The woman's voice was close to his ear. He could feel its warmth on his neck.

  "Damon."

  He wished he could stop shaking.

  "Damon, you're going to be all right. It's me, Gwyneth. Can you hear me?"

  Gwyneth? Gwyneth who?

  That gentle hand caressed his shoulder. Her fingers, sliding into his loosely curled fist, remaining there. The scent of peaches —

  Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms.

  A bomb exploded in his chest, shattering the last of the delirium that was far preferable to what he knew to be true — the truth being that he was indeed at Morninghall, and Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms was here with him, seeing him in all of his vulnerability, all of his weakness, all of his insanity.

  He parted his lips, and from a mouth as dry as sand, whispered, "Lady Simms?"

  "Yes, it's me, Damon. Gwyneth."

  Gwyneth. She was leaning far too close to him, too close to his soul, and the panic began to feed off of it.

  "You . . . survived," he whispered.

  "Yes, Radley threw me overboard."

  "Tell me . . . you're not hurt. I was so afraid that they . . . got you too. . . . So afraid."

  "I'm all right, Damon. Be still now. I want you to rest, not to think about what happened."

  "We never . . . got to finish what we . . . started."

  "We will. When you're better."

  But he was blind, and he could feel the sickness inside of him, could feel the powerful effect of gravity, of death, on every cell in his body. He wasn't going to get better. He was dying, this time for certain.

  "I'm not . . . going . . . to get better," he whispered.

  "Don't talk like that."

  "'Tis true. You should not see me like this . . ."

  Her fingers burrowed even farther into his loose fist, and in that awful quiet he shared only with his own heartbeat, he prayed to God that she would not go away; he wanted her to pull him up against her sweet, cool body and hold him, just hold him, because he was dying and he was scared.

  "If you think I'm going to leave you after all the worry you've put me through, I beg you to think again, my lord."

  She pulled her fingers from his and put her arms around him, one against his back, the other sliding beneath his neck and his throbbing, bandaged head. Her embrace, heartbreakingly sweet, tender, and loving, brought with it the panic, which came howling down at him like a storm out of the Arctic.

  No one had ever hugged him before. No one.

  He froze, stiff and scared and blind and unmoving, his heart pounding in his chest. The panic screamed and clawed for a hold. He broke out in fresh sweat, and nausea filled his stomach . . . and eventually the panic, in defeat, slid back down into the well from which it had risen. In time Damon became aware that his heart was no longer beating so hard, that the rasping, panting gasps that were his breathing had calmed, and that she was still leaning over him, her arms wrapped safely around him.

  The attack had passed. He had looked it in the face, stood his ground, and it had gone away. It had gone away.

  Oh, thank God . . .

  He relaxed, just a little bit. Maybe being held wasn't so bad after all. In fact, when she pulled back and took his hand once again, he missed her closeness.

  "I'm hurt badly," he whispered into the hot, smothering blindness, the words not as much a statement as a question.

  "Yes, Damon. You are."

  "How . . . badly?"

  "Only time will tell."

  He thinned his mouth, feeling like a child denied a piece of candy. Anger and frustration made him curl his fingers around hers, crushing her hand in his fist.

  "You're hurting me, Damon."

  Embarrassed, he immediately loosened his grip but dared not release her. If he let her go, she'd leave him just as he'd asked her to, for he had never been kind to her and she had no reason to remain with him. In fact, he couldn't understand why she was here now with him at all. Had she been there all the time he'd lain ill? He had a vague sense of elapsed time, a hazy memory . . . something about wolves. Still, he didn't want to be alone. He needed her. He wanted her close by, but he didn't dare tell her that. And he didn't dare tell her he rather liked being hugged, as well.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered against the pillow, and meant it.

  "I know."

  "I never . . . wanted to hurt you."

  "I know that too. Rest now. Get better."

