They had to dunk him twice more before midnight.

After the clocks throughout the manor tolled that hour, with Breckenridge once more lying on the bed covered only by the damp sheet, Heather sat on the chair by his side, his hand again in hers, and watched him sleep.

On the other side of the bed, seated in a rocker with a warm shawl wrapped about her, Catriona kept watch, too.

In the quiet, in the silence, Heather finally found courage to voice the question that had hovered in her mind all day. “Why hasn’t he woken?”

Catriona, her gaze on Breckenridge, too, rocked, then softly said, “I think it’s because of the amount of blood he lost. Not enough to kill, but enough to. . make him hibernate might be nearest the truth. That, and the infection on top of it.” Without taking her eyes from him, she went on, “The mind and body have ways of protecting themselves — the mind especially can send the body into this type of hibernating state, not true unconsciousness but a deep, deep sleep, so it can more effectively heal.”

Raising a hand to resettle her shawl, Catriona flicked a glance Heather’s way. “I don’t see him not waking as a bad sign — not yet. It might, in fact, be the opposite, an indication that his body is coping as it should and he’s healing. The fever itself is a sign that his body is fighting the infection.”

Heather nodded. The words were a comfort; she held them close.

Catriona reached out and laid her fingers on Breckenridge’s wrist. After a moment, she sat back again. “His pulse is still steady. Not as strong as I’d like, but there’s no hint it’s weakening, and at the moment his temperature is good. However, fevers being as fevers are, I’d expect his to rise again before morning.”

Settling in the chair, flicking the shawl across her shoulders, she caught Heather’s gaze. “I suggest we take turns getting some sleep. One of us needs to be awake in case his temperature spikes — as I expect — or alternatively if it goes the other way and he starts to shiver.” Closing her eyes, she wriggled down in the chair. “If he does start to shiver, or gets too hot again, wake me immediately.”

“All right.” Heather leaned on the bed, Breckenridge’s hand between hers, and settled to watch him through the night.

After two hours, Catriona woke and insisted Heather needed to rest. Heather knew better than to argue; laying her head down on the bed, she closed her eyes.

Sometime later, Catriona shook her awake. Heather blinked, focused. It was still night. And under her palm, Breckenridge’s hand was burning.

“We have to cool him down again.” Catriona urged her up and to the side.

Heather stood and moved out of the way, blinking in surprise to find Richard and the other men back again. They’d already refilled the bath with fresh ice.

They repeated what was now a well-rehearsed process.

Once Breckenridge was back on the bed, his skin cold and damp, and Richard and the other men had retired once more, Heather sank back into the chair.

Standing opposite, Catriona took Breckenridge’s pulse, then she glanced at Heather. “I’m going to return to my own bed. His temperature shouldn’t rise again before morning.” Folding her arms, she frowned down at him. “If he starts to shiver, or does get too hot again, promise me you’ll come and fetch me right away.”

Heather nodded. “I promise.”

Catriona turned away. “Try to nap if you can.”

Heather sighed, took his hand once more, and settled to her vigil.

The days that followed were the darkest of her life. Although they didn’t need the ice-bath again, Breckenridge’s temperature remained erratic, spiking unpredictably — pricking her fears every time it did.

Then he grew restive, flinging off the covers, shifting in the bed enough to make himself groan.

As from the first, Heather rarely left him. Her reward came toward the end of the third day, when her voice, her words, noticeably soothed him.

Catriona, witnessing the event, humphed. “It’s as I thought — he’s not truly unconscious. He’s in a healing state.”

She seemed relieved, more assured, after that.

For her part, Heather couldn’t take the same comfort — she wanted to see his eyes again, wanted to see recognition and understanding.

At the back of her mind was the unvoiced fear that after so many days “hibernating,” when he returned he wouldn’t remember. Her, or anything else.

To counter her fears, whenever she was alone with him she talked — of their past, of their present, of their future. She put no restraint on her tongue but let her heart dictate, let her love drive her.

More than anything else, it was those moments of letting their love shine between them that anchored her and gave her some respite.

Everyone in the household helped in their way. Cook sent up trays regularly, and Algaria made sure she ate. Lucilla and Marcus, unusually subdued, crept in to see, to ask after Breckenridge, but didn’t stay long. Richard often looked in and stayed to chat, to tell her bits and pieces of what was going on in the world outside.

But it was Catriona who was most often her support, especially through the long watches of the nights, even though, now that it seemed clear Breckenridge was improving, she slept in her own bed. She returned periodically to monitor Breckenridge’s condition, to reassure Heather, and provide company and respite for a little while.

Toward the end of one such visit, with Heather seated in her customary place by the bed, Breckenridge’s hand as always in hers, Catriona sat in the rocker on the opposite side of the bed and studied her with that look Heather thought of as seeing beneath the skin.

After a moment, Catriona asked, “So, have you and he settled your differences and agreed to share your future?”

Heather hadn’t anticipated quite that question. Your future. Catriona made it sound as if they hadn’t really had any option bar that one, as if a shared future was the only future either of them could have.

“Yes.” Heather frowned. “At least. . I believe we have.” When Catriona arched her brows, she went on, “Before everyone rushed up, we talked, said things — both of us. But it was such a jumble, and at the end I don’t know if he. .” She drew in a breath. “I don’t know how much he’ll remember.”

