Page 66 of My Hero
His heart staggered. She knew.
He swallowed once more, wincing against the pain. His voice was little more than a rasp. “I’m dying, aren’t I?”
She glanced anxiously at him. “Are you awake?”
He closed his mouth and swallowed again. “Am I…dying?”
Her tongue flicked nervously across her lip. She set the basin of steaming herbs aside and busied herself wiping her hands on a linen towel.
Damn the wench, he thought.
With every last ounce of his strength, he seized her by the wrist and pulled her near, forcing her palm against his forehead, as he’d seen her do to the sick so many times. “Am I?” he wheezed.
Her fingers curled defensively, and she looked away. Then she clamped her jaw tight, as if she’d fought and won some inner struggle. She looked at him, directly at him, her eyes wild and fierce. “Nay,” she answered. “Nay, you’re not dying.”
She lied. He knew she lied. And, God forgive him, he loved her for it.
Chapter 16
The monastery bell tolled Matins. Cynthia’s eyes fluttered open in panic. Lord, how long had she dozed? The last thing she remembered was kneeling to pray. Judging from the stump of the guttering candle, that had been at least an hour ago. She sat up, rubbing the bed linen wrinkles from her cheek, and peered anxiously into Garth’s wan face.
He still breathed, but just barely. As the bell chimed, she bent near to count the feeble breaths whistling through his pain-clenched teeth. His gasps were so shallow, so far apart. He wasn’t taking in enough air to sustain a sparrow. Her weary eyes filled with frustrated tears.
“Nay.” Her voice was so raw with despair she hardly recognized it. She took his slack hand in her two and massaged it. “Please, nay. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. It’s just so hard to…” She bit her trembling lip. “I didn’t mean to leave you. Please don’t die. Please don’t…”
But Garth began to surrender to the formidable foe slowly draining the life from him. In the next moment, he ceased breathing.
Cynthia felt the life leave her as well. A horrible crushing weight compressed her chest, and for a long moment she could draw no breath.
He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. It wasn’t possible.
The room swam around her.
Garth couldn’t be dead.
His light dimmed as she felt the tug of sweet unconsciousness, blessed oblivion.
And then her lungs scraped in a harsh, deep, painful breath, and she was dragged back to consciousness, back to tortuous reality, like a drowning man cast ashore. And instead of grief, this lungful of air was rife with anger.
“Nay!” she groaned, her voice shaking with ire. “Nay! You cannot die! Do you hear me?” She shook his lifeless form. “You can’t!” Tears blinded her, but she continued to rail at him pitilessly. “Your family needs you, damn your soul! The monastery needs you! Wendeville needs you! I…oh, God.” She choked on the words. Grief once again threatened to claim her as she suddenly realized the payment God demanded of her.
Though it tore at her already tattered spirit, she quickly bowed her head over fiercely clasped hands and took a terrible vow over his ravaged body. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her heart broke in two as she murmured the words.
“Please, God, let him live. Give me the strength to heal him. Let him live, and I promise I won’t try to…change him. I promise…” Her voice broke. “I promise I’ll return him to the church. I’ll give him back to you. Completely. Forever.”
Garth felt his body floating in dark, calm waters. Memories of his boyhood pond in summer drifted over him as the waves closed above his head, blocking out the sun and leaving him pleasantly cool. Somewhere deep within, he knew he should break the surface, needed to, but it was so peaceful here, surrendering all care to the welcoming arms of the deep. The light dimmed above, the sun growing fainter and fainter until it was but a tiny white point, and then that, too, winked out.
Then something disturbed his rest, something merciless and insistent. It pulled roughly at him, wrenching him from serenity back up through the cold currents, into the screaming sunlight. A jagged breath rasped across his throat into his starving lungs. Lord, it hurt. His eyelids would only creak open halfway, and his tongue was thick and sour. His ribs ached, his belly was sunken with hunger, and his pulse beat with a dull throb at the back of his head. He wondered what army had marched over him. Just the thought of moving pained him.
His only source of comfort was the gentle hand resting atop his forehead. From that point of contact, a soft energy suffused him, soothing him, radiating outward to bring him ease. For a fleeting moment, as weak as he felt, he wondered if it was the touch of the angel of death. But nay, this was no cold bone claw. It was a hand of flesh, warm and supple.
With great effort, he strained his eyelids open to look upon his benefactor.
It was an angel after all—pale and haggard, aye, but an angel nonetheless. Lady Cynthia. Her tangle of hair sprawled carelessly over her shoulders. Her forehead was etched with despair, her closed eyes limned with purple shadows. Her lips parted over the silent words of a prayer. As he watched, a silver tear stole from the corner of her eye and streaked down her cheek.
Ah, nay—he couldn’t bear to see her cry, not over him. In all the long, exhausting hours spent battling the disease in the village, she’d shed hardly a tear—not when she lost a child or when an old friend slipped away, not when the villagers drained her of even the energy to stand. He couldn’t let her weep over him.
He sluggishly lifted his arm—it was as heavy as a Scots claymore—and reached a shaky hand toward her face. Resting his fingers on her cheek, he caught her tear on a trembling fingertip.
