On a Wild Night

Chapter 18

Amanda's fingers clutched Martin's; his hand locked over hers. They stared up the road to the bend around which the coach had gone. Another shot rang out, hard on the echoes of the first, shredding the silence.

Martin cursed and clambered into the curricle.

"Reggie!" Amanda's eyes were wide.

"Hold on!' He glanced to make sure she had before slapping the reins to the leader's rump.

The team bolted, but he held them, steered the curricle at top speed toward the bend, checked only at the last minute to trot smartly around it.

Pandemonium lay ahead. The coach lay slewed across the road, the horses screaming, kicking, half out of the traces. The coachman, one arm tucked to his body, was hanging onto the harness with his good arm.

He saw them; face pinched with pain, he nodded at the coach. "The gen'leman…"

Martin halted his horses, swiftly tied the reins, then leapt down and raced to the carriage. Amanda all but fell out of the curricle, then she was on his heels. "Reggie!"

Moonlight played on one white hand, palm up, fingers gently curled, resting, lifeless, on the edge of the open window set in the carriage door.

Martin reached the coach. He lifted the hand, opened the door.

"My God!" Amanda stared past him at a scene beyond a nightmare. Eyes shut, Reggie lay slumped back, half on and half off the seat. All around him, black pools gleamed dully in the poor light. Blood. Everywhere.

"Watch out." Martin hauled himself up by the doorframe; he stepped over Reggie, then bent over him, pushing aside Reggie's cravat.

"He's alive."

Amanda's breath left her in a rush; she felt giddy but fought off her faintness. Frothing up her skirt, she grabbed her petticoats and started ripping. Martin grabbed the first long strip she pulled off. He'd untied his cravat, folded it into a pad; he bound it into place with Amanda's strip.

"It's a head wound. Looks like the ball hit him above the temple-high enough, thank God. It's ripped a groove along his skull but didn't lodge."

"But the blood." Amanda kept ripping and handing strips up; Martin used them to secure his makeshift bandage.

"That's the danger. Head wounds always bleed profusely." He tied a knot, waved aside her next strip. "We may need it later."

He straightened as far as he could in the confines of the coach. Amanda crowded the door; reaching in, she took Reggie's hand. Closed both her hands around it. "He's so cold."

"Shock combined with blood loss." Martin pulled down folded blankets from the rack above the seat. "Thankfully, you came prepared for Scotland."

He shook out one blanket and laid it over the other seat. From the door, Amanda helped straighten it, fighting to keep her lip from trembling.

Martin shot her a glance. "I'm going to lift him across, then we'll wrap him in the blankets. You stay with him while I help the coachman, all right?"

She nodded.

"You won't faint because of the blood?"

The look she threw him told him not to be daft. Martin read it with relief. He was going to need her help; hysterics, Reggie couldn't afford. He lifted Reggie, angling his body, an awkward maneuver in the limited space. The instant he laid him down, Amanda was up in the carriage beside him, shaking the second blanket out and tucking it about Reggie's still form.

He glanced at her face, saw grim resolution. Squeezing her shoulder, he edged past her and jumped down.

The horses were quiet, but the coachman was sagging. He hadn't been able to free the beasts, just calm them. "Mr. Carmarthen?" he asked.

"He's alive. Here-sit down." Martin caught the man, helping him to the rising bank, keeping one eye on the restive horses. "How's your arm?"

"Shot went right through. Missed the bone, thank God. I tied my kerchief 'round the hole. Painful, but I'll live."

Martin checked the wound; satisfied, he asked, "What happened?"

"Highwayman."

Straightening, Martin returned to the horses, crooning, soothing; he set to work disentangling their harness. He glanced back at the coachman. "Think back-describe what happened, step by step."

The coachman sighed. "He must'a been waiting for us-can't see how it could'a been otherwise. We came round the bend, and I saw him there-"

The man nodded; Martin glanced over the horses' backs to the entrance of a lane leading east. A bigger lane lay to the west; he didn't look that way.