“Hmm. In that case, I would strongly suggest you make your position on that subject absolutely crystal clear the instant he wakes and is in any condition to take it in.” Catriona held her gaze. “That’s important, Heather. I don’t normally tell people such things — we’re not supposed to influence — but you and he are supposed to be together. But in order to reap the harvest that is waiting for you ahead, you must believe. To your heart and soul, you must believe in your ideal for it to happen. You have to let that belief guide you in everything — your actions, your speech, your very thoughts.”

Catriona paused, then went on, her gaze steady on Heather’s eyes, “I don’t know why that’s so vital, only that it is. For what’s between you and he to be all that it could be, you must believe, so that he can believe, too.”

Heather drank in the words, felt their truth resonate. Logic and reason, she’d learned, didn’t always apply where love was concerned; perhaps faith — faith in love — was the only true touchstone.

Risky, perhaps, to have blind faith in an emotion, but she no longer had anything to lose. She nodded. “Yes. I will.”

To her surprise, her reply seemed to ease Catriona, who visibly relaxed, almost ruefully smiled.

“Good.” Rising, Catriona drew her shawl around her, then looked down at Breckenridge. “I don’t expect you to have any trouble with him tonight. Sleep. He’s not going to leave you.” With that, she turned and walked to the door.

Heather watched her go, watched the door shut. Replayed their conversation, then, feeling more settled, crawled onto the bed by Breckenridge’s side, laid her head down, and closed her eyes.

The days and nights had merged; she’d lost track of time.

The following afternoon, Heather allowed herself to be bullied into taking a relaxing bath. Into washing her hair, donning fresh clothes, refashioning her chignon. Eating a proper meal.

Feeling significantly refreshed, she returned to Breckenridge’s bedside to relieve Algaria. Although the fever had abated and he seemed less wracked, he’d yet to awaken, but Catriona and Algaria expected he soon would.

She’d just settled on the straight-backed chair when she, and Algaria, at the door, heard the clatter of hooves and the rattle of wheels in the forecourt.

Algaria met her eyes. “Someone’s come running.”

Five minutes later, an elegantly slender lady, head crowned with a corona of fine, shimmery brown hair, swept into the room.

Heather smiled. “Caro.” She got to her feet.

Caroline Anstruther-Wetherby came straight to the bed. Her gaze fixing on the still figure lying upon it, she circled to reach Heather, then switched her silver-blue gaze to her and wrapped her in a scented embrace. “My dear! We heard and came straightaway.” Releasing Heather, Caro looked again at Breckenridge. “How is he?”

Heather paused, then said, “A lot better than he was.”

Caro leaned down and took the limp hand Heather had been holding. She chafed it lightly, as if by touch she could tell Breckenridge that she was there, then laid it down and turned to Heather. “Tell me all.”

“Tell us all.”

Both Heather and Caro turned to see Michael Anstruther-Wetherby crossing the room toward them. It was through her marriage to Michael that Caro was connected to the Cynsters, Michael’s sister, Honoria, being the Duchess of St. Ives, wife of Devil Cynster, the head of the Cynster clan, Richard’s older brother and Heather’s oldest cousin.

Michael, a tall, dark-haired, extremely well-connected gentleman deeply involved with politics, drew Heather in for a warm hug. He patted her shoulder as he released her. “I come charged to stand in place of your brothers and your father, let alone Devil and all the rest. As Caro was determined to come flying up here, and Breckenridge was apparently so low, we thought it better if the others contained their impatience and remained in London until we better understood the situation here.”

Heather fleetingly closed her eyes in relief. “Thank you.” The words were heartfelt. Dealing with her brothers’ protectiveness just now would have required effort and tact she did not have to spare. Opening her eyes, she smiled at Michael; he was indeed a politician to his toes. “I’m truly grateful.”

He smiled back. “I thought you would be. But the counterside to that is that you must tell us all. From the start.”

“Yes, all right.” After one glance at Breckenridge confirmed he was still “asleep,” she gestured to the sofa and chairs on the other side of the room.

Once they’d settled comfortably, she did as requested, started at the beginning — Lady Herford’s house — and told them all.

She left nothing out but related their journey step by stage. Neither Michael nor Caro were slow-witted; they followed the puzzling, perplexing tale of her kidnap, her reasons for remaining and trying to learn more, and the difficulties she and Breckenridge had encountered in achieving her eventual escape, with commendable ease.

When she reached the point where they’d walked into the Vale and gained refuge at the manor, she paused, then raised her head and went on, “Breckenridge and I have been discussing our future, but I would prefer not to say anything more on that score until he wakes.”

Caro and Michael exchanged a glance, one Heather couldn’t read, then Caro nodded. “Quite right. But how did he get injured? Gored, Richard said?”

That was easier to answer. However, in doing so, in reliving the moments that had led to Breckenridge’s wounding, Heather was struck — as she had been at the time, but had forgotten in the subsequent rush of events — by the oddity in the way the twins’ hands had pushed at hers, rather than grabbed. What had the pair been about?

“So how has he been since then?” Caro asked.

Shaking free of the memory, she described the initial chill. “Catriona said it was deep shock. Then came the fever.”

Glancing at the bed, Michael frowned. “He hasn’t regained consciousness yet?”

Heather looked across the room, too. “Catriona says he’s not unconscious, just in a very deep, healing sleep. The fever’s come down, but it hasn’t yet broken. She and Algaria think it soon will, and he’ll wake after that.”