She held a flexible rubber tube to his lips, and he sucked in a few sips of ice water.

Ethan’s lids cracked open, and his unfocused gaze found her. “Still here,” he said in a hoarse whisper, not appearing entirely happy about the fact.

“You’re going to be better soon. All you have to do now is sleep, and heal.”

Ethan looked as though he were puzzling over some foreign language, trying to interpret it. There was a brittleness about him, as if spirit and flesh were coming unstitched from each other. He trembled with fever chills despite the dry-baked heat of his skin. Traumatic inflammation, the clinical part of her brain noted. Wound-fever. Despite the abundant use of antiseptic fluids, infection had set in. The rigors would soon be accompanied by a rapid elevation of temperature.

She coaxed him to take another sip of water.

“I’m in a bad takin’,” Ethan whispered after he’d swallowed. “Need something.”

God only knew what it had cost him to complain.

“I’ll give you morphine,” she said, and swiftly prepared another syringe.

By the time the injection took effect, the ambulance cart had been reassembled and hitched to a broad-backed, placid-tempered dray. The ride to Eversby Priory manor seemed interminable as the cart’s India-rubber wheels rolled gingerly over the rough terrain.

Eventually they approached a massive Jacobean house on a broad hill. The brick-and-stone residence was dressed with parapets, arches, and long rows of diamond-paned windows. Rows of elaborate chimney stacks gave the flat roof the appearance of a birthday cake covered with candles.

The ambulance cart stopped at the entrance. Four footmen and an elderly butler emerged from the oak double doors. Without preamble, Garrett explained how to detach the stretcher and unload it from the cart. She was annoyed when West interrupted her instructions.

“They’re footmen, Doctor. Carrying things is nine-tenths of their job.”

“He is not a thing, he’s my . . . my patient.”

“They’re not going to drop your patient,” West said, escorting her past the front threshold. “Now, Dr. Gibson, this pleasant-looking lady with the gaze of a brigadier general is our housekeeper, Mrs. Church. And all those capable young women are housemaids—we’ll introduce them later. For now, all you need to know is that we have two Marthas, so that’s the name to call out if you want something.”

The housekeeper curtsied hastily to Garrett before directing the footmen to carry the stretcher bearing the wounded man upstairs. Her matronly form bounded up the stairs with unexpected agility. As Garrett followed, she had only a cursory look at her surroundings, but it was enough to allay any concerns about the manor’s condition. Despite its venerable age, the house appeared scrupulously clean and well-ventilated, the air scented with beeswax and rosin soap. The soft white paint on the walls and ceilings showed no trace of mold or damp. Garrett had been in hospital wards that had been maintained in far worse condition.

Ethan was carried into a small but tidy room. A screen had been fitted into the open window space to filter out insects and dust and allow cooling breezes to flow into the room.

“Did they know in advance of our arrival?” Garrett asked, noticing that the gleaming wood floor had been divested of rugs and the bed covered in white linen, as appropriate for a sickroom.

“Telegram,” West said succinctly, helping the footmen set the stretcher on the floor near the foot of the bed. On his count, they lifted Ethan with great care, keeping him supported at a horizontal angle. Once he was settled, West turned to Garrett, rubbing the pinched muscles at the back of his neck. “You haven’t slept at all. Let Mrs. Church watch over him for a few hours while you take a nap.”

“I’ll consider it,” Garrett said, although she planned to do no such thing. The room was clean by ordinary standards, but it was far from a sterile environment. “Thank you, Mr. Ravenel. I’ll take charge now.” She ushered him from the room and closed the door.

Mrs. Church helped Garrett to draw away the sheets and blanket that had covered Ethan during the journey, and replace them with fresh ones. He was dressed in a thin cotton nightshirt donated by Lord Trenear. Later Garrett would change him into one of the garments obtained from the clinic, a patient nightshirt made to open in either the front or the back.

Ethan awakened just long enough to give her a bleary glance, his eyes vivid blue black in his fevered complexion. He was shivering from head to toe.

Garrett weighted him with another blanket and gently touched his bristled cheek. She’d never seen him a day past a shave. More by force of habit than necessity, her fingers slid to his bare wrist to find his pulse. His hand moved, twisting until his long fingers curled around hers. He blinked once, twice, and sank into slumber.

“Poor, handsome lad,” the housekeeper exclaimed softly. “How was he injured, Doctor?”

“Gunshot wound,” Garrett said, slowly disentangling her fingers from his.

Mrs. Church shook her head. “The Ravenel temper,” she said darkly. “It’s been the end of more than one promising young man in his prime.”

Startled, Garrett shot her a questioning glance.

“I know a Ravenel when I see one,” the housekeeper said. “Those high cheekbones and the long nose, and the way the hairline grows in that slight peak.” Staring down at Ethan thoughtfully, she continued, “The old master Edmund’s indiscretions were hardly a secret. I’d guess this is a natural child of his. Probably not the only one.”