"He was sitting his horse, calm an' patient. Couldn't tell he was a highwayman. He just looked like a gen'leman waiting for someone. Mr. Carmarthen had told me to stop there, so I slowed. The bugger waited'til we was almost level, then he reached under his greatcoat, came out with a pistol and shot me. No warning, nothing. Cool as you please."

Frowning, Martin unravelled a tangled rein. "What happened next?"

"I yelled, grabbed my arm and fell off the box. Then I heard the second shot." The coachman paused, then added, "After that, all I heard was the horses' screaming, and the horseman galloping away."

"He didn't come up to the carriage?"

"Nope. I'd have seen if he had."

"So he just turned and rode… which way? He didn't pass us."

"He went that way." The coachman again nodded to the lane east. "Just turned his horse and galloped off."

Martin considered the lane as he checked the realigned harness. "There's a shortcut to Nottingham that way." And from Nottingham, a good road that dropped back to the Great North Road, and thence south to London.

He returned to the coachman. "You're in no condition to drive, but we'll need you to keep Mr. Carmarthen from rolling around in the carriage."

The man let Martin help him up. "Sheffield's the next town."

"Unfortunately, it's too far for Mr. Carmarthen, and it'll be so late by the time we reach there, getting anyone to open up for us would be a feat."

The man grimaced. "Aye." He nodded to the carriage. "Will he be all right?"

"With luck, but we need to clean the wound and get him warm quickly." Martin glanced at the surrounding countryside, silent and empty. "The temperature here will plummet in the next few hours."

Having ascertained that the coachman's name was On-slow, Martin beckoned Amanda out of the carriage. "Onslow will watch Reggie while I drive."

Puzzled, Amanda scrambled out, frowning when he closed the carriage door on Onslow. "What about me?"

Martin led her to his curricle. "They aren't my horses and I've driven them hard. They're tired and reasonably biddable. Can you manage them?"

She stared at him. "You want me to drive them?"

"No. But it's the only way not to leave them out all night. It'll freeze before dawn and they've run for hours and haven't been rubbed down."

It was only then that Amanda noticed the temperature. She glanced around and shivered. "Where are we? Where are we going?"

Martin's already grim expression turned grimmer. "We're in the Peak district-it's high, so it's cold, and will get a lot colder through what's left of the night." He drew in a breath, his eyes meeting hers. "Reggie's not out of the woods. If we can tend the wound, keep him warm-with luck, he'll pull through. But shock combined with blood loss compounded by serious cold… we have to get him to shelter soon."

She got the distinct impression he was convincing himself, not her. "So where…?"

It suddenly occurred to her that he knew where they were. He confirmed it by nodding to the lane leading west. "We go that way." He grasped her waist, lifted her to the curricle's seat. She settled her skirts; he untied the reins and handed them to her. "You can drive a team, can't you?"

"Of course!" She took the reins.

"Follow a good ten yards back, just in case I have to stop suddenly."

As he turned away, she asked, "What lies that way?"

He didn't look back as he strode to the coach. "Hathersage." He took another two strides before adding, "My home."

In daylight, it would have been an easy drive; in fitful moonlight, every nerve was taut as she urged the tired horses along in the coach's wake. At least the lane was wide. It led due west, dipping, then rising, winding onward and upward between wood-covered hills.

They reached a river; the coach trundled slowly, carefully, across a stone bridge, then turned north. She followed, easing the horses along. Hired nags, they were not as responsive as she would have liked, but she managed to keep them plodding.

A village lay sleeping, scattered cottages standing back from the lane. A church stood at the end; as they passed it, she felt a rising breeze. Looked up, sensing a change in the landscape-and discovered the countryside open and spread before her. Rising up all around her. Twisting on the curricle's seat, she marveled at the towering cliffs hovering darkly over the valley, over the patchwork of fields and coppices, at the river tinkling softly beside the lane, moonlight reflecting in silver ripples.

