The Duke I'm Going to Marry(67)

“May I hold his hand?” She spoke against his throat, her lips achingly soft against his bristled skin. He hadn’t washed off the dirt from the long day’s ride, and wouldn’t shave until morning.

He settled her on the bench nearest Abner, almost dumping her on it, for his need to hold her was so strong it scared him. “May I?” she repeated, now casting him a devastatingly anguished plea.

“Of course.” Ian recalled the gentleness of her touch and how much he’d enjoyed having her close when he’d been stabbed and struggling to survive all those months ago. Dillie’s touch was something special and had meant everything to him at the time.

“Abner,” she said in a whisper, gently stroking his arm.

He didn’t respond.

She glanced uncertainly at Ian. “What have I done to him?”

“You?” Ian knelt beside her and lightly brushed a damp curl off her brow. “This isn’t your fault, Dillie. You were caught in a vicious storm. No one’s to blame.”

“I am to blame,” she quietly insisted. “It’s all my fault. I was so stubborn. So foolish. Will he die because of me?”

“No.” A lump rose in Ian’s throat. Those were the exact words he’d said after he and his brother had been pulled out of the icy pond and taken back to the manor. James had been revived and was breathing when put to bed. Later that evening, his mother had come into Ian’s room and stared at him with unmasked hatred, as though she wished he’d been the one trapped beneath the ice and not her precious firstborn. Will he die because of me? The answer had been yes. James had died later that night. “No, damn it!”

If Dillie was surprised by the vehemence of his response, she didn’t show it. Instead, she reached for Abner’s hand and squeezed it. “You have a broken leg,” she said in that soft, melodic voice of hers. “And a fat lump on your forehead.” She leaned forward. “It matches mine. See?”

Abner lay quiet.

She glanced once more at Ian, her expression swinging like a pendulum from anguish to despondency. “He can’t die.” Tears began to slide down her cheeks. “I couldn’t live with myself if he did.”

Ian wasn’t going to let it happen. Abner was going to live. He would make certain of it. Dillie was happy, gentle. He refused to allow any darkness into her life, refused to allow her to experience the pain he’d endured when his brother had died, the haunting pain he still endured every damn day of his life, the tormented dreams that came to him every damn night. Sunrise did not bring relief, but the anguished reminder that he had lived another day while his brother had died.

It wouldn’t happen to Dillie.

Mr. Gwynne returned with a makeshift splint. The maid brought in fresh cloths and boiling water. Ian attended to Abner with renewed determination. He made quick work of binding his leg, and then ordered the innkeeper’s servants to carry Abner upstairs. “Get him out of those wet clothes. Cut his trousers off him. I don’t want you disturbing the injured leg. Place a warm brick between his sheets. Keep his fire well stoked.”

“I’ll stay by his side,” Dillie said, her voice little more than a rasp.

Ian frowned. “No. You need to get into bed yourself. Have you had your broth? Your lips are still blue.”

“I’m in the pink.” She shivered just then, but did her best to hide it.

“And your ankle is a vivid shade of purple,” he replied, since they were sparring with colorful descriptions. “Come on, I’ll carry you upstairs. You can look in on Abner in the morning. There’s nothing you can do for him this evening.”

“Is he that bad?”

Ian wanted to lie to her and tell her Abner would pull through, but that would only make her devastation worse if he didn’t. In truth, Ian didn’t know what the outcome would be.

“Let me stay with him if he’s going to die.” She let out a ragged breath, and then buried her face in her hands and began to cry in earnest.

Hell.

He turned to Abner, studying his limp form. Open your eyes, damn it! Don’t do this to Dillie.

He glanced up at the ceiling, wanting to rage. He had prayed so hard for his brother to survive all those years ago. His prayers hadn’t been answered, so he’d stopped praying from that time on, and stopped believing in goodness and hope. But Dillie still believed. Answer her prayers! You can’t destroy her. Do what you want with me. Don’t hurt her.

The servants carefully lifted Abner, preparing to carry him upstairs.

Ian took Dillie into his arms and kissed her on the forehead when she buried her head against his throat, still crying. Which explained why she didn’t immediately hear Abner call out to her. It sounded more like a mumbled groan, at first. “Miss... Miss Di... Dillie.”