Page 71 of Taken By the Broken Duke
“I'm not ready. I thought there would be more time. You have to hold on,” he whispered.
“I am just so tired, my love. I can barely hold my eyes open,” she said quietly, “please, just lay with me.”
Horatio held her tightly as though to impress into her body the vitality and energy of his own. During the course of their journey, his own weakness had faded after a day and a night of debilitating sickness. Juliet was glad. She wanted to feel safe and protected. If she was to meet her maker this night, it would only be from Horatio's arms. His body against hers would be the last thing she felt. His soft breathing, the last thing she heard.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Horatio fought sleep. Juliet slept in his arms but he feared that every breath would be her last. His own tiredness ate at his resolve, making his eyes heavy. The warmth in the room was like an embrace, soothing his senses and increasing his drowsiness.
Towards dawn, sleep finally overcame him.
He awoke with a start, sunlight streaming in through the room's tall bay window. Fear turned his insides to ice, halting his heart for a moment when he realized that he had slept.
Juliet lay next to him. She was pale and cold. With trembling hands, he touched her shoulder and gently shook her. She did not wake, but he noted the rise and fall of her chest. Pressing his fingers against her neck, he eventually detected a pulse.
It felt weak. Frighteningly so.
“Juliet!” he whispered starkly, “Juliet! Wake up. It is morning! We are here in Carlisle, the home of Doctor Alistair Carmichael.”
Juliet murmured, but did not wake.
Horatio wanted to shout, wanted to shake her awake, but he couldn't. She was too vulnerable, too fragile, and delicate. She was breathing, she was alive.Clinging to life. The weight of her survival rested squarely on him now.
He pressed a swift, desperate kiss to her lips before rising from the bed, still fully dressed. His driver, the same man who had driven him to Wetherby House, had been given accommodation along the hallway from his master. Presently, Horatio strode to his door, knocking sharply until he heard motion within. Moments later, the man answered, his hair disheveled and nightgown askew.
“Your Grace? Are we leaving so soon?” Graeme yawned.
“No. I am going into the town in search of Doctor Carmichael. I must ask you to stand vigil over Juliet. Watch over her until I return.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Like she was my own daughter,” he replied with quiet conviction.
He was old enough for there to be streaks of gray in his thick dark hair, with the ruddy face of a man used to earning his living out of doors. Horatio waited as he hurriedly donned trousersand a shirt over his nightclothes before following him back to the room he and Juliet had shared. Graeme took a solitary chair from the hallway and dragged it inside, before seating himself across from Juliet, his gaze steady on her pale, unconscious form. Satisfied, Horatio departed.
He hastened down the stairs where he found the innkeeper, Mr. Barstow, polishing a tankard behind the bar. He was a slender man with a fringe of pale hair and a bent, beak-like nose. When Horatio appeared, he dropped the tankard he had been polishing and rose to his feet hastily.
“Your Grace! I trust you and your wife had a pleasant night's sleep?”
“She did. Me, not so much. She is unwell and I am looking for a physician to consult. I have in mind a man namedAlistair Carmichael. Possibly a Scotsman, I can’t be sure. But he is resident in this town.”
“Yes,Carmichael. I am familiar with the name,” Barstow said, rubbing his hands on a piece of linen, “you are correct. He is a Scotsman. I believe he has a house and a practice on the Glasgow Road, beyond the walls beside the old castle.”
Horatio felt a surge of hope. “Can you direct me?” he asked quickly.
Barstow fumbled in the pocket of his apron and produced a stub of a pencil and a scrap of paper. He rapidly scribbled a map. Horatio scrutinized it for a moment, placing it againsthis memories of the streets when they had arrived the previous afternoon. He thought he could follow it. Reaching into the pocket of his coat, he took out a pocketbook and tore out a promissory note.
“I require a horse. Make this out for any amount and I will sign it.”
Barstow, to his credit, held up his hands to avoid taking the note.
“Your Grace, I will not take a penny from you for aiding you in your hour of need. Anything that this house can provide to your Duchess, you have it.”
“Thank you,” Horatio said, earnestly. He put out his hand and Barstow clasped it, eyes wide. “You are a good man, Mr. Barstow. All I will ask of you is to look after my...wife. Presently, my driver is sitting vigil over her, but he may require assistance in my absence.”
Barstow nodded resolutely. “My maids and my wife will help all that we can.”
Relieved, Horatio made his way to the stable yard, where a stable hand swiftly saddled a gray mare for him. With a brief glance at his map, he nudged the horse into a brisk trot. The early sun hung low over the eastern hills, casting their silhouettes in golden relief.
Not long after, he found himself on a gravel road that crossed a river on a stone bridge. Ahead, atop a grassy mound, was the ruins of an old castle. The town's walls crossed the river to join the curtain wall of the castle but only stone pillars remained of that section, standing proud in the water. Beyond the bridge was a number of houses whose gardens joined them to the Glasgow Road. Each was set in its own plot of land, separate from its fellows, screened beyond tall hedges and trees. Horatio could glimpse chimneys and rooftops above the trees. They were sandstone villas, the land they each presided over speaking of the wealth their owners possessed.
