Page 99 of The Duke
“Is she breathing?” Rathbone’s voice deepened with anxiety.
Cole put his cheek next to her ear and held it there for longer than he needed before summoning the strength to lift his eyes. “Get a doctor.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
Imogen was tempted never to wake. In dreams she found what bliss had been denied her for so long. What might remain lost forever.
Cole, wrapped around her like a long, sinuous protective shell. Sharing his warmth while whispering soft, longing, unintelligible things in her ear.
Sometimes others would visit her dreams, would tempt her back to consciousness. Her mother, anxious and encouraging. Her sister, shy and tearful. Her friends. Dr. Longhurst with his short, pert directives. Argent’s smooth and sinister voice punctuated with Millie’s lively alto. Scottish brogues and soft words of support.
But thenhisdark presence would drive them away, and his shadow would settle upon her with a delicious intimacy. She knew it was Cole because even though God painted him with the sheen and strength of alloy, he was a creature of this place. Of the darkness.
And she was not. She wanted sunlight and bright colors and soft comforts.
But she didn’t want to leave him in the dark. And so she’d stay a little longer, as long as she could. Stayherewhere he’d say things against her ear. Beautiful, wondrous words she’d always fantasized she’d hear from him.
“I do love you, Imogen.You. Not your memory. Not Ginny.” A gentle weight would depress her mouth, and she’d feel such intense joy, but only for a moment.
Because that spike of pain would return, and she’d remember this was a dream.
“Wake up,” Cole would coax her softly, his hand a gentle demand against her own. “Wake up, Imogen, it’s time.”
“Must I?” she queried groggily. “Must I wake? Must I leave you in the dark?”
“It’s not dark,” said the dream voice, a little curtly now. “It’s day. And I need you awake so I can examine you. Can you open your eyes? Can you squeeze my hand?”
She did as he asked. Well, that was uncharacteristically sweet of him to offer to—
Imogen slammed into awareness. She’d squeezed his hand. Hislefthand.
Her eyes flew open and met the relaxed, gentle gaze of Dr. Longhurst, who was bent over her, framed by the familiar canopy of her own bed.
Bugger. She blinked away tears of disappointment, staring at the motes of dust dancing in the silver dawn.
“Welcome back,” he said, as gently as he ever said anything.
She tried to hide her distress, but she could tell by the twitch of concern on his brow she’d not succeeded.
“How do you feel?” he asked alertly.
She took stock of her body. Wriggling her hands and toes, tensing her muscles, testing her joints. “Other than a touch of queasiness and a very dry mouth, I feel fine. Maybe a little bruised on my shoulder.”
“May I?” He held up the stethoscope, and she nodded, submitting to his examination.
Finally, after he’d used almost every instrument in his bag but the sharp ones, he poured her a glass of water from the pitcher someone had thoughtfully perched on her bedside table.
She pushed herself up to sit against her mountain of pillows and accepted the drink. Tears stung her eyelids again, and Imogen wiped at a stabbing itch in her nose.
“Lungs are clear. Reflexes good. Skin shows signs of normal blood flow. Your pulse is steady, if a little slow,” Longhurst informed her, his eyes sweeping away from her apparent emotion as though it made him uncomfortable. “It is believed that when chloroform is lethal, it’s because it damaged the heart. But I’m confident that yours is strong.”
“Are you?” she whispered, trying to breathe through the cavernous pain in her chest. “I’m not so sure.” It didn’t feel strong. Only broken. Truly damaged. She’d known to expect devastation when all was said and done—when Cole had uncovered her secrets—but not this harrowing desolation.
Someone entered the room so violently, her bedroom door crashed against the wall.
Imogen started, gasped, and clutched a hand to her chest. Her heart certainly worked now, as it was thundering like an entire herd of galloping wildebeests.
And not just because of the startlement. But because Cole stalked to the foot of her bed, looming with a barely leashed, aggressive emotion vibrating in the air around him. He stood over her, dressed in only a rumpled white shirt and dark trousers, scanning her with sparking copper eyes. He reminded her once more of an archangel, possessed of such flawlessly rendered features that only those heavenly warriors dared to demonstrate, as no human deserved them.
