She took a breath, trying to steady herself. Part of her wanted to run out of the room and beg Dr. Winters to remove his leg right now. If that was what it would take to guarantee his survival, then she would hold the damn saw. Or at least hand it over to the doctor.

She couldn’t face the thought of a world without him. Even if he wasn’t in her life, if he stayed here in Cambridgeshire and she went and married someone who lived in Yorkshire or Wales or the Orkney Islands and she never saw him again, she would still know that he was alive and well, riding a horse, or reading a book, or perhaps sitting in a chair by a fire.

It wasn’t time to make that decision yet, though, no matter how much she hated the uncertainty. She could not be selfish. She needed to keep him whole as long as possible. But what if, in doing so, she waited too long?

She closed her eyes tight even though her head was buried in her arms. She could feel her tears burning against her eyelids, threatening to burst forth with all the terror and frustration building within her.

“Please don’t die,” she whispered. She rubbed her face against her forearm, trying to wipe away her tears, then settled back down in the cradle of her arms. Maybe she should be pleading with his leg, not with him. Or maybe with God, or the devil, or Zeus, or Thor. She’d plead with the man who milked the cows if she thought it would make a difference.

“Marcus,” she said again, because saying his name seemed to bring her solace. “Marcus.”

“ ’Noria.”

She froze, then sat up. “Marcus?”

His eyes did not open, but she could see movement beneath the lids, and his chin bobbed ever so slightly up and down.

“Oh, Marcus,” she sobbed. The tears poured forth. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be crying.” She looked helplessly for a handkerchief and then finally just wiped her eyes on his bedsheet. “I’m just so happy to hear your voice. Even though you don’t sound at all like you.”

“W-w-wa—”

“Do you want water?” she asked, jumping on his broken words.

Again, his chin moved.

“Here, let me sit you up just a bit. It will make it easier.” She reached under his arms and managed to straighten him a few inches. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A glass of water sat on the bedside table, the spoon still in it from the last time she’d tried to give him a drink. “I’m just going to give you a few drops,” she told him. “Just a little at a time. I’m afraid you’ll choke if I give you too much.”