Not knowing what or who called, I fingered my bed table and found my knife. I picked it up and went to the light spreading beneath the connecting door.
“Patience.”
My rattled thoughts cleared. That was Repington’s voice. Was he in trouble?
I pushed open the door that separated us.
The duke had raised up an inch or two and looked as if he’d tried to stand. He groaned and lowered to his pillow. “Come to me.”
I dove headlong up the mattress.
He scooped me up into his arms as if I were Lionel. “I have you. Nothing will hurt you. Talk to me, Patience.”
His lips sought my fevered brow, and I held on to him.
“I heard bits of your nightmare.”
“Nothing. It was nothing.”
“My greatest fear is to be of little use to you or Lionel or my men. Tell me, unless all your encouragement was a deception.”
I didn’t want to talk. I half clawed my way through his nightshirt to hide.
He put a hand to my cheek. “Either you trust me or you don’t. Tell me your secrets.”
It wasn’t a command. I knew how his voice dispatching an order sounded—harsh notes, crisp syllables with those dimples disappearing. This wasn’t it.
My choice was to trust my heart.
“Markham had me committed because he said . . . I was a danger to Lionel.”
“Why?”
“I saw Colin. His ghost railed at me. Before he died, I wrote him a letter, telling him how much wrong there was in our marriage. That’s why he killed himself. My angry words pushed him into the Thames. That’s why he haunts me.”
“You’re not responsible.”
“I am. I must’ve freed myself from the nursery where Markham held me captive. Colin’s ghost came at me. I ran blurry-eyed at top speed. Markham, the servants, all said I tried to slide down the banister to get away from his ghost. I could’ve killed Lionel if I’d fallen.”
The duke released a long breath. I felt the muscles of his arms relax. “You were trapped in the nursery under duress. Markham plays tricks, making people wonder about their strength and sanity. The night I took control of Hamlin, he’d drugged the nanny to take advantage of her. Patience, when you say blurry-eyed—did someone describe your eyes as yellow and bright?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re definitely not crazed.” He lifted my chin. “I know you. You are most trustworthy.”
I held on to Repington. I might even have cried. I didn’t feel worthy, not until I looked into his truthful eyes.
* * *
Sheltering the trembling Patience in his arms, slipping her betwixt bedclothes and pillows, Busick made a list in his head of all the things he needed to do when he recovered from this bed.
First, find that gardener-butler fellow, the servant who’d worked at Hamlin since Grandfather and confirm Markham’s treachery to Patience.
Second, order a few barrels of rum, the good stuff.
Third, he thought, as he curled one of Patience’s lithe fingers within his own. Put a ring, a Strathmore wedding band on it. It was time to claim her as his own.
He wiped his thumb along her nose. “I need you to marry me.”
