Page 37 of Deven and the Dragon
How the bloody hell was he supposed to simply sit and quietly eat his dinner, knowing Fiora was sick upstairs? When George was sick, Phina always sat with him, brought him soup, and fussed over his blankets. Deven wanted to do the same for Fiora — but would Fiora want Deven to see him not at his best, when he was so squirrelly about his appearance at the best of times?
And then there was the uncomfortable realization that while Phina cared for George, George wasn’t nearly so useful trying to do the same for his wife. Phina usually kicked him out of the bedroom and had one of the maids help her with what she needed.
Maybe Deven, with the best will in the world, was more of a George: likely to be clumsy and loud, and not at all helpful. Fiora probably thought so, anyway.
“Sir?” Fred prompted him. “You all right yourself? After getting caught in the rain?”
“Yes,” Deven said. Damn it, he had to bow to Fiora’s wishes. If Fiora didn’t want him, then — well, it hurt like hell, but it wasn’t Deven’s place to think he knew better. “Sorry. Just — will you tell Lord Fiora, if you see him, that I’m thinking of him? And that if he does want some company, I’ll be there in two seconds flat.”
“Will do, sir,” Fred said, and Deven headed upstairs to change into dry clothes.
That done, he retired to the library, pulling a book off the shelves at random and dropping into his usual chair.
He tried to read, but the unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach wouldn’t go away. He spent more time glancing uneasily at Fiora’s empty chair than he did looking at the pages.
Chapter Seventeen
Being cursedwas like being hung over, Fiora thought miserably, only it wasn’t something one could cure with a bottle of ale and a few sandwiches.
He curled over the basin of the loo, retching again, for the — fifth time? He’d lost count. There couldn’t possibly be anything left to come up. Even the bile seemed depleted, and Fiora was afraid his stomach itself might be next. He was dizzy, and his throat hurt, and he coughed when he wasn’t throwing up.
Deven had returned hours before, and presumably had received the message to stay away Fiora had given Fred. He’d hinted heavily that he didn’t want to be seen feeling ill, and hoped Deven’s respect for Fiora’s wishes would outweigh his worry.
Of course, that assumed Deven was worried in the first place. Deven could have charged up the stairs, demanding to see Fiora for himself, and possibly made a wonderful scene in which he declared nothing would keep him away when Fiora needed him.
Fiora didn’t need him, dammit. Another spasm hit his diaphragm, and Fiora retched again, a thin trickle of saliva and bile dripping down his chin. He didn’t needanyone. Oh, bother, miserable sodding bother, why did he wear his hair so long? This was awful. Fiora was too sick to get a ribbon to tie it back with. Someone ought to be holding it back out of his face.
WherewasDeven? Perhaps he didn’t care so very much after all, and only wanted Fiora when they could go to bed together.
Perhaps he was angry that Fiora had promised an afternoon of pleasure and couldn’t deliver.
After an interminable length of time, Fiora’s retching ground to a halt. Slowly, feeling like an old man with all his joints creaking and protesting, he struggled to his feet. His head spun. He rinsed out his mouth and tried to wipe down his hair with a cloth, but it was useless. Damp and still disgusting, he drew on his dressing gown and went to lie down in bed, his head throbbing.
Deven hadn’t even sent word. Andrei wouldn’t be so cruel as to intercept a message from him without passing it on, would he? Not when he knew how Fiora felt. So Deven must not have thought of him.
Fiora lay in his bed and wept as the rain pattered loosely against the windows and the gray light of the day slowly faded away. He was going to die as alone as he’d lived for the past five years.
He would never see his mother again.
The tears dried up at last, possibly because he’d lost every drop of moisture his body had possessed. His mouth felt like a desert.
Dinner must be over already, and Deven still hadn’t come.
Fiora dragged himself out of bed and rang the bell. He felt chilled, although it had been a warm rain and the temperature really wasn’t so low. Perhaps he’d have Fred light the fire. He sat down in the armchair by the cold fireplace to wait.
It wasn’t Fred who came in a few minutes later, though. It was Andrei.
He shut the door behind him softly and then leaned against it, his face haggard and drawn. Oh, God, what had happened? If Andrei looked like that, he must have dreadful news. He imagined Deven white and lifeless, bent at unlikely angles, lying cold by the side of the road with rain soaking his hair.
“Deven?” Fiora choked out. “He — God, did some accident befall him on his ride —”
“No,” Andrei spat. “No, nothing’s wrong withhim. More’s the pity.”
“Then what’s the matter?” Fiora’s head still hurt, and he felt too weak for a bloody guessing game. “Tell me straight. Or are you just — worried about me?”
“I’m worried about you as well,” Andrei said grimly. “But — I’m so sorry, my lord. I have something to show you. I can’t in good conscience hide it, and I can’t soften it. I can only be here to help you bear it, God help me. Your parents are well as far as I know,” Andrei hastened to add, as Fiora’s face reflected his terror.
As Andrei stepped closer, Fiora saw he had something in his hand: a folded piece of paper. A letter.
