Page 74 of The Duchess Trap
She shook her head. “No. You gave it a chance to live again. And if Henry…” Her voice faltered. She drew a sharp breath, blinking rapidly. “If he doesn’t survive, I’ll have failed them all over again.”
He turned toward her, his voice firm. “You will not lose him.”
Her eyes lifted to his, wide and wet. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can.”
“How?”
“Because you are the light that keeps this place alive,” he said simply.
Catherine went still. For a long, breathless moment, she just looked at him, disbelieving. Then her face crumpled, the first tear slipping free. He caught it with his thumb, the gesture instinctive. She didn’t pull away.
Her head found his shoulder again, this time willingly, and he let her stay there. Her breath came unevenly, brushing against his throat. Her hand tightened around his sleeve, as though anchoring herself to him.
Duncan lifted his hand, hesitated, then brushed it gently through her hair. The strands were damp, tangled from the long night, but soft against his skin. She sighed, the sound barely audible, and leaned closer.
He felt her tears soak into his coat, and the feeling was followed by a swell of something else—some emotion he had trouble describing.
“Sleep,” he said softly. “I’ll watch him.”
Her answer was muffled against his chest. “No.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll fall asleep too.”
“I won’t.”
“You always think you’re stronger than you are.”
He almost laughed at that. “I could say the same of you.”
Her lips curved faintly against his shoulder, a ghost of a smile. “We’re both wrong, then.”
“Likely.”
They sat in silence. The room was dim, the candle guttering low, the air heavy with the scent of rain and fever.
Henry’s breathing had steadied; each soft exhale was a fragile promise.
Duncan’s arm ached from holding still, but he didn’t move. He could feel her heartbeat against his side, quick and uneven. The sound of it pulled at something deep in him, something he had spent years keeping buried.
Perhaps Catherine had found his heart tonight, without even trying.
CHAPTER 22
“He’s cooler.” The words came softly, tremulously, almost disbelievingly.
Duncan blinked against the dim grey of early light and looked down. Catherine’s hand was still beneath his, their fingers entwined on the edge of the coverlet. He had not realized how tightly he’d been holding her until now.
She let go of his hand then and shifted closer to the bed, brushing Henry’s hair back with trembling fingers.
“Duncan,” she whispered, her voice unsteady, “feel.”
He did. The boy’s skin was no longer burning but damp with the faint sheen of sweat…
The fever had broken. The small chest rose and fell at a steady rhythm.
