“Which he does not seem to have, would that it would remain as such,” Mara added, looking to Cross. “Help me lift his head. We must try to get him to drink.”
Cross came forward, and he and Asriel lifted Temple’s limp body to a seated position. Mara righted his lolling head, tipping the liquid into his mouth by the teaspoonful. “You’ve got to drink if you’re going to heal,” she said firmly after several unsuccessful attempts.
Trying again, she lost another batch of liquid down his chin and chest, along with her patience. He would drink if she had to force the tea down his throat. She tipped the liquid in. “Swallow, damn you.”
His eyes flipped open, alert and bright, and he sputtered against the flow of tea, a lukewarm spray covering her face and neck as she squeaked her surprise and his partners swore their disbelief.
Temple coughed, his black gaze finding hers as he pushed the glass away. “Christ,” he said, the words harsh in his throat. “Haven’t you tried to kill me enough?”
The words elicited a low, reverent curse from Bourne and a wide grin from Cross. Relief came quick and nearly overwhelming to Mara . . . and she closed her eyes against tears and laughter for a moment, collecting herself before moving to bring the glass to his lips once more.
He shook his head, holding her hand at bay. “Who made that swill?” He looked to the woman who’d brought the pot in. “Didier?”
The Frenchwoman came forward, tears of relief in her eyes. “Oui, Temple. Je l’ai fait.” She nodded again. Found her English. “Yes. I made it.”
He looked to Mara, wariness in his gaze. “And you didn’t touch it?”
She shook her head, finding her tongue. “Only to pour it.”
He pushed the glass to her. “Drink.”
Her brows furrowed. “I don’t—”
“You drink it first.”
Understanding dawned, and then she did laugh, the sound light and foreign and remarkably welcome. As welcome as his black gaze, free of hallucination.
Something lit in those handsome eyes, and he pushed the glass toward her again. “Drink it, Mara.”
Her name was beautiful on his lips.
“What on—” the Marchioness of Bourne stepped forward, stayed by Bourne. She turned on her husband. “It’s preposterous.”
“It’s Temple’s choice.”
He didn’t trust her.
He was conscious enough to mistrust her.
She lifted the glass to her mouth and tossed the liquid back before opening her mouth and sticking her tongue out wide at him. “I am not in the market to poison you today.”
He watched her carefully. “Good.”
She ignored the pleasure that coursed through her at the word, turning instead to refill the glass. “That is not to say that you do not drive a woman to consider it.”
His hand met hers, guiding the tea to his lips. “Another day, then.”
She wanted to smile. Wanted to say a dozen different things. Things he wouldn’t hear. Things he wouldn’t believe.
Things she couldn’t say.
So she settled on: “Drink, you great ox.”
And he did, the whole glass. When she began to move away, he clasped her hand in an unyielding grip, his skin somehow warm despite his shocking loss of blood. Her gaze flew to his.
“You made me a promise.”
She stiffened at the words. “I did. I said I would return to Society. Prove you not a killer.”
“I’m not talking about that promise.”
She looked to him. “What then?”
“You promised me answers. You promised me truth.”
Her blood roared in her ears. She had not imagined that he could hear her as she’d nursed him. As she’d whispered to him, fear and hope warring for control of her words. “You remember.”
“My memory is a rare thing when it comes to you, I know.” He drank again. “But you will tell me the truth about that night. You will keep your promises.”
Promises for vengeance. For truth. As long as he lived.
And here he was, alive.
She nodded. “I shall honor them.”
“I know,” he said.
And then he slept.
Three mornings later, Temple sank into the brutally hot water in the great brass bathtub that had been custom built for his post-fight ablutions at The Fallen Angel.
He hissed at the pain that shot down his left arm when he lifted it, careful to keep his bandaged wound from the bath, not wanting to give the as yet unhealed injury any reason to return him to fever or infirmary. He rolled his shoulder tentatively, grimacing as he leaned back into the curved brass, resting his head on the lip of the bath.
He let out a long sigh, and closed his eyes, letting the steam and the heat engulf him, taking his thoughts with them.
Most of his thoughts.