“Hush,” Garrett said, trying to apply an iced cloth to his forehead, but he twisted away with a desperate sound. She was terrified that all his violent movement would start a hemorrhage. “Ethan, lie still. Please.” As she tried to press him down against the pillow, he shoved her in his delirium, and she staggered and fell backward.

But instead of careening to the floor, she found herself neatly caught from behind, a solid arm closing around her.

It was West Ravenel, his clothes scented of outside air and forest greenery and an earthy whiff of horses that Garrett ordinarily wouldn’t have liked, but at the moment seemed agreeably masculine and bracing. After steadying her, he went to the sweating, thrashing figure on the bed. “Ransom,” he said in a firm tone, instead of a quiet sickroom murmur. “No devils here. They’re gone. Lie back and rest, there’s a good fellow.” He put his hand on Ethan’s forehead. “Hot as hellfire. Your head must be splitting. Mine always is during a fever.” Reaching for a waterproof ice bag that had been dislodged from Ethan’s chest, he carefully set it against the top of his skull.

To Garrett’s amazement, Ethan subsided and began to breathe more deeply.

“Did you wash your hands?” she asked West.

“Yes. But believe me, any bacteria I may have brought in are no match for his.” His frowning gaze remained on Ethan, whose features were pallid and sharp. “How high is the fever?”

“One hundred and five,” Garrett said dully. “He’s in the worst of it now.”

West’s attention moved to her. “When did you last eat?”

“I had bread and tea an hour or two ago.”

“Twelve hours ago, according to Mrs. Church. And I’m told you haven’t slept for three damned days.”

“I have slept,” Garrett said curtly.

“I meant the kind in which one applies the body to a horizontal surface. It’s not sleeping if it’s in a chair. You’re about to collapse.”

“I’m perfectly able to assess my own condition.”

“You can hardly focus your eyes. You’ve worked yourself into a state of exhaustion, when there’s a bevy of female servants who’ve been waiting impatiently for a chance to soothe Ransom’s fevered brow. If we don’t let the head housemaid at least give him a sponge bath, she’ll hand in her notice soon.”

“A sponge?” Garrett asked in weary outrage. “Do you know what kind of harmful bacteria a sponge contains? There are at least—”

“Please. I already know far too much about bacteria.” West watched with exasperation as she headed toward the bedside chair. “Doctor, I’m begging you—with no lascivious intent whatsoever—go to bed. Just for an hour. I’ll look after him.”

“What nursing experience do you have?”

He hesitated. “Does a sheep with pasture bloat count?”

Garrett resumed her seat at the bedside. “I’ll be perfectly alert after a cup of strong tea,” she said stubbornly. “I can’t leave him now. He’s at the crisis.”

“You’re having your own crisis. You’re just too run-down to realize it.” An abbreviated sigh escaped him. “Fine, then. I’ll ring for tea.”

After summoning the housekeeper and conducting a brief murmured conversation at the door, West went to the bed. “How does the wound look?” he asked, curling an arm loosely around one of the corner posts. “Is it healing?”

“It appears to be,” Garrett said, “but there could be secondary sources of infection nearly anywhere in his body.”

“Are there any signs of that?”

“Not yet.” She sat in a state of nervous depletion, staring fixedly at the figure on the bed.

The tea was brought. Mumbling her thanks, she took the cup in her hands, not bothering with the saucer. She drank it all without tasting it.

“What are you using to dress the wound?” West asked, looking over the collection of bottles on the table.

“Glycerin and disinfecting drops, and a layer of oiled muslin.”

“And you’re keeping him packed with ice.”

“Yes, and trying to make him take a sip of water at least once every hour. But he won’t . . .” Garrett paused as a swoosh went through her head. She closed her eyes—a mistake—the entire room seemed to tilt.

“What is it?” she heard West ask. His voice seemed to come from very far away.

“Dizzy,” she mumbled. “Need more tea, or . . .” Her lashes fluttered upward, and she had to fight to keep her eyes open. West was in front of her, easing the china cup from her lax fingers before it could drop. His assessing gaze ran over her, and it was then that she realized what he’d done.

“What was in my tea?” she asked in a panic, trying to rise from her chair. “What did you put in it?” The room revolved. She felt his arms close around her.

“Nothing but a pinch of valerian,” West said calmly. “Which wouldn’t have had nearly this much of an effect if you weren’t ready to drop from exhaustion.”

“I’m going to kill you,” she cried.

“Yes, but to do that you’ll have to have a nice little rest first, won’t you?”

Garrett tried to strike him with her fist, but he ducked easily beneath her flailing arm, and picked her up as her knees buckled.

“Let go! I have to take care of him—he needs me—”

“I can manage the basics of nursing him while you sleep.”

