scattered about in the room in wads. But how long had he been here?
“I understand your urgency,” said Sabine, taking a step inside, “but I really must impose a restriction on roaming the apartments when I’m not at home. I can provide writing materials for the bedroom desk. I can provide whatever you require. You need only have the patience to wait for my return and to ask.” She stooped to pick up a wad of parchment.
“I am not a patient man.”
“And I am not the proprietress of a coaching inn.” She took another step. “These rooms are not yours to inhabit as you wish.”
“In the very near future, I hope to be removed from these rooms entirely.”
And now she was angry. Not only was he intrusive, he was also so veryungrateful. She picked up another wad of paper. “At present, I would prefer that you removed yourself fromthisroom. I’m not accustomed to sharing my private office, and I’ve work to do.” She set down the lantern with a clunk and tossed the parchment into the bin.
Stoker opened his mouth to say something and then closed it. He looked away.
“Stoker?” she prompted sharply.
“I’ll go,” he said simply, but he didn’t move.
She narrowed her eyes.Yes,she thought,you bloody will.She said, “You may take the ink. Take any writing materials you require. Whatever else you need, I can—”
She reached for the ink pot on the desk in the same moment Stoker made a grunting noise and shoved from the chair. The motion caught Sabine off guard and she skittered back.
“Damn, damn,damn,” he said lowly, falling back into the chair with anoof.
Sabine frowned down at him. “Stoker?” she asked cautiously.
He shook his head. He sat stiffly in her chair with his eyes squeezed shut. His entire face was squeezed, every feature creased, the expression of extreme pain.
“Are you—?” she ventured.
He made a little growling noise and shoved again, this time while sucking in breath. She held out a hand, but he ignored it. When he was up, he paused, one arm out as if balance eluded him. After listing there for a long moment, he took one cautious step.
“You’re in pain,” she realized. “Youcannot movefor the pain.”
“I can move,” he gritted out. He took two shaky steps, staggered, tipped, and began to crumble.
Sabine shrieked and lunged, ducking beneath his arm just in time to catch him. She looped his arm around her neck and shouldered his weight.
“No,”he said, but his body came down on hers, heavy and burning hot. Sabine widened her stance and braced, struggling to hold them up.