Stark and dramatic in the moonlight, the scene would be even more impressive by day when it would be possible to appreciate the colors and the sheer magnitude of the wild expanse encircled by the massive bluffs.

The coach rumbled on. The lane dipped, wound around. Some sixth sense had her looking up, searching ahead… then she saw it. A house-a large, long mansion-stood halfway up the slope directly ahead, veiled in the shadows cast by the cliff behind it. The river curved westward; the road followed it, but she felt sure their destination lay directly ahead.

So it proved. Martin turned the coach up an overgrown drive; a little way on they passed through a pair of heavy gates left wide. The trees closed in, monstrous oaks and elms and others she couldn't be sure of in the night, a silent corps of guards watching their arrival. Leaves shifted; a soft soughing filled the trees, not frightening but gently mournful.

Otherwise, all was deathly silent.

She was accustomed to country estates at night, to private parks that extended for miles, yet the sense of emptiness here was profound. It touched her with a wraith's fingers, again not to frighten but to plead…

The drive ended and the house appeared before them, silent and shuttered-deserted. She could feel it. A short lawn lay before the house, rudely tended; a fountain and shrubs stood further down the slope, the remnants of a parterre to one side. The view back down the river valley was breathtaking even now. Wild, rugged, heartbreakingly beautiful.

Martin didn't stop before the front steps but followed the drive around the side of the house, into a large courtyard behind it. Reluctantly turning from the view, she kept the curricle rolling in the coach's wake, drawing rein so the horses finally stopped, hung their heads, a yard from the back of the coach.

She applied the brake, wound the reins around it, dragged in a relieved breath, and only then noticed how chilled she was. Her breath misted before her face; her gloved fingers felt frozen. She flexed them, then climbed down and hurried to the coach.

Martin had already checked the occupants; he was striding to the back of the house. She looked into the coach, received a nod from Onslow, then followed Martin.

He pounded on the back door as she neared the covered porch. There was no lamp burning anywhere. Stepping aside, she peered through one window, and glimpsed a spark of light.

"Someone's coming." She joined Martin in the porch.

"Aye?" came from the other side of the door. "Who is it?"

Martin opened his mouth, hesitated, then stated, "Dexter."

"Dex…" The sounds of bolts being drawn back reached them, then the door was hauled open. A wispy-haired old man stood holding a candle high, peering, wide eyed at Martin. "Praise be! Is it really you, Master Martin?"

"Yes, Colly, it's me." Stepping forward, Martin turned Colly and guided him back inside. "We've two injured men to tend. Are you the only one here?"

"Aye-just me. It's been that way since… well, Martha Miggs went back to her brother's farm, and I stayed on to keep the place tight."

A few steps had taken them through a small hall into a cavernous kitchen. Martin stopped; on his heels, Amanda stared. Cobwebs hung in the corners; only the area before the main hearth looked lived in. She blinked, then stepped forward. "We'll need the fire built up, first. Then we'll have to see about a bed."

Martin glanced at her. "This is Miss Amanda, Colly-I want you to do whatever she asks." Briefly, he surveyed the room.

Colly watched him, worried, fretting the knitted shawl he'd thrown over his nightshirt. "We don't have much to do much with, m'lord."

Martin nodded, his expression grim. "We'll have to make do with whatever we have." He turned back to the door. "Get the fire going-I'll bring in the wounded."

He left; Amanda went straight to the huge cast-iron oven. "How do you open it?"

Colly hurried after her. "Here-I'll show you, miss."

They got the fire in the stove blazing; at Amanda's suggestion, Colly set a second fire in the open section of the hearth as well. He was dazed, but readily followed her instructions. But if she didn't order, he dithered. Grabbing a cloth, she wiped down the deal table, the only place she could see to lay Reggie. She was arranging on its surface the cushions she'd taken from an old chair when Martin ducked through the door, Reggie in his arms.