“No, you can’t,” Garrett said weakly, and was horrified to hear a sob breaking from her throat. “Your patients all have four legs. H-he only has two.”

“Which means he’ll be half the trouble,” West said reasonably.

Garrett writhed with helpless rage. Ethan was on his deathbed, and this man was making light of the situation. He contained her struggles with maddening ease.

As West carried her along the hallway, Garrett desperately tried to stop crying. Her eyes were on fire. Her head throbbed and ached, and it had become so heavy that she had to rest it on his shoulder.

“There, now,” she heard him murmur. “It’s only for a few hours. When you awaken, you’ll have any revenge you want.”

“Going to dissect you,” she sobbed, “into a million pieces—”

“Yes,” West soothed, “just think about which instrument you’ll start with. Perhaps that two-sided scalpel with the funny handle.” He brought her into a pretty bedroom with flowered paper on the walls. “Martha,” he called. “Both of you. Come see to Dr. Gibson.”

No mystic’s vision of hell, with sulphurous chasms and human forms charred to ember, could have been worse than the place where Ethan was trapped. Demons with steel claws leaped at him in the darkness. He thrashed to escape, but every movement drove the claws deeper into his flesh. They dragged him to pits of fire and roasted him over white-hot coals, cackling with laughter as he cursed them.

Sometimes he was aware that he was bedridden, while a calm-faced angel tended his tortured body in ways that unleashed fresh shocks of pain. He almost preferred the demons. His wracked mind couldn’t summon her name, but he knew who she was. She insisted on tethering him to the earth with those slim, inexorable hands. He wanted to tell her he’d slipped too far, there was no coming back. But her will was stronger than his weakness.

A tide of fire rose from the floor, blossoming with blue heat. He whimpered and gasped, climbing to escape it, pulling himself up from the deep well of curling flame. There was a circle of light above him, a man reaching down. Seeing his father’s muscular arms and knotted hands, Ethan reached upward frantically.

“Da,” he whispered. “Fire—pull me out—don’t let it take me—”

“You’re out. I have you.” A powerful grip enclosed his hand.

“Don’t let go, Da.”

“I won’t. Lie still now.” His father pulled him up and laid him back, and stroked something cold over his face and neck. “Easy. The worst is over.” So much kinder than he’d ever been in life, the mean edges of his temper weathered down to patient strength.

Ethan relaxed and shivered slightly as blessed coolness was distilled all through him, and the stroking cloth paused. Groping for his father’s wrist, Ethan blindly urged the big hand back to his face. The soothing movements resumed, and Ethan’s tired mind threaded its way into quietness.

He awakened to the steady light of morning on his eyelids, while someone tugged at his bandage, peeling it away like the skin of a fruit. Burning liquid was applied to his shoulder in steady, measured drips. During the process, a man was talking. Not to him, but at him, in a light, aimless flow that required no response.

It was bloody annoying.

“. . . I’ve never had this much to do with another man’s body before. For that matter, I don’t think I’ve had quite this much to do with a woman’s body. I may have to become a monk after this.”

The man was winding a bandage neatly over his chest and around his back, leaning close to lift him slightly with each pass.

“. . . as heavy as a Hampshire hog . . . more muscle than other breeds, which is why they weigh more than they look. Take my word for it, you’d be a prizewinning baconer. I mean that as a compliment, by the way.”

With an antagonized grunt, Ethan shoved at the man, breaking his hold and sending him staggering back. After a swift glance at his surroundings, Ethan half rolled toward the table near the bedside and grabbed a metal utensil. Ignoring the vicious stabbing ache of his shoulder, he stayed on his side and glared at the man by the bed.

It was West Ravenel, who regarded him with a slightly tilted head. “Feeling better today, are we?” he asked in a tone of artificial cheer.

“Where am I?” Ethan asked hoarsely.

“Our hallowed ancestral domain, Eversby Priory.” West glanced at the bandage on Ethan’s chest, which had begun to unravel. He reached for the loose end. “Let me finish wrapping that, or—”

“Touch me again,” Ethan growled, “and I’ll kill you with this.”

West drew his hand back instantly, his gaze falling to the utensil in Ethan’s grip. “That’s a spoon.”

“I know.”

The corner of West’s mouth twitched, but he retreated a step or two.

“Where is Garrett?” Ethan demanded.

“After performing surgery, traveling to Hampshire and staying up for thirty-six hours to look after you, she was obliged to rest a bit. Your fever broke during the night, which will undoubtedly be welcome news when she awakens. In the meantime, I’ve been taking care of you.” West paused. “So far, I preferred it when you were unconscious.”

Ethan felt a flush of humiliation creeping over him as he realized this man had cared for him during his delirious ravings. Oh God . . . the dream about his father . . . the moments of paternal tenderness he’d always craved from the man who’d raised him. And the handholding—had he imagined that, or—