“Are you trying to tell me you’re not thinking of much of anything?” She pointed a finger at him. “Because that I will not believe. I know you far too well.” She waited for another response, no matter how small. She didn’t get one, so she kept on talking.

“You’re probably figuring out how best to maximize your corn harvest for the year,” she said. “Or maybe wondering if your rents are too low.” She thought about that for a moment. “No, you’d be wondering if your rents are too high. I’m quite certain you’re a softhearted landlord. You wouldn’t want anyone to struggle.”

He shook his head. Just enough so that she could tell what he meant.

“No, you don’t want anyone to struggle, or no, that’s not what you’re thinking about?”

“You,” he rasped.

“You’re thinking about me?” she whispered.

“Thank you.” His voice was soft, barely even audible, but she heard him. And it took every last ounce of her strength not to cry.

“I won’t leave you,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “Not until you’re well.”

“Th-th—”

“It’s all right,” she told him. “You don’t need to say it again. You didn’t need to say it the first time.”

But she was glad that he did. And she wasn’t certain which of his statements had touched her more—his two words of thanks, or the first, his simple, solitary “You.”

He was thinking about her. While he was lying there, possibly near death, even more possibly at the brink of an amputation, he was thinking about her.

For the first time since she had arrived at Fensmore, she wasn’t terrified.

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

The next time Marcus woke up, he could tell that something had changed. First of all, his leg hurt like the devil again. But somehow he suspected that wasn’t such a bad thing. Secondly, he was hungry. Famished, in fact, as if he had not eaten in days.

Which was probably true. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d fallen ill.

Lastly, he could open his eyes. That was excellent.

He wasn’t sure what time it was. It was dark, but it could just as easily have been four in the morning as ten at night. It was bloody disorienting, being sick.

He swallowed, trying to moisten his throat. Some more water would be nice. He turned his head toward the bedside table. His eyes still had not adjusted to the dark, but he could see that someone had fallen asleep in a chair by his bed. Honoria? Probably. He had a feeling she had not left his room throughout the ordeal.