Still, he closed his eyes and sank back into the alluring depths of sleep as her fingers gently swept over him.
Morning dawned overthe East End just as it did in Mayfair. The East End was louder, brasher, dirtier, more crowded and dangerous. Smellier, too. But the sun rose all the same.
Evie had pulled back the window dressings herself to allow light to filter into Theo’s sickroom. She had also opened the window, and the evidence of the East End’s sometimes pungent presence was making itself known as a swift breeze blew through the room. He needed sunlight. And fresh air. Unfortunately, the air was not terribly fresh. But it was better than the stale air of his sickroom, and it would have to do.
Evie bathed Theo’s feverish forehead with a damp, cool cloth.
For days, she had stayed away, following his wishes. Until at last, Dom had told her Theo’s condition had taken a grave turn. Infection had settled in. She had gone to The Devil’s Spawn, determined that no one would get in the way of her seeing him and tending to him.
She had never felt more helpless in her life than she had when she had first entered his chamber to find him lying so pale and still upon his bed, his dark hair soaked with perspiration, the bandage on his shoulder soaked through with the balm she had applied and streaks of blood. The felled beast.
And she was responsible for everything that had happened to him.
That had been two days ago.
She had not left his side since, and she was determined she would not. Not until he opened his eyes and demanded she go. Or not until he breathed his last. She was more determined never to allow the latter to occur, to do everything in her power to see him live.
The horrible reality was that it was possible Theo would not survive the infection that had claimed him. That he would succumb to the fevers ravaging his body. A sob rose in her throat, but she forced it down, refusing to allow herself to cry. She had wept enough during the days she had honored his request for separation.
His skin felt cooler today than it had the day before, and she had sworn in the depths of the night that he had been awake. He had been moving, not thrashing in his bed as he did when in the grips of his delirium. But rather, his motions had seemingly been deliberate and slow. The actions of a lucid man.
At least, that was what she dared to hope.
She had stroked his hair until at last, his steady, reassuring breathing had lulled her into a brief, dreamless sleep. When the first strains of dawn had filtered through the curtains, she had been awake, checking him for any signs of change.
Praying and tending and loving—that was all she could do for him, and she was willing to perform them all, in any order, repeatedly, until he was well.
He shifted beneath her ministrations, a groan tearing from him, along with a hiss of pain as he attempted to move his injured shoulder.
Hope soared. “Theo?”
Long, dark lashes moved on his pale cheeks. Slowly, they rose, revealing his beloved blue gaze. Bluer than the summer sky in the country. Bluer than blue. And clear, lucid. No trace of fever in their depths.
“Why?” he rasped, attempting to say more but then stopping, running his tongue over his lower lip, which was cracked and dry.
“Water?” she asked.
He gave a jerky nod, and she rose with haste to fetch him some, bringing it back to the bedside and helping him to lift his head so he could take a proper drink. She allowed him three gulps before withdrawing the cup, not wishing for him to be ill after so many days of precious little water, and nothing but dribbles of broth spooned down his throat. He was weak and ill, and he needed to proceed slowly, as any invalid would.
“Why are you here?” he growled.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, ignoring his question.
“Why are you here?” he demanded once more.
Did she dare tell him the truth? That she was here because she loved him? She did not think the weary, broken stranger glaring at her wanted to hear those words now. Mayhap not ever.
She needed to tread with care. “I am here because it is my fault you were wounded. It is my fault you suffered the infection and were so gravely ill these last few days.”
“I told you to go.”
His curt, cold voice did nothing to stay the hope and relief welling within her. He had not been this lucid since her arrival. And though he looked weak and pale—understandably after all the trauma he had just endured—there was a vitality about him which had been previously absent.
“Yes,” she agreed calmly. “You did.”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t want you here.”
“So you have said repeatedly.” Once more, she kept her tone bright, nary a hint of the hurt blossoming within her showing.
