“I like that Dr. Linley,” Holly murmured.
“I thought you would,” Zachary said dryly. “I nearly turned him away at the door when I saw his appearance. It was only because of his excellent reputation that I let him inside.”
“Oh, well…” Making an effort, Holly dismissed the subject of the handsome doctor with a feeble gesture. “He's moderately attractive, I suppose…if one likes that golden Adonis sort.”
Zachary grinned briefly. “Fortunately you prefer Hades.”
She made a sound that, given more breath, would have been a chuckle. “At this moment, you bear the god of the underworld…more than a passing resemblance,” she informed him. She watched his face, which was calm and self-assured as always, except that he couldn't conceal the skull-white color of his skin. “What is Dr. Linley's verdict?” she asked in a scratchy whisper.
“Only a bad case of influenza,” he said matter-of-factly. “With some more rest and time, you'll be just—”
“It's typhoid,” Holly interrupted, a weary smile curving her lips at his deception. Naturally the doctor had advised him to keep the news from her, to prevent worry from hindering her possible recovery. She lifted a slender white arm and showed him the small pink blotch on the inside of her elbow. “I have more of these on my stomach and chest. Just as George did.”
Zachary stared thoughtfully at his shoes, hands shoved deep in his pockets as if he were deep in concentration. However, when his gaze lifted, she saw the gleam of hideous fear in his black eyes, and she made a crooning sound of reassurance. She patted the mattress beside her. Slowly he came to her and rested his dark head on her breasts. Encircling his powerful shoulders with her arms, Holly whispered into the thick locks of his hair, “I'm going to get well, darling.”
He trembled all over and then recovered with startling quickness, sitting up and regarding her with a shadow of a smile. “Of course,” he muttered.
“Send Rose away to protect her,” she whispered. “To my family in the country. And Elizabeth and your mother—”
“They'll be gone within the hour. Except my mother—she wants to stay and help care for you.”
“But the risk…” she said. “Make her go, Zachary.”
“We Bronsons are a damned hardy breed,” he said with a smile. “Every time some plague or epidemic went through the rookeries, we came out completely untouched. Scarlet fever, putrid fever, cholera…” He waved his hand in the same gesture he would use to shoo away a gnat. “You can't make one of us ill.”
“I would have said the same for myself, not long ago.” She shaped her dry lips into a smile. “I've never been really sick before. Why now? I wonder. I nursed George all through the typhoid and never had a single symptom.”
The mention of her former husband caused Zachary to turn whiter, if that was possible, and Holly murmured contritely, understanding his terror that she would come to the same end as George. “I'll be all right,” she whispered. “Just need rest. Wake me when the broth is sent up. I'll drink every drop…just to show you…”
But she had no memory of the broth, or of anything distinct, as fiery dreams engulfed her and the entire world dissolved into swirling heat. Her tired thoughts tried to break through the shimmering hot wall, but they were battered away like moths, and she was left with no sense, no words, nothing but the incoherent sounds that rose endlessly from her own throat. She was tired of her own ceaseless droning, and yet she couldn't seem to make it stop. She had no power over anything, no sense of day and night.
There were times when she knew that Zachary was with her. She clung to his big, gentle hands and listened to the soothing murmur of his voice, while her body was racked with pain. He was so strong, so effortlessly powerful, and she tried in vain to absorb some of his vitality into herself. But he could not give her his strength, nor could he shelter her from the waves of fiery heat. It was her battle to fight, and to her weary despair she felt her will to recover fade, until all she was left with was the wish to endure. It had been like this for George. His gentle spirit had withered from the harsh demands of typhoid, and there had been no fight left in him. She had not understood until now how difficult it had been for him, and finally in her heart she forgave him for letting go. She was so close to letting go herself. The thought of Rose and Zachary still had power to entice her, but she was so tired, and the pain was pulling her irresistibly away from them.
It had been three weeks since Holly had become bedridden—weeks that would forever blend in Zachary's mind as one long interval of exhaustion and misery. Almost worse than Holly's delirium were the intervals when she was lucid, when she smiled at him affectionately and murmured concerned words. He was not eating or sleeping properly, she said. She wanted him to take better care of himself. She would be better very soon, she told him…how long had it been?…well, typhoid never lasted longer than a month. And just as Zachary allowed himself to be charmed and convinced that she truly was improving, she would sink back into her feverish ravings, and he was cast into worse despair than before.