"Good." Easing Reggie down, he nodded toward the hall. Onslow stood braced against the archway. "Close the back door-slide the bolts."

Feeling the icy draft, Amanda dashed to the heavy door, swung it closed and bolted it. Returning to the kitchen, she urged Onslow into a dusty chair. Colly was setting two kettles to boil. "We'll need more bandages." She looked at Colly. "Old sheets? And old towels, too."

He nodded and hurried off. Martin was inspecting Reggie's bandage. She checked Onslow's arm, then the first of the kettles hissed.

The next half hour went in tending their patients. Amanda washed Reggie's bloodied face and head, then Martin took over, gently probing the wound while she watched, hands clenched, knuckles white. Then he washed away the fresh blood.

"As I thought." He reached for the towels she'd stacked ready. "The bullet didn't lodge, but it was a near-run thing." They rebandaged the wound, then Martin went out and brought in their bags. He rummaged in Reggie's and drew out a nightshirt. Between them, they stripped him of his bloodstained coat and shirt and eased the nightshirt over his head.

Onslow, weak but still awake, was easier to deal with. Then Martin looked around. "I'll have to stable the nags. Can you see what you and Colly can do about beds?"

Amanda nodded. Martin left; she turned to Colly. "The first thing we need is light. Lanterns would be best."

He found two, but they were empty. Armed with a huge, seven-armed candelabra, with Colly on her heels supporting its five-armed cousin, Amanda started into the house. Both candelabras had been fully set with fresh candles; given the likelihood of those being the only candles available, she'd lit only two in each holder. So the light was soft and wavering as she ventured into the long corridor beyond the kitchen; it led to a front hall so huge the candlelight didn't reach the corners. An equally impressive staircase led upward, then divided into two. She started up. "Which rooms were last used here?"

"Family rooms-family wing's to the right."

She took the right fork in the stairs; the gallery above was deeply shadowed. The candlelight played over gilt frames as she headed in the direction Colly pointed, toward a corridor that appeared to run half the length of the long house.

The mansion was silent and still, like Martin's London residence but with one vital difference. This house seemed to breathe, alive but dormant, quietly waiting tucked up in holland covers. Although the temperature was lower here, the coldness in London had been more profound. This place had been a home, once; it was waiting to be a home again. There was a sense of whispers in the shadows, as if, if she strained, she would hear the echo of laughter and flying feet, of children's shrieks and men's rumbling chuckles.

There was warmth here, albeit in abeyance; the promise of life still lay richly upon this house. The fable of Sleeping Beauty occurred to her-the house was waiting for her prince to return and reawaken her. Lips lifting wryly at her fancy, she let Colly ease ahead and open a door.

"This room was always kept ready for the master."

Holding the candelabra high, she surveyed the chamber. "The earl?" It didn't seem large enough.

"Nay, the young master. Lord Martin. They was expecting him back anytime."

She crossed to the curtained bed. "They?"

"The old earl and Lady Rachel. Looked for him for years they did, but he never did come back." Colly rattled back the curtains, ignoring the cloud of dust. "Gave me a right turn, seeing him standing there, large as life. Too late for his lordship-his father, I mean-and her ladyship, more's the pity."

Colly fell to shaking the pillows and the covers. Setting aside her confusion, Amanda placed her candelabra on the bedside table and helped. The room and this bed would do for Reggie. Leaving Colly with instructions to get the fire going, she headed back to the kitchen.

Back to Reggie. She'd never seen him so pale, so lifeless, stretched out on the table before the fire. Their last words rang in her head; she swallowed and chafed his hands, but her own hands were icy. Gently, she brushed back a tuft of hair that had fallen across his bandage; her heart constricted-she forced herself to look around. To do something to hold the unbearable at bay.

Shock, loss of blood-how did one treat that? She'd never felt so helpless in her life. Tea-people always prescribed tea for everything. She rummaged through the few canisters standing on a sideboard, Colly's meagre provisions. She found the tea.

