Somewhere, in the dark recesses of his mind, he’d always thought that this moment, when he hovered on death, he’d be shown that night. The night that had sealed his fate. The night that had promised him entry into Hell.
But even now, he couldn’t remember it, and he wanted to roar his frustration. “Why?”
He didn’t hear his whisper echo in the room.
All he heard was his angry fallen angel taunting him with wicked lies, even as he slipped into delirium.
Because you will live, Temple.
You will live, and I will tell you everything.
She was there, the girl from that night—the pretty, laughing girl dancing away from him in the gardens, and rising over him on crisp linen sheets, all silken hair and smooth skin and eyes that haunted him.
She was there, with the line of boys, dark-haired with eyes like jewels.
She was there, her touch cool in the darkness, her promises tempting him away from the light. Back to her.
Back to life.
She was saving him.
Hours passed and he did not wake, even as he grew more fitful in his sleep—straining against the treatment every time they flushed the wound with hot water.
Mara was shuttled to and from the room, allowed near him only when it was time to clean the wound or change its dressing. Each time she entered, there were new people keeping vigil. Bourne and Cross and Pippa remained constant, joined once the last gamer left by the men who worked the tables of the Angel, dealers and croupiers, and followed by the women who worked the floor of the club—a steady stream of weeping maids and worried companions and who knew what else.
The blonde called Anna, whom Mara had met in the strange windowed room, arrived, her work complete, and Mara watched from the corner of her eye as the prostitute kept quiet vigil over Temple for long minutes, her fingers stroking the tattooed skin of his arms, tracing the cords of his muscles, holding one strong hand as she whispered in his ear.
It occurred that she might be Temple’s paramour, what with the way she’d spoken of him in the dark, mirrored room. With the way all the women had panted and leered over him, he no doubt had a string of women. And this one was beautiful enough to be the general of his petticoated army.
Long, slender fingers trailed over smooth skin, perfectly filed nails worrying the hair of his arms in a gesture that could not be misread. This woman knew Temple. Cared for him. Was comfortable touching him as he lay still and naked in the dark.
Mara looked away, hating her. Hating herself for the hot jealousy that coursed through her. For not telling him everything when she had the chance. For not trusting him.
For tormenting him, when he had done nothing to deserve it.
She kept her head down as she cared for him, flushing and cleaning and packing his wound, mopping his brow, and feeling for his blessedly strong, steady heartbeat. Someone had covered him with a blanket and placed a pillow beneath his head—a concession to comfort even as they feared moving him from the table, as though the scarred oak had some kind of life-giving property.
Mara grew more and more concerned as day gave way to dusk in the world beyond the casino, and he remained still. Bourne threatened to call another doctor but during one of her exiles, the elusive Chase apparently sided with Pippa and gave them the night to bring Temple back to consciousness.
Chase was gone before Mara returned to the room for another round of wound cleaning and dressing, but his words were gospel to the others.
When she was near Temple, she spoke to him, desperate to wake him, to bring him back to consciousness. Desperate for him to open his eyes and see.
Sometimes, I think you do see me.
Words whispered in the darkness on a London street.
She hadn’t seen him then. Not really. But now she did. And now she wanted him to see her. She needed it. She needed to explain everything to him. She needed to make him see the truth.
Her truth.
But he did not wake except to struggle and fret when they washed the wound with near-boiling water, the discomfort enough to rouse him into some new layer of consciousness, where he seemed unable to do anything but ask, over and over, “Why?”
She answered him quietly, not wanting the others to hear what she said—what she promised—answers, and truth and even vengeance, hoping that something she said would bring him back from wherever it was his mind had gone, before the others decided that she and the countess were mad and sent for the cruel man who called himself a doctor.
The countess had become her one ally, seeming to understand after several hours of ministrations that Mara shared her goal.
All their goals.
More.