Page 62 of Vying for a Viscount
She stood, holding his hand, ignoring the tears streaming down her cheeks. The large, strong, and vital Greyson seemed to have disappeared, replaced by a sickly man with none of the vibrancy Greyson had. Her thoughts turned dark. What would her world be like if he died? Could she survive another broken heart? She had loved Rutherford, but that love couldn’t compare to the all-encompassing love she had for Greyson. Only two people filled her heart to near bursting—Simon and Greyson. Would the half that loved everything about him continue to beat if he no longer breathed? Could a person keep living if half their heart died? She would have to, for her son’s sake.
What would happen to his parents? His sisters? Who would take over his father’s title if he died? A sob escaped her, and she didn’t care. Charlotte brought a small chair to the bedside. “Sit before you fall.”
“Thank you,” she sobbed as she sank into the small wooden chair, never breaking the bond between her hands and Greyson.
“I’ll leave now and give you some privacy. Ring the bell if you need anything.”
Letitia’s eyes never left Greyson’s sleeping form, but she knew from the sound of her soft footfalls that Charlotte had left the room. Letitia continued to hold his hand and watch every twitch and subtle movement his body and face made as he slept. His breathing appeared labored, which she knew was due to his fever. Time ticked on, and she listened to the clock on the wall. Eventually, the sound faded, and all she could hear was his breathing and the rustling of the sheets and blankets as he moved. Once or twice, he shifted his injured leg and moaned in his sleep. The pain was obviously great if it penetrated his slumber. Even in sleep, his body recognized the injury.
Several times, Letitia was startled to hear her name escape his dry lips. Whatever he was dreaming about bothered him greatly, as he moaned and kept repeating the words, “Forgive me.” She had a feeling he was apologizing for something far more intense than the one lieshe’d caught him telling. Could it be about his involvement in the Black Knights? Another lie by omission. She had heard the reasons he’d claimed for his disappearances from both his sisters and himself. More lies, but she understood now his need for them. He couldn’t risk his life or the lives of the other Black Knights if their existence became widely known.
Because he was a member of the Black Knights, he now lay in bed with a dangerous infection and a wound that could very well end his life. His loyalty was admirable. She sobbed loudly again, bent forward at the waist, and rested her cheek on their joined hands. Her tears leaked onto their hands and the blanket. She would try her best not to think his lie would lead to his death.
“Don’t cry,” Greyson said in a hoarse voice.
She stopped breathing, waiting to hear whether he would speak again, confirming she hadn’t imagined hearing his voice.
“Letitia, please don’t cry,” he whispered, allowing her lungs to take in much-needed air.
“Greyson,” she gasped, lifting her head and wiping the tears from her eyes so she could see him clearly. When she looked into his dull, green eyes, full of remorse and plagued by pain and fever, she sniffed and smiled. Her heart sped up with hope. “You’re awake.”
His dry lips curled into a weak smile. “I am.” He used his free hand to cup her cheek. “Thank you for coming.”
She covered his hand with one of hers and leaned into his gentle, searing touch. “There’s no place I’d rather be than by your side.” Unabashed tears trickled from her eyes. “You’ve given everyone quite a fright.”
He licked his cracked lips and inhaled. His chest shook with the effort. “Not my intention. The Black Knights are the peacekeepers. We try to avoid shedding any blood.”
“So Knight has explained.” She quickly added, “We have been sworn to secrecy.”
“We?” he closed his eyes.
“Hunter and your sisters.”
“Hmmm.”
“The Black Knights have nothing to fear from us.”
He inhaled and exhaled, and she heard a rattling in his chest. She frowned. Had the infection spread to his lungs? Oh, dear God, lung infections were bad. Very, very bad. Clarice’s husband, the Duke of Stanton, nearly died when an infection from a gunshot wound spread to his lungs when he was a young man. It took him months to regain his strength.
She fought the panic that threatened to overtake her emotions. It wouldn’t do any good for Greyson to see her frightened. It took everything to control her emotions and remain calm. At least on the outside. “Do you need anything?”
“A drink.”
On the table next to the bed sat a glass of water and a bowl of what looked like broth. She picked up the bowl and spoon, then took a sip to confirm the contents. It was cold, but it would do. “I have broth for you. Can you lift your head?”
He raised his head just enough for her to give him several spoonfuls of chicken broth. He rested his head back on the pillows. “Thank you,” he said, sighing and closing his eyes. “Forgive me for lying to you the night I hurried from your house. I had no choice.”
“I know that now. Rest. I’m calling for the nurse,” Letitia said, rising from the chair and going to pull the tassel on the wall. Several moments later, a maid entered the room and curtsied.
“How may I help you, my lady?”
“Could you please send for Nurse Pendergrast?”
“Yes, my lady.”
The maid hurried from the room, and the nurse returned minutes later. By then, Letitia had returned to Greyson’s bedside, sat in the chair, and held his hand as he’d fallen back to sleep.
The nurse approached the bed. “Did he wake up, my lady?”