“It’s not for me to confirm,” Garrett murmured, tucking the covers more closely around Ethan’s still form. She felt protective of him, defensive on his behalf. Not only had he been made physically helpless, but also one of his deepest secrets was now being discussed over his sickbed. “However, his injury is not the result of an unruly temperament. He was attacked after risking his own life to protect a great number of innocent people.”

Mrs. Church regarded Ethan for a long, wondering moment. “A good, brave man, then. The world needs more like him.”

“It certainly does,” Garrett agreed, although she knew Ethan would have mocked such pronouncements about his heroic nature.

“What is his prognosis?”

Garrett gestured for the housekeeper to come away from the bedside and stand with her at the window. “The wound is contaminated,” she said, “and it’s poisoning his blood. His fever will rise until he reaches a crisis. We’ll have to keep him very clean, to help his system rid itself of infection, and keep the wound from suppurating. Otherwise—” She stopped, her heart twisting. Turning to the window, she stared out at neatly tended garden walks curving beside stone walls covered with flowering vines. In the distance, a row of glasshouses glittered in the morning light. This was a world away from London, so ordered and serene that it seemed nothing bad could happen here.

The housekeeper was waiting patiently for her to resume.

Garrett gave a short nod toward a nearby table, decorated with a small vase of fresh flowers, a miniature framed painting, and an assortment of books and periodicals. “I’ll need that table cleared. Also, please send up a stack of clean bleached toweling, and a can of hot water that’s been kept at a hard boil for at least thirty minutes. And have the footmen carry up all the supplies and equipment from the ambulance cart as quickly as possible. After that, no one except you is to come into this room unless it’s by my leave. No one is to touch him without first scrubbing his or her hands with carbolic soap. The walls must be washed with a bichloride solution, and the floor sprinkled with disinfecting powder.”

“Will McDougall’s powder suffice? We use it in the stables.”

“Yes, that’s perfect.”

Mrs. Church gathered up the flower vase and the reading materials from the table. “I’ll see that it’s all done in a jiff.”

Garrett liked the housekeeper immensely, perceiving that she would be an invaluable help in the days to come. Perhaps it was the mixing of liking and weariness that loosened her tongue, but she found herself saying, “You immediately noticed his likeness to the Ravenels, whereas Lady Helen and Pandora have never remarked on it. Nor did I put two and two together.”

Mrs. Church paused at the threshold and smiled. “I’ve been in service since I was a girl of fifteen, Doctor. It’s a servant’s job to notice details. We learn the family’s habits and preferences. We read their faces to anticipate what they’ll need before they think to ask. I daresay I pay more attention to the Ravenels than they pay to each other.”

After the door had closed, Garrett reached for Ethan’s hand once more. It was strong and elegantly shaped, the knuckles and fingertips slightly roughened. His skin radiated heat, like stones baking under the sun. The fever was coming on fast.

Inside his veins and connective tissue, microscopic processes were taking place, unseen battles raging among cells, bacteria, chemicals. So much of it is out of my control, she thought helplessly.

Very lightly she set down his hand and laid her palm on his chest, over the blanket, measuring the quick, shallow motions of his breathing.

Her feelings for him seemed to unfurl in all directions.

Tentatively she let herself think about what he’d said to her before the surgery, the words he’d thought would be his last. She couldn’t fathom what it was about her, a practical woman with a scientific mind, that had inspired such passion.

But as she stood there with her hand on him, she found herself uttering words unlike anything she’d ever said or thought in her entire sensible life.

“This is mine.” Her fingers spread wider over his heart, collecting precious heartbeats as if they were scattered pearls. “You’re mine, you belong to me now.”

Chapter 19

By the next day, Ethan’s temperature had gone up to one hundred and three degrees, and the day after that, it reached one hundred and five. He had fallen into delirium, his fevered mind prowling through memories and blood-haunted nightmares that left him weak and agitated. He spoke gibberish, tossing and turning, and not even a dose of the strongest opiate could ease him. At times he would sweat profusely, burning up from the heat, but soon afterward would shake with bone-jarring chills.

Garrett left the sickroom for only a few minutes at a time to see to her own needs. She slept in a chair beside Ethan’s bed, dozing with her chin on her chest, waking instantly at the slightest noise or movement. She trusted only Mrs. Church to help her change the sheets and bathe Ethan’s body with cool antiseptic-soaked cloths. When his temperature skyrocketed, they packed him in waterproof bags of ice wrapped in linen. Garrett drained and cleaned his wound frequently, and bullied him into taking sips of water and purifying tonic. His injuries appeared to be healing, but even so, toward the third evening he seemed to retreat to a place where she couldn’t reach or soothe him.

“I’ve nine devils in my skull,” he muttered, struggling to rise from the bed. “Cast ’em out, don’t let me—”