Page 20 of The Duke
He’d endured, because despite whatever fresh terror the day would hold, the night would bring her…
Ginny.
A ridiculous name, really. Rather boozy and lowbrow, come to think of it. Didn’t suit her at all. The sultry, exotic waif with a riot of shimmering ebony curls. Eyes lined with dark kohl that sparkled like tiger’s eye gems from her porcelain skin. She’d been long, lean, and sinuous, but her grace and sensuality hadn’t been the practiced, come-hither seductions of most of the women in her profession. She hadn’t draped herself over him like a smothering blanket of perfume and sex, one hand on his cod and the other in his purse.No.She’d been wary and uncertain, like a baby doe he’d had to coax to eat from his…
Well, never mind from what.
On nights when the cold would seep deeper than his bones, into his very soul, he would remember how warm it had been inside her. How she’d clung to him, and buried her face against his neck. How she’d shuddered with release over him before he took her, those cat’s-eyes wide with wonder.
When his gaolers would cut him, would ask him questions he could not answer in a tongue he did not speak, creating reasons to torture him, he would detach himself.
And find her.
He’d go to her in that room, the room the color of blood, and he’d lie in her arms. Her small limbs, as delicate and feeble as a bird’s, somehow sheltering him from his pain. Her voice, a tentative whisper, would soothe him and sometimes strengthen him. He’d remember how fiercely she’d given him permission to grieve.
To feel.
Ginny. A prostitute. A creature of a cold and often brutal profession. And yet she’d shown him more genuine warmth than he’d been privy to in a lifetime. She’d been more than a whore to him that night.
She’d been a friend.
And during his year in hell, she’d become something indescribably more precious than that. Not a saint, per se, but a sanctuary. Her features—blurred by a dim lantern, makeup, and a bottle of whisky—were made even more opaque by time and tribulation. But the memory of her soft lips, her dark hair, and unparalleled touch had climbed inside of him. Had created her own place in a heart growing ever more bitter and bleak.
Ginny.He would find her, he vowed. He’d duck into the Bare Kitten out of the damp London night, and there she’d be. Her face would melt into a smile, because she knew he’d come for her. To claim her. To take her away from a life of objectification and mistreatment.
He’d only have to endure. To survive.
Today, hell was no longer a place, but a state of being. His prison no longer consisted of four walls guarded by unspeakably cruel men, and yet he remained confined.
Trapped.
He could have battled the blinding pain in his wrist. Pain had been a foe he’d vanquished well and often. He’d conquered all that threatened to destroy him. The despair of another sunrise lost to a place so foreign and cruel. The insidious fear that the world you knew had forgotten you in this place, and you no longer had a home. The horror and disbelief of looking down at a body that was once yours, and not at all recognizing it.
But the heat of fever had taken him prisoner, pulled him away from himself and thrust him into an inescapable delirium. Then, with the inevitability of mortality, the chills followed, seizing him up in such force, his bones surged and rattled. Reality became nebulous, and time a fabrication of madness, until the more he tried to cling to the memory of Ginny,his Ginny, the more she became a diaphanous specter.
His world had become a nothing but a gray cloud of pain. He would dream that his blood was turning black, tentacles of the putrid stuff sprouting from his apendageless wrists and reaching up to poison his heart. Agony consumed everything, the fever burned away all hope. All thought, dreams, or memory. Until he could no longer visit his sanctuary. Until he could no longer conjure her face. He gave himself over to the mist, melded with the pain, and ceased to fight.
That’s when she said his name.
She called for him through the cloying mist. Her voice followed by waves of cool pressure on his skin bringing blessed relief. She told him to fight, begged him to live, and a fire ignited inside of him again. Frantic, he reached for her. He desperately fought against a mire threatening to swallow him, immobilizing his limbs.
He tried.God,how he tried. How had she found him in hell? She didn’t belong here, but he couldn’t bring himself to let her go.
A male voice joined hers. Grating and unwelcome. Pain accompanied it and their voices became more frenetic.
Cole tried to snarl, to warn the man away from his woman, but he couldn’t summon the breath. A lake of fire and brimstone drowned him before he could summon her name again, and dragged him down into darkness.
***
Imogen spent three days with her heart palpitating so intensely she could barely function. So very much was at stake, and the anticipation of disaster overcame everything, driving her halfway to madness.
The only reason she retained her job was because she’d been right. During the emergency procedure, Dr. Longhurst found infection not only in Trenwyth’s muscle tissue, but also in his bone. He’d done what he could, but the fever still refused to subside, and the fear was that too much damage had already been done.
Trenwyth’s death would not only be a tragedy that could have been prevented, but also the impetus for so much more calamity. Dr. Fowler would have an excuse to be rid of Longhurst and herself, and he made it no secret that doing so would cause him extreme pleasure.
Men like him hated nothing so much as the proof of their own folly. Even though Imogen mentioned no word to the staff about his refusal to perform the procedure, he still pierced her with his repugnant glare whenever she was unable to avoid his presence.
Her nights became a blur of chaos and catastrophe. Anxiety and exhaustion made her clumsy and forgetful. Del Toro threatened that if she spilled something on one more patron, or broke another dish, he’d have to startchargingher to work for him.
