“I am positive,” she replied.
His father hugged him tightly around the neck. “I’m tired,” he said. His head nodded forward.
Garrett was an experienced yachtsman. He knew enough about the effects of the cold upon the human body. His father was seventy-six years old. He should not fall asleep.
“You must stay awake,” Garrett commanded, roughly jostling his father about in his arms to startle him. “Can you sing a song for me?” Garrett began to sing I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, and Anne quickly joined in.
“Come along, Your Grace. You’re not singing.”
The duke began to softly mumble a few bars while Garrett walked faster through the tunnels. The muscles in his arms were burning and his heart was pounding heavily from the exertion, but he pressed on, following Anne through the twisting corridors.
When at last they reached the chapel steps and he looked up at the brightly lit door at the top, he said to her, “Go on ahead of us. Tell Mother we found him, and that we need Dr. Thomas to meet us in the chapel right away.”
“He’s lost consciousness,” she observed.
“Yes.” Garrett gently set his father down on the bottom step. “Go now, and hurry.”
She carried both lanterns up the steps and disappeared into the chapel.
Garrett gently slapped his father’s cheeks. “Father, wake up. Can you hear me?”
The duke’s eyes fluttered open, but he gave no reply. His head nodded forward again.
“Dammit!” Garrett shouted. He shook his father roughly. “Stay awake!”
Realizing this was hopeless, and he could not wait for assistance, he scooped the duke up into his arms again and carried him up the stairs.
He did not stop when he passed through the door and emerged into the bright rays of colored light streaming in through the stained glass window. With swift, long strides he moved beyond the altar and down the center aisle past the choir stalls.
Anne had left the chapel doors ajar. He kicked them open and passed through to the outdoor courtyard within the cloister, and was blinded by brilliant sunlight upon the white snow. Still, he ran.
He burst through the palace doors and saw Anne and his mother running toward him with Dr. Thomas by her side.
Suddenly mindful of his muscles straining painfully, and fearing that his knees were going to give out beneath him, Garrett stopped and knelt down in the center of the great hall.
Dr. Thomas ran toward him. The look on his face, the expression, was familiar—so like his sister’s. As the scene unfolded in slow motion before Garrett’s eyes, he was strangely unnerved by it.
The doctor was there in an instant, taking the duke out of his arms. “Good work,” he said. “How long has he been unconscious?”
“Only a few minutes,” Garrett replied, struggling to catch his breath as he entrusted his father into the doctor’s capable hands.
“We must get him upstairs,” Dr. Thomas said. “Send for hot water, extra blankets, and warm tea. We’ll need to get a strong fire going as well.”
Garrett remained there overwhelmed by exhaustion, but even more by possibilities...possibilities that could explain so much.
Anne laid her hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
He nodded, then staggered to his feet to follow the doctor up the main staircase.
* * *
As Garrett sat at his father’s bedside clasping his hand, he couldn’t help but wonder why he was here at all, caring for the man who had always treated him like the unwanted bastard son that he was.
Nothing had seemed quite the same since his return. The duke was no longer the harsh and cold disciplinarian who ruled this house with an iron fist. Over the past few years, his mind had deteriorated and his body had shriveled. He was now a helpless old man who was terrified of being alone. Of dying.
Garrett understood that fear very well. He had seen it in the eyes of others.
The duke stirred and moaned. “Where am I?”
“You’re safe in your bed, Father,” Garrett replied. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“Would you like some tea?”
The duke turned his stricken eyes to Garrett. “Who are you?”
The question was like a knife in his heart. They had come so far, or at least he’d thought they had. “I’m Garrett. Your son.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue.
Those empty eyes filled with moisture, and the duke’s brow furrowed with misery. “Oh, my dear son.” He clasped Garrett’s hand. “I am so glad you have come home to us at last.”
Feeling quite sure that his father did not remember that he was not his true son—but grateful nonetheless that there was love in his eyes—Garrett dropped his gaze and contemplated the situation.