  Outside, the rain fell softly, peacefully. He could smell the damp earth, the fresh-washed pastures that rolled out into forever, the mustiness of this ancient room in which he lay — and the light fragrance of the woman who sat beside him. He wondered if she knew he liked being held and hugged. He wondered if she knew how much he needed her. He wondered if the lilacs were still in bloom, and what she would have done if he really had broken one off that day in her garden and given it to her, and suddenly wished with all his heart that he had.

  He wondered if she knew that he loved her.

  There, that powerful knot of emotion squeezing his heart, the same one that had struck him when he'd gazed upon those lilacs in their vase and seen them for what they were, and he was suddenly glad she could not see his eyes — for in them were tears.

  Her voice came close beside his ear. "Can you take something to drink, Damon?"

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, the back of his throat aching.

  Slowly she pulled her fingers from his fist. It took all of his will not to tighten his hand around hers and trap her there with him, and as she got up, he squeezed his fist together and curled it under his jaw, trying to contain her warmth, her essence, that little bit of her.

  He could hear water splashing into a glass, the rustle of her skirts, the quiet thump of a pitcher as she set it back down on a table. Her arm slid beneath his head once more, and he felt the cold rim of the glass against his lips. She lifted his head, and the slight movement was enough to send nausea swimming through his belly and needles of fire shooting through his brain. They must've cracked his skull in twenty pieces, he thought, and suddenly he wished he had his Peterson's so that he could see what it had to say about skull fractures. Christ, he felt awful.

  "My head hurts," he said, faintly.

  "As well it should. Drink, Damon. Please."

  She was no Peterson's. She wasn't going to tell him anything. Too ill to be annoyed, he sighed in defeat, let the side of his head rest heavily against her arm, and opened his mouth. It was wine, thinned with water, cool and sweet and delicious. He took a swallow and felt it trickle all the way down to his stomach; there, it sat heavily and waged a war with itself as to whether it wanted to stay there or come back up the same way it had gone down.

  "You've drugged it," he murmured.

  "Yes. Laudanum. It will make you sleep."

  He was too sick to fight with her, and he didn't mind sleep, as long as she stayed with him and Mama didn't seek him out in his nightmares and he woke to find this woman sitting here beside him all over again, hugging him. He took another sip and listened to the rain outside and her quiet breathing as she sat beside him, and felt a deep, languorous peace stealing over him.

  Nice, he thought.

  Peace. Stillness. How strange it felt after living so much of his life in a state of churning emotion. How blessedly wonderful.

  Finally she took the glass away and picked up his loose fist once more, wrapping her little hands around it. She remained silent, and he wondered if she were quietly waiting for the laudanum to take effect, to drag him back down into that place where everything was nothing and nothing was everything and neither everything nor nothing mattered.

  "Lady Simms?" he whispered.

  "Yes?"

  He swallowed hard, gathering the courage to say what he must. "You . . . you won't leave me, will you?"

  She squeezed his fist within her hands, as though she knew how much it had cost him to ask her that. Then she lifted his hand to her lips, and he felt the fragile bones of her face beneath his knuckles, the cool silk of her skin, the feathery graze of her hair.

  "Not if you don't want me to."

  The laudanum was already washing in a fog over his senses, dulling them, muddying them, darkening them. He had a crazy vision of his skull, cracked and broken, and the laudanum leaching into his brain from all the little fissures, extinguishing it, extinguishing him.

  Tell her, before it's too late.

  "Do you wish me to leave, Damon?"

  Her voice came from far, far away. His body was leaden, and someone was lowering him on a great, swinging cot, down, down . . . down.

  "Damon?"

  "No," he whispered. "I don't . . . want . . . you to go."

