Page 76 of Mending the Baron's Sins
There was a firm bash to the underside of his head. Was that a step on the staircase? No, surely not.
If he had collapsed in the library, all of his staff would have been called to return him to his room and carry him safely to his bed. It had happened before, once, when he had first fallen ill. One man would surely not go to the effort of dragging Horace’s tall frame around the house.
Something is wrong…
Then the memory slipped away, and he returned to darkness.
The next thing Horace knew, he was burning again. Only now, the heat was all over his body. He tried to wipe his forehead, to free him of the sweat that was dripping down into his eyes, making them sting. The sweat was now on his cheeks too, but something batted his hand out of the way.
He rolled over on something soft and damp. Was that his own seat? Had it made bedcovers beneath him damp?
Someone turned him back again.
“Be still,” they urged in a firm voice. Something was pressed to his forehead, and the sheer volume of sweat on his temple was reduced at once. A cooling feeling spread across his face, but it was not enough to fight the burning consuming him from the inside.
What happened in that library?
In the darkness, he tried to recall. He’d had visitors from all sorts of people. Colm had made his usual checkup first thing that morning. Adam had come by to talk about the tenants. His housekeeper had checked on him too, bringing him one of Orla’s teas as she was out of the house today. Walter had also come by.
Walter…
He had still been furious. He’d demanded to see the contract that Horace had written up for Mr. Patterson to review. Horace had shown him the contract but refused to commit to giving his shares to anyone just yet. He needed to consider both Walter’s and Mr. Patterson’s offers. Walter had marched out, fury in his every step.
It wasn’t long after that when Horace had started to feel dizzy again.
He tried to sit up, desperately. He had to tell someone, to speak of what had happened, how this wasn’t right, how he had been doing so much better until that day.
“Shh.” a soft voice urged. “Aye, this will do you wonders, won’t it?” a jesting voice asked him. “Trying to get out of bed in this state? Lay down, Horace.”
Orla?
Was it possible he had died and gone to heaven? Was he hallucinating in his death that the angle beside him was Orla?
“Lay down,” she whispered, so close to his ear that the temptation of her lips near his ear was enough. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t reach out to her, but he fell back again on the bed.
Something was pressed to his lips a short while later. It was cooling, like ice going down his throat. Thankful for the cold, he reached out to whoever had given it to him. Someone’s soft and delicate hand enveloped his own.
“Orla,” he whispered her name aloud.
He could feel her close, even if he did not have the energy to open his eyes and see her.
“Orla,” he said her name again, with desperation.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “Sleep, Horace. Sleep.”
He fell back onto the covers again.
The next thing he knew, his eyes were slanting open. He could barely see. It was dark in his room, without a candle, and he saw another crystal glass being moved to his lips. Desperate for that cold liquid to combat the heat of his body, he took it from the person who had hold of the glass and downed it.
Only this time, it was not cooling. It was like drinking fresh fire. He tried to spit it out, but he couldn’t eject it. The burning water trickled down his lips, then fell back down again on the covers.
I’m not getting better.
He tried to hide his face in what had to be a pillow, but then lifted his head an inch, opening his eyes again in search of Orla. He needed her now, needed her power to comfort him, yet it was not Orla beside him.
Whoever had given him that particular glass was taller and broader in figure. They did not have the slight and delicate figure that he knew belonged to Orla.
Then he lost himself to darkness again.
