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Violet awoke some hours later hot and restless and tangled in the linens and blankets from her bed. Her body and hair were covered in a slick of sweat that made her night clothes damp and uncomfortably clingy.

She twisted and turned in their confines, unsure where she was or why. She felt confused and hot. So very hot that her body burned in the sheets as she drifted back to sleep again.

When she awoke next, she was shivering, her teeth shaking from the cold. She curled into a small, tight ball, trying to keep herself warm. Her head felt untethered, as if her thoughts had to travel great distances to arrive at the forefront of her mind, and even then, they were muddled and unclear.

She tried to sit up in bed but found she could not.

When she shifted, the world careened in a dizzying spin that made her nauseous.

She lay back down, her teeth chattering, and stared at a single spot on the ceiling.

She thought if perhaps she kept her head perfectly straight and her gaze focused on that one spot, she could keep her mind clear.

She dozed in and out of fever fits instead, miserable and afraid for the rest of the night. At some point she lost the thread to reality entirely and couldn’t understand where she was or how she’d gotten there. Or why she was so, so cold.

Eventually, she heard the door open and felt a cool breeze on her hot face, as if someone had cracked the window. She didn’t know or care who was in her room, as long as they could help her.

Violet opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t find the strength to do it. All she could do was let out a low, soft moan. And then she heard the door close again and knew she’d failed. She was alone once more.

She closed her eyes and fell back into the delirium that was trying to overtake her.

Alistair opened the window and wrapped his face in linen as instructed, and then he paced back and forth like a caged animal while they looked for Jasper. He could barely drag his eyes away from Violet, sick in the bed. Her skin was sallow and pale, and her forehead sweaty with fever.

He longed to touch her, but he wouldn’t. He would follow her instructions; he would find the midwife. He would see her back to health. And then, damn it all to infernal hell , he would tell her that he loved her.

He’d nearly lost his brother with too much left unsaid between them. He would not make that same mistake with Violet.

“Violet Goodwin,” he growled to her, “you promised you’d take care of yourself. And you did not. You are not a liar, my love, so you must get better now.”

She looked skeletal and wracked by fever. On the verge of death herself.

Bloodyfuckinghell’steeth!

He would not have this.

“Where is the footman?” he roared from inside the bedroom.

He couldn’t even think of a world where he lost Violet before he’d made her understand what she meant to him. And what he meant to her. Because he knew and she didn’t. And it could not end like that.

Not until she knows.

He took a step away from the window, closer to the bed. His fingers wanted so desperately to sweep her hair from her forehead, to apply a cold cloth to her flushed skin. But he wouldn’t touch her. She’d given instructions; he’d do as she said.

“Violet,” he called to her instead, and she opened her eyes weakly when he did, but they were unfocused and confused and she quickly closed them again.

He took another step closer to her. “Violet,” he said again, this time in a soft whisper, hoping that his voice might bring her back. “Wake up, Violet.”

“Not another step.” The Marquess’s sharp voice arrived from the hallway. He’d cracked open the door to Violet’s bedchamber to speak with his Alistair. “You would be wise to leave this room at once.”

“No,” Alistair said, not even turning his head to his father.

Every inch of him was focused on Violet. He likely wouldn’t have noticed if the Queen herself waltzed into the bedchamber.

“We’ll call for the surgeon.” This from his mother now, who crowded behind his father in the hallway. “He will tend to her. Alistair, it cannot be you. You’ll put yourself in danger.”

“No,” he said again.

It won’t be anyone but me.

And the sooner they realized it, the better off they’d all be.

“Did you find Jasper? Is the midwife arriving?”

“Alistair,” his father said in a gentler voice than he’d ever heard the old man use before. “What is this woman to you? Is there some kind of obligation between you? One that might require a midwife?”

“No. Just bring the damn woman. If Violet wants the midwife, she’ll get the midwife.”

His voice was sharp, urgent. Whatever trappings of childhood he’d adopted when he first entered Rosehips had completely disappeared.

He was the naval captain now, used to command. And one accustomed to making decisions that could mean the difference between life and death. The last time he’d been faced with this decision, he hadn’t trusted Violet. He’d called for the surgeon instead. This time he would not be so foolish.

“We’ve found Jasper, my lord,” Jenkins called out. She too was now crowded in the hallway outside Violet’s room. “And his sister. They’ll be here momentarily.”

“Not fast enough,” he muttered and stalked to the door, closing it. “Go back to Darius and leave me be.”

He turned back to Violet. “You,” he said to her, “will wake up.”