  He fell asleep with his knuckles still pressed against her cheek.

  ~~~~

  "Toby Ashton! You in here? Come on out, damn your eyes, I'm sick to death of chasin' ye around!"

  The door of the forward garrison opened, admitting a sliver of light. Toby crouched miserably in a corner, staring fixedly at that widening slit. Since the prisoner uprising he'd managed to stay out of the way of the sentries who'd paced the deck and gallery, managed to avoid Foyle and Radley, managed to make himself as insignificant as he felt. The ship was charged with tension, and the guards, whose capacity for abuse seemed to have increased markedly since the revolt, were not inclined to be kind to a skinny, starving American, the sight of whom seemed only to disgust and annoy them all the more. They were not above laying their muskets across his arse if he didn't get out of the way fast enough — but still, working up here for Jack Clayton and doing an odd job or two was better than returning to the hell belowdecks, which was the only other fate open to him.

  The door was opening further. "Toby? Bloody hell, you in there?"

  He thought the voice was Clayton's, but he wasn't sure, and because he wasn't sure, he wasn't going to risk leaving his hiding place. Besides, the English all sounded alike. Well, all of them except for the dead marquess, whose speech had been polished, articulate, cultured, so different from the lower class guards who had served him. Poor Lord Morninghall. Despite that last, angry scene with him, Toby could not help but feel responsible for his death. After all, he'd been the one to tell Armand — admittedly, under duress — the details of Morninghall's schedule. He should've warned the marquess what they'd been plotting.

  But I did warn him! he reminded himself fiercely. I did warn him, and he would not listen!

  And now the marquess, his savior, the monster who had taken pity on him, was dead.

  Toby had no doubt about that. After the guards had finally contained the revolt, he'd watched them remove Lord Morninghall's body from the cabin. He'd seen his swollen, bloody face, the huge crimson stain on his snowy shirt, the slow drip, drip, drip of the blood across the deck as they'd carried him off the ship. Toby knew a dead body when he saw one, and if that wasn't confirmation enough, Foyle's satisfied smile as he watched this sad sight would have been, because everyone knew Foyle had despised the marquess. And the trail of blood was still there on the deck, now a deep, rusty color, like paint that had dripped from some huge and awful brush and left to dry.

  It was ridiculous to think that anyone would have cleaned it up. Lord Morninghall had been a fastidious and, when the mood took him, compassionate man, and had at least made an effort to make things better than they might've been. In hindsight Toby remembered how he'd had the decks scrubbed and doused with vinegar every day; how he'd set the windsails above to try and direct the breeze down into the dank and stinking hold; how he'd discovered that cheating contractor and might have exposed God knew how many more, had he only lived. And, Toby thought with trembling lip, how he tried to help me. Midshipman Foyle, however, in temporary command until Bolton could appoint another, was cut from an entirely different cloth than his elegant, well-bred predecessor. Since he'd been in control, Foyle had been lording it over the hulk like a bantam in a barnyard, bullying, swaggering, posing and threatening. Punishment and abuse were highest on his list of priorities.

  "Toby Ashton? Where the hell are you?"

  Yes, it was Jack Clayton, after all. Toby sighed with relief. The big guard had been like a watchdog, so devoted had he been to Lord Morninghall, and though he was stern, intimidating, and unwashed, there was a kind streak in him that Toby inherently sensed and trusted. He relaxed and moved hesitantly out of the shadows.

  Clayton immediately seized his elbow and pushed him back into the corner.

  "Now listen up, an' listen up good," he whispered fiercely, with a quick glance over his shoulder. "I got a message for you from the Black Wolf, but you tell anybody I gave it to you and I'll come back from the grave after they kill me an' murder ye with my bare hands."

  "The Black Wolf?" Toby's eyes widened in disbelief. "But how do you know about . . ."

  "Never mind, that don't make no difference an' I ain't got time to be explainin'. He's comin' for ye soon, and it'll be yer only chance to escape. Got that?"

  "Yes, sir. But when?"

  "He's waitin' for the ship to calm down. Radley's got eagle eyes, y'know."

  "I know. But how does he plan to get me out? I can't swim!"

  "Ye're goin' out in an empty water barrel when we send 'em ashore for refillin'. Broad daylight. Mind barrels, kid?"

