“Relax,” West said calmly, although his eyes twinkled with amusement. “We’re family.”

It was the first time he’d directly addressed Ethan’s connection to the Ravenels. Ethan glanced at him warily, refusing to reply.

“In fact,” West continued, “now that my blood is running through your veins, we’re practically brothers.”

Ethan shook his head, perplexed.

“Transfusion,” West explained. “You received ten ounces of Ravenel ’forty-nine . . . a fairly decent vintage, it seems, since it brought you back to life when your heart stopped after surgery.” He grinned at Ethan’s expression. “Cheer up, you might develop a sense of humor now.”

But Ethan’s intent stare wasn’t one of dismay or resentment . . . he was amazed. All he knew about transfusion was that damned few people survived it. And West Ravenel, the cavalier ass, had willingly gone through a remarkable amount of trouble, risk, and discomfort for his sake. Not only in donating his own blood, but also in taking Ethan to Eversby Priory and looking after him, in full awareness of the dangers of doing so.

As Ethan looked into the blue eyes so like his own, he saw that West expected an ill-tempered, ungracious remark. “Thank you,” he said simply.

West blinked in surprise and looked at Ethan more closely as if to assure himself of his sincerity. “You’re welcome,” he said, just as simply. After an awkward but not unfriendly silence, he continued, “If you like, I’ll try to make you presentable before Dr. Gibson sees you. Before you refuse, you should know that your beard is like steel-brush wire, and you smell like an Angora goat—and I know whereof I speak. If you’d prefer someone other than me to spruce you up, I suppose I could sterilize my valet. Although I’m not certain he’d hold still for it.”

Garrett awakened beneath a weight of numbness. Even before her mind was conscious, her body had perceived the awaiting catastrophe.

A full, sun-infused morning pushed insistently through the shuttered windows, spilling through the edges and between the slats. Dully Garrett stared up at the white nothingness of the plaster ceiling.

By now, the natural process of Ethan’s fever had proceeded to its logical end.

The pupils would be dilated and unresponsive to light. The body temperature would have dropped to that of the surrounding environment. She could hold the shell of him in her arms, but his spirit was somewhere she couldn’t reach.

She would never forgive West Ravenel for depriving her of the last few minutes of Ethan’s life.

Moving like an old woman, she eased out of bed. Every muscle and joint was sore. Every inch of her skin hurt. She went into the connecting toilet room to make use of the facilities and wash her face, taking her time. There was no need to rush.

An unfamiliar dressing robe made of green flowered fabric had been laid out for her on a chair, with a pair of slippers on the floor. She had a vague memory of two housemaids helping her change into a nightgown and taking down her hair. Her clothes were nowhere in sight, and there wasn’t so much as a hairpin on the dresser. She wrapped the robe around her front and tied the drawstring at her waist. The slippers were too small for her feet.

She padded barefoot from the room, toward the chasm of grief that awaited. She would keep walking over the edge, into an endless fall. Ethan had blazed through her life and disappeared before she’d even fully come to comprehend all there was to mourn.

Sunlight pierced the windows and shot across the floors. The sounds of servants going about their daily tasks made her flinch. Now she understood why people shrouded the house in times of grief: any kind of stimulation was jarring.

Her footsteps slowed as she heard the sounds of conversation coming from the sickroom. West Ravenel, with his usual irreverence, was chatting casually with someone in a dead man’s room.

But before rage could assert itself, Garrett reached the doorway and saw a figure sitting upright on the bed. Her body went as taut as umbrella wire. One of her hands fumbled at the door frame to secure her balance.

Ethan.

The air exploded into sparks that showered into her eyes and filled her lungs. For a moment she couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Her blood rushed with wild fear and joy. Was it real? She couldn’t trust her own senses. Blindly she turned in West’s direction. She had to blink and blink before she could see him, and even then he was a watery blur. Her voice came out in a croak. “His fever broke and you didn’t wake me?”

“What would be the point? You needed sleep, and I knew he’d be no less alive in the morning.”

“You’ll be a damned sight less than alive by the time I’m through with you!” she cried.

West lifted his brows, looking smug. “Am I going to begin every day of your visit being showered by death threats from the two of you?”

“It seems likely,” Ethan said from the bed.

There was the sound of his voice, familiar and wry and lucid. Trembling, Garrett brought herself to face him, terrified he might disappear.

Ethan was sitting up, propped on pillows, clean-shaven and washed. He looked unreasonably normal, considering how close to death he’d been a few hours earlier. His gaze moved over her, taking in her unbound hair, the velvet dressing robe, the tight knots of her bare toes peeking from beneath the hem. His blue eyes, the farthest edge of sky, the darkest ocean depths, were filled with warmth, concern, tenderness . . . all for her . . . only for her.