Martin walked in as she stood hovering over a steaming kettle, a spoon in one hand, the open canister in the other. She glanced at him, gestured helplessly. "I've no idea how much to put in."

He heard the wavering in her voice, saw the rising panic in her eyes. He crossed to her. "I'll do it." He took the canister and spoon from her, deftly measured tea into the kettle. "How is he?"

"Icy." She dragged in a tight breath.

"Did you find a decent bed?"

"Yes, but it's in the room Colly said had been yours."

Martin set the canister aside and dropped the lid back on the kettle. "That doesn't matter-it's a good choice. It's smaller than some of the other rooms. Easier to heat."

Amanda shivered. He glanced at her. It was no longer that cold in the kitchen. "Why don't you find some cups? We can all do with something hot."

She nodded, and went to the cupboards.

Colly returned with a pile of blankets. "Here you go." He handed one to Onslow, nodding in the chair he'd pulled closer to the fire.

Amanda set down the mugs she'd found and hurried to take a blanket and spread it over Reggie. Martin watched, then glanced at Colly. "Why don't you make up a bed in the room next to yours for Onslow? He can have some tea, then he should sleep."

"Aye. I'll do that." Colly left by a narrow stair that led to the rooms directly above the kitchen.

Martin poured the brewed tea into four mugs. "Here." He handed one to Onslow, who cradled it in his hands. "How's the arm?"

"Throbbing, but I'm thinking that's a good sign." Onslow sipped. "I've been hit before, years ago. I'll live."

Martin offered one of the mugs to Amanda. Eyes on Reggie, she shook her head. "No-it's for him."

"I seriously doubt he'll wake tonight-he's lost too much blood."

Her expression turned stricken; he drew her to him, hugged her within one arm. "He'll most likely awaken all right in the end, just not yet. Now-you need this." He curled her fingers about the mug; she shivered and took it, wrapped both hands about it and sipped, but her eyes never left Reggie.

Colly returned; Martin handed him the fourth mug, and they all sipped, standing before the hearth.

"The horses all right?" Colly asked.

"As well as can be." Martin looked down at his mug, swirled the tea. "Where are the other horses-my father's hunters, the carriage horses? What happened to them?"

"Sold. Years ago."

Martin frowned. His father had died only a year ago, yet the stables had been deserted for much longer.

Colly set down his empty mug and took Onslow's. "Come on, let's get you settled, then."

The pair headed up the narrow stair. Martin tugged the chair Onslow had vacated nearer the ebbing blaze, and drew Amanda to it. She sank down, but her worried gaze remained on the silent figure on the table.

When Colly returned, Martin nodded to Reggie. "It should be warm enough upstairs-let's move him."

Not an easy task. Reggie was slight, but he was no lightweight, and Martin didn't want to ask Colly to help; the old man was too frail. Balancing Reggie, Martin had to stop in the front hall, then again at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, but they reached his old room without catastrophe. Amanda rushed in and drew down the covers, pulling out the warming pan Colly had set in place.

Martin laid Reggie down; Amanda covered him, straightening his arms, brushing back his hair. Martin turned to Colly. "We'll need some bricks."

"I set some warming downstairs. I'll bring 'em up."

Crouching before the hearth, Martin built up the fire, noting the coal shuttle and woodbox were both full. The chill had left the room. Standing, he stared down at the fire, trying not to look around, see and remember.

He didn't begrudge Reggie the room; he doubted he could ever sleep here again. Besides, he was no longer the heir, but the earl-his room lay at the end of the corridor.

Colly returned with the heated bricks wrapped in blankets; they slid them between the covers, creating a cocoon of warmth around Reggie's inanimate form. Glancing at Amanda, tight-lipped, wide-eyed, nearly as pale as Reggie, Martin wished Reggie would stir, show some sign of life. But Reggie was still unconscious; the longer he remained so, the less good his chances. Martin saw no reason to voice that fact.

