What would happen if he became too ill to escort her to Scotland? What would happen if he died? Callista had thrown all her eggs into his basket. If his assistance was lost, she’d be once again at the mercy of strangers —or worse. The captain and his wife had been more than kind so far, but she couldn’t count on them once they understood the threat Mr. Corey posed. Captain Flannery seemed capable of handling any danger, but why should he bother when handing her over to Branston would be so much easier?
No. David couldn’t die. It was as simple as that.
Her fingers tightened on the curtain. Simple? Who was she trying to fool? She, better than anyone, knew death was never simple. And cheating it, impossible.
As if conjured from her worries, heavy footsteps sounded outside her door. Not Captain Flannery. He’d retired over an hour ago. She’d heard him pass her room. Heard a low, urgent conversation with his wife just before their door shut. So, this was David . . . Mr. St. Leger . . .
David.
The steps were slow but steady. They paused, and Callista felt her breath still in her chest. Would he come into her room unasked? And then what? Take her in his arms and kiss her as he’d done in the Fowlers’ alcove? The idea prickled along her skin and shimmied like lightning up her spine until she squashed it flat.
No, David might tease her with his banter and his quick, sly glances, but she knew, without quite knowing how she knew, that he’d never press his attentions where they weren’t wanted nor take a woman unwilling. He might bend rules, but he respected boundaries.
After a long moment, the steps resumed. Five . . . six . . . seven. Then came the snick of a latch and the quiet bump of a closing door.
She let out her breath in a whoosh of slumped shoulders before a frown pinched her mouth and a new more troubling thought burrowed its way into her heart.
How completely selfish could she be? David was ill, and it was her fault. She’d been the one to drag him into this predicament in the first place. He’d come to her rescue and she’d thanked him by bashing him over the head. She should have insisted on making sure he was being attended to. She should have asked after his welfare. For heaven’s sake, she should have thanked him—just once.
She’d done none of those things. No wonder she paced the room sleepless and guilt-ridden. She’d go to David first thing in the morning. As soon as she saw him, the first words to roll off her tongue would be
Satisfied, she lay down on the bed, pulled the covers up to her chin, and closed her eyes. Waited for sleep to catch up with her. But still her brain whirred like a top and David’s face hovered against the backs of her eyelids like an accusation. Apparently good intentions weren’t enough. She huffed a frustrated breath.
If she couldn’t sleep until she’d spoken to David and assured herself he was not about to expire, then that’s what she’d do. A niggling voice warned of what befell women who visited men in their bedchambers. Callista chose to ignore it. Despite her babbling justifications to Mrs. Flannery, it was obvious her reputation couldn’t sink any lower.
Before the voice grew more insistent, Callista slipped from her room, padded the few paces down the corridor, and lifted her hand to David’s door; stopped just before her knuckles gave a sharp rap. What if he was asleep? She didn’t want to wake him. She’d simply sneak in, take a peek, and, if he was asleep, leave. No harm done. No questions asked.
She turned the latch, cracked the door, and stepped a pace into the room, and stopped dead.
He definitely wasn’t asleep.
“David?”
He spun around, dagger gripped in one hand, the other fisted tight, blood oozing from a deep cut across his palm. By now pain chewed at his muscles and silver-blue flames crowded his vision. The last thing he needed was an audience.
“Dear gods, what are you doing?” Callista demanded.
“Swooning?” he said as his legs buckled.
Before he hit the floor, a shoulder propped him up and an arm came round his back to edge him unresisting down on the bed. “You’re burning up with fever. Is it the silver?” she asked. “Is that what’s wrong?”
He snatched up a cloth, winding it tight around his hand, and glanced down at his naked torso. Not that Callista hadn’t already seen him in every way, shape, and form, but somehow this was different. The silver’s poison was an external weakness. But the curse’s slow destruction was his own body betraying him. A death best endured alone.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m sorry,” she answered caustically. “Should I leave so you can drop dead alone?”
He winced as he shifted on the bed, putting a few crucial inches between them. “You’re the necromancer. Can’t you just fetch me back?”
“It doesn’t work that way.” She started to rise. “Should I get the captain? Perhaps he—”
“No!” David grabbed her back. “Let him sleep.” He drew a shuddering, painful breath. His strength waned with every moment he delayed. He needed to either toss her out or ask for her assistance, and he didn’t have the energy to toss her out. “Just hand me the . . . the cup over there. I don’t think my legs will carry me that far.”
She did as he asked, giving the contents a wary sniff before she handed it to him. “Ugh, what is it? It smells horrible and looks worse.”
“Life.” He brought it to his lips with a held breath. Sucked the contents dry. Then closed his eyes on a weary sigh. “Thank you.”
“That was supposed to be my line,” she answered quietly.
He opened his eyes and looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time since she entered his room. She was dressed for bed, the ribbons of her nightgown tied at her throat, the sash of her robe cinched tight. But her dark hair hung loose and shining down her back, her toes peeked endearingly from beneath her hem, and her Fey-blood aura shone under her skin like a lamp. Hard to reconcile this slip of a woman with the shadowy powers he’d experienced while trapped within her gaze. Even harder to reconcile his unexpected attraction to her. She was Other. He’d been taught from birth to despise her kind. To fear and loathe her magic. To kill or be killed. And yet something about her called to him in a way he’d never experienced.
“Did you risk scandal by coming to my room simply to offer your gratitude?” he asked.
She dropped her gaze to her lap and her hands threaded tightly there. “I couldn’t sleep. I was worried about you, and . . . well . . . I wanted to say thank you for all you’ve done.”
“Almost getting you gutted like a fish?”
Her eyes flew to meet his. “No. For . . . for not . . .” She paused. Drew a breath and started again. “For helping me escape.”
“Did I have a choice?”
Her expression seemed to close, any hint of what she was thinking wiped clean.
He tightened his bloody hand on the cloth. Already, the draught moved through his system, repairing, maintaining. He would not shift. He would not die.
Not today.
“Consider us even, Miss Hawthorne. Bloody hell, more than even, in fact. I still owe you one. You’ve a hell of a brutal swing. Give you a cricket bat and you’d be unstoppable.”
She offered him the makings of a smile before rising to pace halfway to the door, hands fisted at her side, hips swaying ever so slightly. He thought about calling her back, but he was tired, plague-sick, and what would he say to her anyway? He didn’t know, which was a first. Normally the witty patter came without effort. Not tonight. Not with her.
She placed a hand on the doorknob. Paused for a long moment before swinging around and returning. Surprised him by seating herself back on the bed beside him, legs drawn beneath her.
“Forget something?” he asked.
Her sharp gaze traveled over his bare chest before locking on his face. “You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
She frowned. “You know what I mean. Is it the silver?”
