then.”
Algaria had spoken slowly and steadily. Heather took in her words, could find no reason to argue. She drew in a tight breath, then nodded. “All right.”
After one last, long look at the still figure on the bed, she turned and walked from the room.
She returned an hour later, washed, fed, and garbed in a soft, plain woolen gown a helpful maid had found for her, along with the knitted shawl she’d slung about her shoulders.
Refreshed in body she might be, but inside. . she’d never felt so frozen, so full of icy dread.
Walking into the sickroom, she saw the three older women bundling up sheets, the remnants of Breckenridge’s clothes, bloodied bandages, and basins of bloodied water. Despite their industry, their expressions remained serious. Hoisting their loads, they bustled out.
In the silence that fell, Heather approached the bed. Algaria was crouched before the fire, carefully setting more logs onto the blaze. The bedcurtains nearer the door and across half the bed’s foot were drawn, the better to ward off drafts. Passing beyond their screen, she looked into the now shadowed bed.
Breckenridge lay on his back beneath the covers, stretched out straight, his arms by his sides. His face was pale, the elegant but severe lines set, unmoving. His lips were a thin line, showing no animation at all.
His eyes were closed, his long lashes black crescents stark against the white parchment of his skin. His dark locks had been pushed back from his forehead.
He looked like an effigy.
Catriona stood beside the bed, arms folded, her gaze on his face.
Eyes widening, Heather sent Catriona a suddenly fearful, pleading look.
“He’s alive.”
The relief nearly brought her to her knees.
Catriona hadn’t looked up; she continued, “We’ve stopped the bleeding — you did well with that. We did the rest, and, Lady be blessed, the horn didn’t damage anything vital.”
“So he’ll recover?”
Catriona hesitated, then said, “He shouldn’t die from the wound itself. From that, he should recover well enough. Infection is the threat. We’ve done all we can for now. The poultices we’ve put on are the most powerful I know. We’ll renew them twice a day, every time we change the bandages. But in fighting infection, it’ll be his strength and his will that will turn the tide.”
Finally raising her gaze, Catriona met Heather’s eyes. “All we can do now is wait, and pray, and support him however we can.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Heather nodded. “I’ll be here.”
Catriona studied her for a moment — another of her sharp, seeing-beneath-the-skin looks — then she relaxed her arms and walked around the bed, with a wave indicating that Heather should take her place by Breckenridge’s head. “The bellpull is by the mantelpiece. Ring if he stirs, or if you need anything at all. Don’t hesitate to ask for help.”
“Or advice.” Algaria rose from the fire. She, too, looked assessingly at Heather, then nodded as if saying she’d do. “One thing to remember — belief is the key. It’s the one thing we can give them when they wake, when they stir, when in their delirium they’re searching. We have to believe. We must believe. We must convince them we do. Only our absolute, unswerving belief will be strong enough to anchor them, to make them believe, too.”
Heather looked into Algaria’s eyes — eyes that were old, eyes that were wise. Was she talking of life, or love? Or both?
Perhaps in this case, life and love were one and the same.
Raising her head, Heather nodded. “I understand.”
“Good.” Turning to follow Catriona, who, after watching the exchange, had turned and was walking from the room, Algaria added, “One of us will check with you every few hours, in case there’s any change, or if you need anything. He may not wake tonight, but as long as he continues to breathe, there’s no reason to suppose all is not proceeding as it should.”
Grateful for the reassurance, Heather watched Algaria follow Catriona from the room, watched the door close.
Then she looked at Breckenridge, lying so silent on the bed.
A straight-backed chair stood angled between the bed and the hearth. Drawing it to the bed, she sat, leaned her elbows on the covers, took one of his hands — so cold and lifeless — in hers, cradled it between her palms.
Willed him to live.
Ignoring the vast, chill emptiness inside, the devastating desolation hovering, she focused her mind, all her inner energy, on that one single goal.
He had to live.
Whatever it took, whatever she could do.
He was her all, her everything. She knew that now, believed that now — believed with her mind, her heart, and her soul, believed with every fibre of her being.
No matter what it took, she wasn’t going to let him go.
He didn’t wake. Not through that first long night, nor the day that followed.
Heather left the room, his bedside, only for minutes. Through the deep watches of the first night, she climbed onto the bed, and lay alongside him; she slept — napped — with one hand wrapped about one of his, just in case he woke.
He didn’t even stir.
The next day dawned gray and chill, with a flurry of rain hitting the windows. Catriona and Algaria were in and out through most of the day, assessing his condition, changing the bandages and the poultice they were using to draw the infection.
Heather helped; between the three of them they could manage his weight, could shift him, strip him, wash and cleanse, then bandage him up once more.
She spoke little; there was little to say.
To her eyes, the wound was cleaner, yet still horrific, a hideous tear through his side. Having seen the damage, she redoubled her prayers to God, to the Lady, to any deity who might consent to listen, grateful for his survival thus far, even more desperate for his continuing life.
Catriona and Algaria exchanged observations in low murmurs; Heather didn’t need to listen to know what they said. Their tones, their grave expressions, told her all she needed to know.
Breckenridge literally lay at death’s door.
When night came again, he yet lay silent and still. The manor quieted; Catriona came to check on him one last time before seeking her bed. After examining him, she straightened, sighed. Then she laid a hand on Heather’s shoulder, lightly gripped. “Have faith.”
Releasing her, Catriona left.
Heather sat on the chair beside the bed, her gaze locked on his face. Unbidden, her fingers rose to touch the rose quartz pendant beneath her bodice.
She did.
She understood now what fate asked of her — to have the strength to hold on regardless. To acknowledge that, even if he died, even if he left her, she would still love him until the day she died.
Love didn’t care. Love simply was.
Love was unconditional.
Love was for ever more.
She had faith in love. She believed in love.
She would love him in life and in death.
And if the chance came again she would convince him of that.
As the night closed around her, she closed her eyes and prayed.
His senses swam back to him, returned to him, yet not in the usual way. He felt. . detached. Distanced. Still a part of reality, but as if a thin veil separated him from the earthly world.
He was floating.
