Chapter 137

Kennard felt as if someone had struck the back of his head with a hammer.

“You are saying she bled more on purpose?” he demanded hoarsely.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Serin answered.

“I ordered you to protect Elena,” Kennard snarled, his voice rising. “And you still let it come to this?”

“I am sorry.”

“Do all of you have a death wish?”

A savage light flashed in Kennard’s eyes. Even Serin flinched and froze under his glare. Rage surged past the point of reason and curdled into something close to madness. Kennard felt it staining his body and mind alike. He wanted to tear apart every person in front of him, Serin included, until nothing remained.

He clenched his fists so tightly that his short nails bit into his palms. Veins bulged along the backs of his hands, standing out as if they would split his skin. The only thing keeping him from unleashing that murderous fury was the woman in his arms. He could not bring himself to set Elena down. The instant he loosened his hold, he was certain her fragile breath would vanish for good.

He was afraid. The terror of losing her forever overwhelmed everything else. Instead of killing the men before him, he crushed Elena closer to his chest.

“Your… Grace.”

At the faint, broken voice calling him, Kennard snapped his head down as fast as lightning. Elena’s eyes were closed, but her lids trembled and her lips parted slightly. Her long, dark lashes were damp, clinging together as if the moisture itself kept her from opening her eyes. With trembling fingers, Kennard gently rubbed her eyelids.

As though she sensed his touch, Elena struggled to lift them. A glimpse of gray showed beneath her lashes before her eyes slid shut again.

“Elena,” Kennard whispered urgently. “Elena, are you conscious?”

“Your… Grace.”

Instead of answering, she murmured his title again. Watching her force out that barely audible sound, Kennard felt tears spill over. He pulled her tightly against him and buried his face in her shoulder. Her soaked body burned with fever, yet her dress had gone cold.

“Do not die,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Please do not die. If you are gone, I cannot survive a single day.”

His tears poured hot and unchecked onto her shoulder as he cried out in despair. It felt as if he were losing his mind. Each breath scraped painfully in his chest. The small, fragile weight of Elena in his arms only deepened the ache in his heart.

“Your Grace, I brought the carriage!”

Cura’s shout rang out as he ran up from the riverbank. Through tear blurred eyes, Kennard saw his own carriage, the one Cura had used to smuggle Elena disguised in his place. Without a word, Kennard surged to his feet, still cradling her. Sand clung to his clothes, but he did not spare it a glance.

He strode across the riverbank and reached the road in a handful of steps, then climbed straight into the carriage. Seating himself, he settled Elena limply across his lap and leaned her head against his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her with no space between them and pressed his lips to the crown of her head. Tears continued to stream down his face without pause.

Once Serin confirmed that Kennard was seated, he shut the door. The carriage jolted into motion at once.

***

The room was thick with the heavy stench of blood and death. No one dared approach Kennard. They hovered at a distance, circling the edges of the space in tense silence. Cura assisted Leto, while Benzef sat rigidly in a chair by the window. His usual chatter was nowhere to be found. With lips pressed tight, he stared at Kennard’s back, grief written plainly across his face.

Serin stood before the fireplace, pale and half dazed, as if his spirit had yet to return to his body.

“The bleeding appears to have stopped, thankfully,” Leto announced at last, wiping his brow with the back of his hand and exhaling in relief.

His words lightened the suffocating air in the room by a fraction.

“Her condition?” Kennard asked without looking away from Elena.

When no answer came, he was forced to lift his gaze. Leto’s face, more deeply lined than it had been mere months ago, was drenched in sweat as though he had just washed it. Shadows hollowed his eyes, and his tangled hair, once dark, had turned completely white.

“Why are you not answering?” Kennard rasped. “I asked how she is.”

He wanted to shout at the hesitant physician, but he lacked even the strength for anger. His voice emerged rough and metallic, as if dragged across broken glass.

“We must observe her for now,” Leto said carefully.

“What?” Kennard breathed.

At that reply, his heart seemed to slam to the floor. A memory flashed unbidden: Lassino lying in Montefiano, drenched in blood. He had never regained consciousness. Kennard had been forced to bid farewell to the man who had been his longtime steward, his friend, almost a father. The thought that Elena might share the same fate froze him in place.

“We have stopped the bleeding,” Leto continued steadily. “Our priority now is to reduce her fever.”

“The medicine,” Kennard pressed. “Is there nothing else you can use?”

“She must drink a decoction of herbs mixed with Ervejo,” Leto explained. “If she cannot swallow, we will continue moistening her mouth with it as we are doing now.”

Kennard stared blankly as Cura squeezed a cloth over Elena’s lips, letting drops of the herbal liquid fall into her mouth. He bit down on his lower lip. His helplessness made him feel utterly worthless.

After waiting in vain for further words, Leto stepped cautiously back from the bed. From his rolled up sleeves to his fingertips, his arms were stained red with Elena’s blood. Kennard looked no different. Since carrying her into the manor, he had not left her side or changed his clothes. His discarded jacket lay on a nearby chair, but even his shirt was soaked through with blood.

His disheveled black hair hung low enough to shadow his brows, and the golden light in his eyes had dulled into darkness. Yet the most harrowing sight was Elena herself. She lay on white sheets that should have resembled fresh snow, but her body and the space around her were saturated in red, as though dye had been spilled across the bed.

Kennard clasped her hand tightly and studied her face. Her eyes remained shut, her breathing quick and shallow with fever. Blood smeared across her cheek and neck mingled with cold sweat and trailed downward.

When he saw Leto approaching with a cloth soaked in icy water, Kennard extended his hand. Startled, Leto glanced between the cloth and Kennard’s outstretched palm.

“Your Grace, I can…”

“Give it to me,” Kennard interrupted curtly.

He had no patience for lengthy exchanges. As soon as the physician placed the cloth in his hand, Kennard carefully began wiping Elena’s forehead. Even that gentle act filled him with fear that he might strain her weakened body. He turned the folded cloth and continued down to her neck and shoulders. A surge of tears rose in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

The old scars etched across Elena’s delicate skin struck his vision like the lash of a whip. He swallowed a ragged sigh and forced his eyes open again. This was no time to drown in sorrow. As Leto had said, lowering her fever came first.

The cloth warmed quickly against her burning skin. Each time it did, Leto replaced it with another chilled in cold water, and Kennard and Cura resumed wiping her down. They repeated the process again and again until their arms and shoulders went numb. Even after dawn broke and sunlight spilled into the room, they did not stop.

Cura, exhausted, slumped into a nearby chair for a brief rest before soaking another cloth and returning to the bedside. Kennard, however, did not pause for a single moment. Servants hurried in and out with fresh basins of cold water. Each time they entered, they cast furtive glances at Kennard and Elena. They moved without a whisper, scarcely daring to breathe, setting down the water and retreating as quickly as they had come.

A knock sounded at the door. No one responded. Kennard did not even seem to hear it.

Serin crossed the room and opened the door to reveal an armed Irish soldier holding out an envelope. Serin’s gaze dropped to the letter in the man’s hand, and he frowned.

“When did this arrive?” Serin asked quietly.

“It just came by courier,” the soldier replied.

“This is madness,” Serin muttered, trailing off as he accepted the envelope and looked back at Kennard.

“What is it?” Benzef asked, rising from his chair to speak in Kennard’s stead.

Serin shook his head at him and approached the bed. “Your Grace,” he said softly.

Kennard’s hand stilled in the middle of wiping Elena’s wrist. He lifted his gaze to Serin, his golden eyes dim and hollow, as if his soul had already slipped away.