“This better be good, Brent. Dragging a man out on a night like this—Hey, what’s this? Byrony.”
Saint’s eyes flew to Brent’s face, but Brent only shrugged.
“Maggie thinks it’s influenza. But she won’t wake up, Saint.”
Saint had at least half a dozen questions, but he
said nothing as he shrugged out of his coat and hat and tossed them and his umbrella into the corner. He sat down beside Byrony and gently pressed his palm to her cheeks.
“I’m going to leave now, Brent,” Maggie said. “We don’t want any talk, obviously. Call me if you need me.”
“Maggie, thank you.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on here, Brent?” Saint asked, not looking up.
Brent talked and Saint grunted.
“So your guess is as good as mine,” Brent said. He watched Saint pull open the dressing gown and lean his cheek against Byrony’s breast. “Lungs are clear,” he said. Saint was on the point of closing the dressing gown, when he suddenly stopped. He stared at her white breasts with their small pink nipples. He shook his head, bemused.
“What’s the matter?” Brent asked, moving closer to the bed.
“Leave me alone for a while, Brent. I don’t think my patient would appreciate you being here while I examine her.”
“To hell with what she thinks,” Brent said, but he did walk to the fireplace.
Saint pulled open the dressing gown and studied her. She was on the verge of thinness. He asked, “When did Byrony have her baby?”
“I don’t know. About six or seven months ago, I guess. Why?”
“Just wondering,” Saint said. If Byrony had ever carried a baby, he was the president of the United States.
“Pour me a shot of brandy, Brent. I want to bring her out of this.” What was holding her from consciousness? Shock?
Saint forced the rim of the glass between her lips and tilted it. She choked, and Saint quickly lifted her.
“Take it easy, Byrony. Here, drink a bit more. It’ll warm you up.”
Byrony heard a man’s voice, and forced her eyes to open. He was a blur. A stranger. He was touching her, he was going to hurt her. “No.” She tried to get away from him.
“Move, Saint.” Brent captured her flailing arms and brought her close to his chest. “Hush, Byrony. It’s all right. I promise you. It’s Brent. You’re all right.”
“Brent.” Her eyes cleared and she stared up into his dark eyes. “I’m sick,” she said.
“I know. Saint’s here. He’ll make you feel better in no time at all.”
He started to ease her down, but she threw her arms about his neck and held on tight. “No, please—don’t go.”
“All right, I promise I won’t go. I want you to lie down now. Just relax. That’s it. Close your eyes. Good girl.”
Saint said not a word. He measured out a few drops of laudanum in a glass of water. “Make her drink this,” he said.
He listened to Brent, his voice soft as he spoke to Byrony. He watched him gently stroke her hand as she drifted into drugged sleep.
“I’d say, old son, that you’ve a problem the size of a house.”
Brent forced his eyes from Byrony’s face. “I’ve got to find out why she ran away,” he said. “Will she be all right, Saint?”
“Yes. She’s a strong girl. I gather you’re going to keep her with you tonight?”