Page 43 of Duke of Myste (Braving the Elements #3)
“ N o, Richard. Despite your best arguments, you cannot survive on brandy and stubbornness alone?—”
The whispered argument filtered through the fog of Jane’s consciousness like sunlight through the morning mist, the familiar voices weaving in and out of her awareness as she struggled toward wakefulness.
Her head felt as though someone had taken a blacksmith’s hammer to it, each heartbeat sending sharp waves of pain from her temple to the base of her skull.
What happened to me?
She was trying to piece together fragments of memory that seemed to slip away like water through her fingers.
She tried to move, to shift position in hopes of alleviating the throbbing ache, but her body felt strangely disconnected from her mind, heavy and unresponsive as though she were trapped beneath layers of thick wool blankets.
“Jane?” The voice was closer now, filled with such tender concern that it made her chest tighten with emotion. “Can you hear me, darling?”
Darling.
The endearment sent warmth through her despite the pain, and she forced her eyes open despite the stabbing pain that the gentle morning light streaming through her bedchamber windows sent through her skull.
Richard sounds so worried and frightened.
The argument between the siblings continued in hushed tones that carried the weight of genuine concern and growing frustration. And then sleep claimed her again, despite her best efforts to keep her eyes open.
Sometime later, when she woke up again, the first thing she saw was Richard’s face, tight with exhaustion and etched with worry lines that seemed to have appeared overnight.
His usually immaculate appearance was thoroughly disheveled—his hair falling over his forehead, his cravat missing, and his white shirt wrinkled as though he had slept in it.
Which, Jane realized as her vision cleared further, he had.
He sat in the large armchair that had been pulled close to her bedside, his tall frame folded into a position that looked very uncomfortable.
His head rested on his hands, which were folded on her blanket near her hip, and the awkward angle of his neck suggested that he had fallen asleep while maintaining his vigil beside her bed.
He’s been sleeping in here? Watching over me?
The realization sent a flutter of warmth through her that had nothing to do with her injuries.
But it was the small addition to this tableau that made her heart swell with tenderness.
Pippin, the spaniel Harriet had gifted her and insisted on them keeping despite Richard’s protests, was curled up in a ball right next to Richard’s elbow, his small back rising and falling with the peaceful rhythm of sleep.
Oh, my heart. Even dear Pippin is keeping vigil with him.
The sight of her stern, proper Duke sleeping beside her bed in such a disheveled state with a puppy as his companion struck Jane as so endearingly absurd that she felt tears prick the corners of her eyes.
This is not the controlled, distant man I married. He really loves me.
The effort of maintaining consciousness once again proved too much, and she found herself drifting back to sleep, the image of Richard and Pippin’s peaceful forms the last thing she saw before darkness claimed her again.
When she next awakened, the light in the room had dimmed, suggesting several hours had passed. The throbbing in her head had diminished to a more manageable ache, and her thoughts felt clearer, less wrapped in cotton wool and confusion.
“… absolutely refuse to leave this room until she wakes up,” Richard’s voice was saying, low but firm with the particular brand of stubbornness that Jane had come to recognize as his default response to situations beyond his control.
“Richard, you’ve been awake for hours,” came Harriet’s exasperated reply. “If you collapse from exhaustion, you’ll be no good to Jane at all. At the very least, just eat something, for heaven’s sake.”
“I am not hungry.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say, which is truly saying something, given your tendency toward dramatic pronouncements about duty and propriety.”
Jane could hear the rustle of fabric and the soft clink of china that suggested Harriet had brought food—food that Richard was apparently rejecting with typical masculine pig-headedness.
“Harriet, I appreciate your concern, but?—”
“Are you truly going to stand there and try to convince me, all while your stomach is rumbling like a mountain avalanche?”
“Do I need to make it my weekly demand?” Jane interrupted in a voice that came out considerably weaker than she had intended, barely more than a whisper that somehow managed to cut through the siblings’ argument like a freshly sharpened blade.
The effect, though, was immediate and dramatic. Richard spun around with such speed that he nearly knocked over the side table, his eyes wide with a mixture of relief and residual fear that made her heart clench with sympathy for what he must have endured while she was unconscious.
