“Are you fainting?” she gasped.
He shook his head.
“Are you...” she began but stopped because she was losing her grip. She cast around for his hand on her shoulder and grabbed it for leverage. She searched his face, his legs, the spot on his side where the stab wound—
Sabine let out a little shriek. “Stoker, you’re bleeding! Your stitches—have you ripped them? Why didn’t you mention this?”
There was so much blood. His left hand covered his bandaged ribs, and blood had soaked through his dressing gown between his fingers.
Stoker said nothing and clung to her, his eyes shut tight, his body a strange combination of tautness and dead weight. He shook his head once, a sharp jerk to the left.
“Stop,”she demanded. “Open your eyes. Martyrdom will get you as far in this house as trespassing. Can you walk?”
He nodded and made the smallest possible step; one foot dragged in front of the other. “You haven’t the strength to hold me up,” he said.
“There’s only one person here lacking in strength,” she said, “and it’s not me. Can you take another step?”
“I’m hurting you,” he ground out, his words barely audible. “Too heavy.”
He was exceedingly heavy, and the giant mass of him hung unevenly on her right side. One of his hands clenched his wound and the other held hers in a vise grip. Each step was a slow, careful slide.
Sabine felt around beneath his arm, searching for a handhold that would not further damage his wound. She widened her stance, stooped to readjust the arm on her shoulders, and then pushed up, evening out the weight.
Bridget had begun a low growl, circling them in nervous rings. Sabine jerked her head, dismissing the dog, but she would not leave them.
“Stoker,whathappened?” Sabine asked. They continued to the door in small, sidewinding steps.
“I’ve been stabbed,” he growled, “or so you’ve told me.”
“Hilarious. Did the footman know you were in such pitiful shape?”
“Must we... use the... word...pitiful?” he breathed.
They passed the drafting table and he reached out, trying to brace himself. The table tipped under his weight, and Sabine gasped, staggering to correct them. He reached out again, finding the correct balance, and leaned over the table.
“Harley was ultimately called away by Mrs. Boyd,” Stoker panted. “He was meant to come back. He said he would come back.”
Sabine shook her head. “His first duty is to his actual employer. I’ve only borrowed him for small tasks when he was on break.” She took three deep breaths. She disentangled her free hand from his fingers and wiped her brow. “I hope Mary hasn’t missed him today. How many errands did he run on your behalf?”
“A handful. I will wait for him. Leave me here, and I will wait.”
“Wait on my drafting table? No.”
“I am not helpless,” he said.
“You are entirely helpless,” she countered. “The longer you remain upright with the wound unchecked, the more blood you will lose. The doctor was very explicit about your remaining in a constantprone position. You must return to the bed immediately.”
“No.” He shook his head.
“Yes,”she countered. “Is your vanity so inflated that you cannot allow an irritated woman, and that defines my mood very mildly, to drag you to a more comfortable position?”
“It’s not vanity.”
“Whatever it is, I haven’t the patience, Stoker, honestly. Take a deep breath, and let’s carry on.”
“You are the devil,” he gritted out, but she felt him coil his strength, and he shoved up.
“That remains to be seen,” she breathed, “but I am also all you’ve got.”