He dismissed Colly with a nod. "Get some sleep. We'll see where we are come morning."

Colly bowed and left. Martin glanced at Amanda. She'd sunk down on the bed beside Reggie, staring at his white face. It was long past midnight; they both needed rest, but he knew better than to suggest she leave her vigil.

"I'll hunt up some quilts and pillows." He picked up the smaller candelabra. Amanda didn't look up as he left the room.

In the corridor, he hesitated, then walked further into the family's private wing. Toward the double doors at the end, oak carved with the family crest. He stopped before them, seeing not them but visions from the past. Turning his head, he considered the door to his left; after a long moment, he stirred and opened it.

It was well over ten years since he'd last entered his mother's boudoir. All through his childhood, it had been a place of irresistible delight, a cornucopia of stimuli to his imagination and his senses.

The room was exactly as he remembered it, draped in satins and silks, in rich brocades and laces. No sultan's harem had ever been so blatantly lush. It was from his beautiful mother he'd inherited his wild and sensual nature, his tactile sensitivity, his love of color and texture. Closing the door, he raised the candelabra, looked at her escritoire sitting between the windows. He could almost see her there, writing some note, turning to greet him with that laughing smile that had been her hallmark, and her greatest gift.

She hadn't smiled at him that day; she hadn't believed him, either, or rather, hadn't known what to believe. She'd hesitated, hadn't immediately thrown her loyalty and support behind him, and that had been enough. Enough to bring life as she and he had known it to an end.

Slowly, he moved into the room, recognizing figurines, a clock, a letter opener. Breathing in, he could almost believe he could smell her perfume, weak and stale beneath the weight of the years, but still there.

Still evoking her presence, her smile.

He'd stopped blaming her long ago. He halted by the bed. The counterpane was of padded silk; there were silk shawls and wraps of the finest wool draped about the room. Cushions with silk tassels, pillows edged with lace; he gathered them all in the middle of the bed, then wrapped them in the counterpane. Picking up the candelabra, he headed back to Amanda. Reaching the door of his old room, he paused. All inside was quiet. Setting down the silken bundle by the door, he continued on, back to the gallery.

He knew the house intimately, like a second skin. He walked through the downstairs rooms and checked every window, every door, every place someone could effect an entry. His great-grandfather had built the house-he'd built it to last; a year of neglect hadn't harmed the fabric, had barely left a mark beyond the dust and cobwebs. Confident no "highwayman" could surprise them in the night, he returned upstairs. Opening the door to his old room, he heard Reggie blathering.

"You know, you look just like a young lady I used to know. You can confide in me, I'm quite safe. Do we-I suppose I mean I-have to actually have an interview with the Great Man? With St. Peter, I mean. Or is it the done thing to just swan in, assuming no stain on one's conscience? I don't believe I have one on mine… not really. Nothing too damning, y'know."

Reggie was twisting restlessly on the bed; as Martin closed the door and set aside his bundle, Martin saw him stiffen, straighten, then tug at the bedclothes Amanda was struggling to keep over him. Martin had seen Reggie make the same gesture many times, tugging his waistcoat into place.

"Truth is," Reggie went on, his voice lowering, "I always imagined he'd look like my old headmaster, old Pettigrew. I'm quite keen to see the old fellow." He paused, frowned, then amended, "St. Peter, that is. Not Pettigrew. I know what old Pettigrew looked like-well, he looked like Pettigrew, don't you know?" Reggie continued, but his words became harder and harder to make out, degenerating into a delirious mumble.

Amanda was silently crying, tears rolling down her cheeks as she struggled to keep Reggie from thrashing about, from disturbing his bandages. The mumbling continued, rising, then falling; Reggie continued to twist and turn.

Martin nudged Amanda aside. "Sit by the headboard and hold his head. I'll deal with the rest of him."