“Jane!” He was at her side in an instant, his hands hovering over her as though he wanted to touch her but was afraid she might break. “Thank God! How do you feel? Are you in any pain? Can you see clearly? Do you remember what happened? Should I call for the physician again? Perhaps we should?—”
“Richard,” Jane said softly, though even that small effort made her head pound. “Breathe, my love.”
Richard paused, his chest rising and falling with the rapid rhythm of barely contained panic.
Jane felt a surge of affection for this man, who had apparently spent the last day and night worrying himself into a state of near-hysteria on her behalf.
“I am all right,” she continued, offering him what she hoped was a reassuring smile even though her head felt like it was on the verge of splitting open. “Or at least, I will be. Though I confess I feel as though I’ve been trampled by a rather large horse.”
The weak attempt at a joke fell flat as Richard’s expression grew even more stricken. “Jane, I am so sorry. If I had?—”
“Richard,” Harriet interrupted gently, moving to stand beside her brother. “Perhaps we should let Jane tell us how she’s feeling before you begin apologizing for acts of God and natural disasters.”
Jane turned her attention to her sister-in-law, noting the way Harriet’s usually immaculate appearance also showed signs of strain and sleeplessness. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“Nearly two days,” Harriet replied, setting the tray she had been carrying on the bedside table.
“Dr. Whitmore said that head injuries could be unpredictable, but that your pulse and breathing were strong. He was quite optimistic about your recovery, though he did warn us that you might feel rather dreadful when you first woke.”
“Dr. Whitmore,” Jane commented dryly, “is clearly a master of understatement.”
She tried to sit up, but the movement sent such a sharp spike of pain through her skull that she immediately thought better of it, sinking back against the pillows with a soft gasp.
“Don’t try to move too quickly,” Richard advised, his voice tight with concern. “The physician said you need to take things slow for the first few days.”
“I’m fine,” Jane insisted, though the weakness in her voice suggested otherwise. “Just… hungry. Terribly, impossibly hungry.”
It was true. Beneath the headache and general feeling of having been thoroughly battered, Jane was aware of a gnawing emptiness in her stomach that suggested she hadn’t eaten in quite some time.
“Of course!” Harriet exclaimed, immediately reaching for the tray. “I brought broth and toast—things the physician said would be easy for you to digest. Here, let me help you sit up a bit.”
With tender care, she and Richard worked together to prop Jane up against several pillows, their movements so gentle and coordinated that Jane found herself marveling at how well they worked as a team when focused on her care, rather than their usual bickering.
The smell of the beef broth made her mouth water, and she reached eagerly for the bowl Harriet offered, only to pause when she noticed Richard had retreated to his chair and was simply watching her with the intensity of a man observing a miracle.
“Aren’t you going to eat as well?” she asked, noting the second bowl and plate on the tray.
“This is for you,” Harriet replied carefully, though Jane caught the meaningful look she shot her brother. “He has been… less than cooperative about seeing to his own needs.”
Jane studied Richard’s face, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the sharp angles of his cheekbones that seemed more pronounced than usual, and the way his clothes hung slightly loose on his frame. The man had clearly neglected himself while he focused entirely on her recovery.
“I see,” she said thoughtfully, setting down her spoon with deliberate precision. “Well, in that case, I’m afraid I’ve quite lost my appetite.”
“Jane,” Richard protested immediately. “You need to eat, darling. Dr. Whitmore explicitly said?—”
“Oh, I agree,” Jane interrupted, folding her hands over the blanket with the air of someone settling in for a lengthy negotiation.
“Eating is absolutely essential for recovery. Which is why I find it so concerning that my beloved husband appears to have forgotten how to perform this basic human function.”
Harriet made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh, while Richard looked genuinely bewildered by the sudden turn in conversation.
“Jane, this is hardly the time for?—”
“Harriet,” Jane cut in, turning to her sister-in-law with a smile that was part genuine warmth and part mischief, “would you be so kind as to bring another tray? One for the stubborn duke who seems to think that love means martyring oneself through starvation?”
“It would be my absolute pleasure,” Harriet replied, her eyes dancing with amusement as she headed toward the door.
“And Harriet?” Jane called after her. “Make sure to bring a large portion. He looks as though he hasn’t eaten properly in days.”