She made her way to him as if she were wading through hip-deep water. Her legs would barely support her. When she reached him, he grasped her arm and gently tugged her closer until she was perched on the edge of the mattress. “Acushla.” His hand came up to cradle the side of her face, his thumb caressing the crest of her cheek. “Are you all right?”

“Am I . . .” Amazed that his first question was about her, Garrett felt herself begin to crumple like a ball of fragile paper.

Slowly Ethan drew her across his body, guiding her head against his good shoulder. To her self-disgust, she had broken into tears of utter relief, when she would have liked so much to muster a semblance of dignity. It didn’t help that Ethan had closed an arm around her and had begun to smooth her loose hair and murmur softly near her ear. “Aye, you’re in for a hard time of it now, love. You wanted me, and now you’ll have me.” The comfort left her as weak and exposed as a newborn thing.

“You’re holding me too close,” she said when she was able, trying to pull away from him. “I’ll cause a s-secondary hemorrhage—”

His arm tightened. “I’ll decide when you’re too close.” A gently exploring hand moved over her back. She melted against him while he crooned softly and cuddled her. Soothering.

“I feel superfluous now,” West announced from the doorway. “I suppose it’s time for my exit. But first, Doctor, you’ll probably want to know that the patient’s wound was dressed and the bandage changed this morning. Still no signs of suppuration. We gave him some barley water, which he refused, and then we tried toast water, which led to increasingly violent demands for actual toast, until we finally had to humor him. He also made us give him tea to wash it down with. I hope that won’t cause any problems.”

“Has he harmed you in any way?” Garrett asked in a muffled voice.

“No,” West replied, “but he threatened me with a spoon.”

“I was asking Ethan.”

A faint smile curved Ethan’s lips as he looked down at her, his fingers twining gently in her hair. “I’ve no complaints, save for the barley water.” He looked over her head at the man in the doorway. Although his tone wasn’t what anyone would have called affectionate, it contained a note of cautious friendliness. “Thank you, Ravenel. I’m sorry for the way I behaved when we met before.”

West shrugged casually. “There’s family for you: ‘more kin than kind.’”

The quote snared Ethan’s attention, the motion of his breathing pausing beneath Garrett’s head. “That’s from Hamlet, isn’t it? Do you have a copy of it here?”

“There’s a complete set of Shakespeare’s plays in the library,” West said, “including Hamlet. Why are you interested?”

“Jenkyn told me to read it. He said it was a mirror to a man’s soul.”

“God. No wonder I hate it.”

Garrett drew back to look at Ethan. He was pale and exhausted, the lines of his face set in a way that she knew meant he was in pain. “The only thing you’re going to do for the next week is lie still and rest,” she told him. “Reading Hamlet is too much excitement for you.”

“Excitement?” West repeated with a snort. “It’s a play about procrastination.”

“It’s a play about misogyny,” Garrett said. “Regardless, I’m giving Mr. Ransom an injection of morphine now, so he can sleep.”

“‘Good night, sweet prince,’” West said cheerfully, and left the room.

Ethan closed his hand over the shape of Garrett’s thigh through the folds of her robe and nightgown, preventing her from leaving the bed. “No morphine just yet,” he said. “I’ve been out of my head for days.”

He was pale and exhausted, his cheekbones standing out in sharp relief, his eyes shocking blue. He was beautiful. Alive and breathing, and hers. The familiar private energy was coursing between them again, the invisible connection she had never felt with anyone else.

“Ravenel told me some of what happened,” Ethan said, “but I want to hear the whole of it from you.”

“If he made me out to be an evil-tempered shrew,” she said, “I’m not sure I would disagree.”

“He said you were as valiant and wise as Athena. He has a high regard for you.”

“Does he?” That surprised Garrett. “I’ve never doubted myself more than I have these past few days. Nor been so afraid.” She stared at him anxiously. “After you heal from the surgery, you may be left with slightly less strength and range of motion on that side. You’ll still be more fit than the average man. But it may take months before you stop feeling stabs of pain when you lift your arm. I know you’re not accustomed to any kind of vulnerability. If you should end up in a fight, and someone strikes the site of the wound—”

“I’ll be careful.” With a wry twist of his mouth, Ethan added, “The devil knows I won’t be seeking out any fights.”

“We’ll have to stay here until you’re stronger. You can’t go anywhere for at least a month.”

“I can’t wait that long,” he said quietly.

They both fell silent, aware of all they had yet to discuss, but agreeing tacitly that it could be set aside until later.

Tentatively Garrett slipped her hand into the front opening of Ethan’s nightshirt to make certain the bandage was secure. He covered her hand with his, trapping it against his warm, lightly furred chest. The silky-coarse hair, to which she’d given no notice during his fever, now felt acutely intimate as it brushed her knuckles, awakening a flurry of butterfly-tickles in her stomach. His free hand cupped the back of her head and drew her toward him.