It surprised him at times when a newspaper was occasionally placed before him along with a plate of food. After a few mechanical bites of bread or fruit he would glance at the front page of the paper, not to read but to marvel bleakly at the evidence that the rest of the world was going on as usual. The events in this house were catastrophic, soul-consuming, and yet business and politics and social events continued at their customarily brisk pace. Not that this trial of endurance was going unnoticed, however. As the word of Holly's illness had spread, the letters had begun to arrive.
It seemed that everyone from the highest social circles to the lowest wished to express their concern and friendship for the ailing lady. Aristocrats who had treated the newlyweds with everything short of actual disdain were apparently now anxious to prove their loyalty. It seemed that as Holly's illness progressed, her popularity climbed, and everyone claimed to be her closest friend. What a great sodding mass of hypocrites, Zachary thought sullenly, staring at the great hall filled with floral bowers and baskets of jellies and biscuit tins and fruit liquors, and silver trays heaped with messages of friendly sympathy. There were even a few callers, despite the contagious nature of typhoid fever, and Zachary took savage pleasure in turning them away. There was only one that he allowed inside the house, one that he had been expecting: Vardon Lord Ravenhill.
It somehow made Zachary like Ravenhill more for not bringing another useless basket or an unwanted bouquet. Ravenhill called unannounced one morning, dressed soberly, his blond hair gleaming even in the subdued light of the entrance hall. Zachary would never be friends with the man—he could not bring himself to forgive someone who had been a rival for Holly's hand. However, he had f
elt a grudging gratitude ever since Holly had told him that Ravenhill had advised her to follow her heart rather than adhere to George Taylor's wishes. The fact that Ravenhill could have made Holly's decision difficult, but had chosen not to, made Zachary feel a bit more kindly disposed toward him.
Ravenhill approached him, shook hands, then stared at him intently. The light gray eyes missed nothing as they swept over Zachary's bloodshot eyes and huge, gaunt frame. Suddenly Ravenhill averted his gaze and ran a hand over his jaw with several slow repetitions, as if considering a weighty problem. “Oh, Christ,” he finally whispered. Zachary could read his thoughts easily: that Zachary's appearance would not be so ravaged were Holly not in grave, perhaps fatal, danger.
“Go up to her if you want,” Zachary said gruffly.
A bitter, self-mocking smile curved Ravenhill's aristocratic mouth. “I don't know,” he said, his voice nearly inaudible. “I don't know if I can go through this a second time.”
“Do as you like, then.” Zachary left him abruptly, unable to stand the twitching pain in the other man's face, the flash of fear in his eyes. He did not want to share feelings or memories or platitudes. He had coldly told his mother, Maude, the housekeeper and any servant within earshot that if they resorted to fits of weeping or other displays of emotion, they would be banished on the spot. The atmosphere in the household was calm, quiet and oddly serene.
Not caring where Ravenhill went or what he did or how he might locate Holly's room without assistance, Zachary wandered aimlessly until he came to the ballroom. It was dark, the windows covered in heavy draperies. He shoved one of the velvet panels aside and secured it, until long shafts of sunlight scored across the shining parqueted floor and illuminated a green silk-covered wall. Staring into a huge gold-framed mirror, he remembered the long-ago dance lessons, the way Holly had stood in his arms and earnestly murmured instructions to him, while at the time all he had been able to think of was how he desired her, loved her.
Her warm brown eyes had danced as she had teased him: I wouldn't suggest applying too many of your pugilistic skills to our dance lesson, Mr. Bronson. I should dislike to find myself engaged in fisticuffs with you…
Slowly Zachary lowered himself to the floor and sat, his back against the window ledge, remembering—his eyes half-closed and his head drooped in weariness. He was so tired, and yet he couldn't seem to sleep at night, his entire being locked in suspenseful agony. The only peace came when it was his turn to watch over Holly and he could reassue himself every minute that she was still breathing, her pulse still beating, her lips moving ceaselessly as she floated through fragments of dreams.
After what could have been five minutes or fifty, Zachary heard a voice echo in the dark, gleaming cavern of a room. “Bronson.”