  Toby shook his head slowly. "No, Mr. Clayton . . . I don't mind barrels."

  "Good." The guard straightened up, spat on the filthy deck, and nodded back toward the shadows. "Get on with ye then and stay out o' trouble, and don't let me hear another word about it, ye hear?"

  The door closed behind him, and all was dark in the room once more. Toby sighed and felt tears leaking out of his eyes. Nathan was dead, Morninghall was dead, most of his shipmates had escaped — or were dead.

  But Connor was alive.

  Brave, wonderful, Connor.

  And Connor was coming for him.

  Chapter 22

  Dour and bespectacled, Dr. Phineas MacDowell was about as cheerful as the Scottish climate that had bred him, with a grizzled head of hair that still showed traces of red in its wildly curling locks. Now, with the help of Britwell, the gloomy Scot heaved and struggled and managed to slide the Marquess of Morninghall's sweat-drenched body as close to the edge of the big bed as it could be moved without his tumbling off. There he turned him onto his left side so that his right arm hung over the edge.

  Bloodletting was a daily ritual, and Britwell's face mirrored his distaste for it. He looked down at his master, who was feverish and semi-conscious.

  "Are you certain that bleeding him is not doing more harm than good?" he asked as the doctor retrieved the pewter bowl he used for the treatment. "You know how Her Ladyship feels about it."

  "Her Ladyship is not a doctor," MacDowell grunted, pulling his lancet from his bag. "This is the only way to remove excesses and irritability from the blood, and I can't think of a better way to restore your lord to health. Now get me that bucket of hot water and stop questioning my skills."

  Sighing, Britwell did as he was asked and placed the pail on a chair next to the bed. The doctor reached for Lord Morninghall's arm; His Lordship swore weakly and tried to pull it away. But sick and helpless as he was, he was no match for the Scot, who was now forcing the arm downward and pushing the hand and wrist into the bucket of hot water to swell the veins. Fervently, Britwell prayed for Lady Simms to come back. She and her sister had gone out to the garden to gather a bunch of fresh flowers, and she was the only one who'd been able to intimidate the doctor out of performing this ghastly treatment.

  "Hold him down," MacDowell growled. "I can't do two things at once."

  His face tight with protest, Britwell steadied Lord Morninghall's shoulder as the doctor pulled his hand from the bucket. The fingers were still dripping water. MacDowell tied a tape around the wrist at the pulse, flexed the fingers back and forth a few times, and finally pulled them all the way back, exposing a vein at the underside of the wrist.

  "I really think —"

  "I don't want to hear it, Britwell. Can't you see your master's running a fever? Do you want him to die? Besides, he can't feel a damned thing anyhow; he's out of his head."

  And with that MacDowell touched the scalpel to the vein.

  But Damon, who was drifting in and out of the blanketing effect of laudanum, felt it immediately. He flinched and tried to jerk away, but it was no use. The doctor held him tight, and he could not fight the man's strength. He tried not to listen to the sound of his blood, trickling down his palm and into the pewter bowl. It was an alarming, awful sensation, as though his life itself were draining out of him, and he could already feel anxiety creeping in from the farthest corners of his foggy brain.

  "Stop," he whispered, but MacDowell, still chastising Britwell for interfering, did not hear him. "Please . . ."

  The anxiety was getting worse, beginning to affect his breathing now.

  "Please, stop . . ."

  Footsteps were coming down the hall.

  It was his savior, and he knew it the moment she was in the room.

  "Dr. MacDowell!" Her voice was like a thunderclap. Damon sighed in relief as he heard her storm angrily across the floor to the other side of the bed. "I'll thank you to stop that beastly exercise this very moment!"

  "Under the circumstances it's advisable, my lady —"

  "God gave us each a certain amount of blood, and if he didn't want us to have that much he never would've been so generous with it in the first place! Lift his hand and stop the bleeding at once."

  "But —"

  "Do it!"

  Swearing under his breath, the doctor raised Damon's arm. Damon felt the man's fingers biting angrily into his wrist, felt the warm blood trickling down his skin and into the inside of his elbow. His head felt suddenly faint, and he must have passed out, for the next thing he knew, there was only stillness, warm arms embracing him, and the sound of quiet weeping.

  It was Gwyneth, and she was crying over him.

  Just as he'd never had anyone hug him before, he'd never had anyone cry over him either.