Page 14 of As Many Stars
“Sit down,” Cam said, and put him into the more comfortable chair, with a blanket, with authority. Those big hands did more touching, affirming: squeezes to Blake’s wrists, and the nape of his neck; a light caress along Blake’s thigh, a cupping of Blake’s cheek. “Drink a bit of that willow bark tea. For the headache.”
“I’m—”
“You’re following orders is what you are. Being good.”
Another tiny champagne-sparkle, exhausted, went off somewhere in Blake’s head.
“Right, then,” Cam said, and made sure he finished most of that cup. “I’ll get you if I need you. Rest.”
Blake accepted that order because it felt good, because he was so weary, because he wanted to show that he could be good, he could do this right; and maybe if he could do that, he could wake up and be rewarded by the two men he cared about smiling back at him, Ash alive and healthy, Cam pleased; and they wouldn’t even have to say anything, because they’d be here and happy, and that would be enough.
Blake would be happy with that. Maybe they’d smile at him, or nod, and he’d be allowed to love every little gesture of it.
He put his head down, drowsy, floating in some half-awake state, surrounded by fire-crackle and the lingering presence of Cam’s order for him.
He did not sleep, not entirely, but he let himself drift. Perhaps when he woke that dream would be real.
Chapter 8
Blake woke feeling worse—thick and heavy and unfocused—but forced himself into alertness. He’d done it before, on rafts and boats, surrounded by dangers; he could do this now.
He was warm, under the blanket, in the chair. His neck hurt. He uncoiled stiffly. Mid-morning light spiked lances through his skull.
Cam—who’d let him sleep too late, that traitor—turned from Ash’s bed. “He’s sleeping.” Sleeplessness etched more lines around his eyes, his face; but his expression held the satisfaction of a physician who’d won a fight. “That fever broke, about an hour ago. Out of serious danger.”
Blake staggered over, tripping across blanket, relief, enervation, his own kicked-off boots. He joined Cam at Ash’s bedside, and took in the sight: healthy sleep, good sleep, hectic fever faded. Beautiful, so beautiful, a study in angelic gilt-tinged color against expensive creamy sheets; maybe never more lovely, given back to him, saved.
“I am,” Cam said, low, “a mite concerned about his lungs, how that sounded…I’d say he’s out of danger, but he’ll be convalescing for a while. No strenuous activity.”
“He likes books. He’s a scholar.” Blake touched the bed, the topmost blanket: water-sapphire against his own sun-browned callused hand. “He was a professor of classics—Oxford—until he inherited the title. Only sixteen months ago. This isn’t what he wanted; no one expected it.”
“And you were there for him.”
“No.” Failure, cowardice, and every book and every thrilling tale in his memoirs had been a lie. Because he’d bolted, rather than dance upon fire every time Ashley asked him for a story or looked at him or smiled. “I was away. Traveling.” Hetouched the blanket again. “I should have stayed.”
“You’re here now.” The paintbrushes of morning light drew attention to Cam’s height, the squareness of his jaw, the way he took up space without arrogance but with confidence. In the water-lily blues and golds and creams of the bedroom, he stood out: rich color, red hair with flecks of grey and emeralds in his eyes and that dark pewter waistcoat. Everything lush, vibrant. Commanding, but with tired edges: it’d been a long night. “He knows that.”
“He’d do it for me.” Maybe. Probably. Out of the love of a friend, the kindness of Ash’s heart. The room spun; Blake, dizzy, put a hand to his head. “Thank you again. You didn’t have to come, and—and what you did—I can’t ever repay you.”
Cam’s gaze swept over him, and abruptly that expression went from pensive to professional concern. “Are you feeling ill, yourself?”
“Do you think it was infectious?”
“You’re not coughing and it’d be quick for that. You’ve been traveling. When’d you start feeling ill?”
“I’m not. I never get sick. I—”
At that second Ash blinked, yawned, opened his eyes, and said, “Blake?”
Blake dove to his side. “Yes. Right here.”
“I feel…much better, I think.” Ash even found a smile. “Exhausted…like that herd of elephants you wrote about seeing, you know, like being trampled…but I’m better.”
“Good.”
“I didn’t tell you…I’d wanted to say…” His eyes searched Blake’s face. “I thought I was going to die, and I hadn’t told you this, and it’s important.”
“Hmph,” Cam put in. “You weren’t going to die. Not with me here.”