She nodded, sniffed, scrubbed at her cheeks as she scrambled up on the bed. Together, they made a better job of letting the delirium run its course while limiting the damage Reggie did to his head. And them; Martin had to lunge across the bed and catch Reggie's arm before he hit Amanda. As far as Martin could judge, he'd been demonstrating cracking a whip.

How long the attack lasted he had no idea, but it eventually subsided, and Reggie slipped once more into deeper unconsciousness. Martin gradually straightened, stretched his aching back. Amanda slumped back against the headboard, her hands reluctantly unbracketing Reggie's bound head.

"He thinks he's dead."

Martin looked at her stricken face, reached out, drew her off the bed into his arms. He hugged her, cradling her head against his chest. "He's not dead, and there's no reason to suppose he will be anytime soon. We just have to wait and he'll wake up." He prayed that was true.

She sniffed, then lifted her head and turned to the bed-as if she intended kneeling by it until Reggie regained his wits.

He held onto her. "No-you have to rest."

She turned huge eyes on him. "I can't leave him."

"We can make up a bed by the fire, and be close enough to hear if he starts rattling on again." He drew her with him, picking up the bundle he'd collected. "You'll be no good to him later if you're worn to a frazzle."

Amanda allowed him to bully her into helping him lay out the beautiful counterpane and build a bed of the puffy cushions and pillows, the shawls and wraps. She knew he was right. But when he tried to make her lie on the side closer to the fire, she put her foot down. "No. I can't see him from there."

He narrowed his eyes at her; the suspicion he'd intended just that, so if Reggie stirred, she might not hear and he could deal with it and leave her asleep, blazed in her mind. She set her chin. "I'm sleeping on this side."

She lay down on the side closer to the bed, settled her curls on the pillow and fixed her eyes on the bed. Hands on his hips, lips thin, Martin glared down at her, then, with one of his low growls, capitulated. Stepping over her, he lay down between her and the fire.

With his body screening her from the hearth, she should have remained cold, iced to the bone by shock and concern. There wasn't any warmth left in her. But Martin settled his chest to her back, curved his body around hers, slid his arms about her-and his heat enveloped her. Sank into her, gradually permeated her bones… until her muscles relaxed, until her lids grew heavy…

A strange noise woke her. A cross between a snort and a choke, a snuffling…

Then she remembered. Eyes flying wide, she looked at the bed. And realized what she was hearing. Snoring. Not from Martin, but from Reggie.

She eased from Martin's arms, stood and hurried to the bed. They'd left one window uncurtained; faint light seeped into the room. Reggie lay on his back-the snorting, choking noise was definitely coming from him, but he didn't seem distressed. The sound seemed too regular for a death rattle.

The lines of his face seemed relaxed, not slack in the utter blankness of unconsciousness. Daring to hope, to believe in the relief welling inside her, she put a hand to his cheek.

He snuffled more definitely, raised a hand, caught her fingers, patted them with his, then pushed her hand away. "Not now, Daisy. Later."

Turning away from her, he drew up the coverlet and snuggled down, frowning as he shifted his head. "You really need to get better pillows, dear."

Amanda stared. A softer, muffled snore emanated from under the humped covers. Another sound reached her; she turned to see Martin come up on one elbow. He raised a brow.

She gestured at the bed. "He's sleeping." Then it hit her; she smiled gloriously. "That means he'll be all right, doesn't it?"

"Yes, but it's barely dawn. Leave him to sleep." Martin slumped back down. "Come here." He beckoned sleepily.

After one last look at Reggie, she returned to their makeshift bed. Wriggling back under the covers, facing Reggie, she whispered, "I touched his face and he thought I was someone named Daisy. He said 'Later.'"

"I daresay."

After a moment, she asked, "Do you think he's still delirious?"

"It sounds like he's in his right mind, if a little weak."

She frowned, then Martin turned, and curved his body once more around hers. And she felt…

Her eyes widened.

"Now go back to sleep."

He sounded more disgruntled than Reggie. Amanda wondered… then smiled, closed her eyes and obeyed.