Much to Giselle's dismay the Duke really had left the estate he was called out to the borderlands where a skirmish had broken out between Greyhaven's sentinels and a band of raiders from the northern wastes. For three days, the fortress seemed to breathe a different air—lighter, yet charged with a strange, watchful tension. Giselle moved through her days with the uneasy sense of being both freer and more confined than ever. Thornwell's presence was a constant, a shadow just beyond her door or at the end of any corridor she ventured down. He never spoke unless necessary, his silence more oppressive than any rebuke.
On the fourth morning, Clara brought her breakfast with the news that the Duke had returned in the night. Giselle's stomach tightened. Giselle wanted to tell Clara that she didn't care but that wouldn't be a response a doting, caring wife would offer. She cleared her throat cooling the hot tea, "Is he well?" Clara's eyes softened, a flicker of sympathy in their depths. "He is unharmed, my lady, but weary. He went straight to the council chamber upon his return. There were… losses." She hesitated, setting the tray down on the small table by the window. The morning light was pale and cold, leaching the color from the room. "The raiders were driven back, but not without cost."
Giselle's fingers stilled around the porcelain cup. Losses. Men who had ridden out from these very walls, whose faces she might have passed in the courtyard.
Giselle's voice was soft, almost lost in the vastness of her chambers. "May their souls rest in peace." She glanced out the window; it was another cloudy day. Though they were in spring, it felt as though winter had never truly left Greyhaven. The sky was a sheet of dull pewter, pressing down on the jagged battlements and the grey, restless sea beyond.
"Do you have my schedule for today?" She asked Clara quickly, she had grown used to the rigidity of the routine.
Clara produced a folded parchment from the pocket of her apron. "A light luncheon in the solar at noon, my lady, followed by an hour in the library for your studies. At three, Master Thornwell expects you in the counting room to review the household expenses for the month." She paused, her voice dropping slightly. "And… you are to attend the Duke in his private study after evening prayers."
Giselle's breath caught. She had not seen him since their confrontation in her chambers, and the memory of his storm-grey eyes holding hers, of his accusation and his warning, was still raw. "For what purpose?"
"He did not say, my lady." Clara's gaze was gentle but firm.
Giselle felt her chest ache momentarily, she glanced at the mirror her face had grown weary in the last few days. It bothered her she prided herself on her looks but the Greyhaven manor was draining her, stealing the bloom from her cheeks and the light from her eyes. She set the cup down with a quiet click, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent room. The rest of the day stretched before her, a series of obligations leading inexorably to that final, dreaded appointment.
The hours passed with a leaden slowness. Luncheon was a solitary affair, the food tasteless on her tongue. In the library, the words in her book blurred and swam; she could not concentrate on histories of the realm when her own future felt so uncertain. The meeting with Thornwell was a trial of its own.
Since their encounter in the courtyard, Thornwell had begun treating her with a brittle, formal correctness that felt more like a cage than his previous coldness. In the counting room, he stood across the wide oak table, ledgers spread between them like a battlefield. His pale blue eyes did not meet hers; they remained fixed on columns of figures, his voice a monotone as he pointed out discrepancies in the household accounts.
"The expenditure for beeswax candles in the east wing is thirty percent above the quarterly average," he stated, his finger tapping the parchment. "The maids report pilferage from the linen stores. You must authorize a stricter inventory." Giselle glanced at the man, "I will tend to it, anything else?"
The candlelight flickered across the ledgers, making the numbers writhe like shadows. Thornwell's hand moved to the next page, his pen scratching with controlled precision. He did not answer immediately, his jaw working slightly before he spoke. "No, my lady. That will be all."
He began gathering the documents, his movements brisk and efficient. Giselle watched him, a strange tightness in her chest. This was a different man from the one who had wrapped her in his cloak during the storm, from the one who had guided her to the Duke's presence with unspoken understanding. Now he was the perfect steward—distant, unreadable, impersonal. "It is time for your evening prayers, my lady." Giselle bit back a moan The evening prayers drag on interminably, the chapel's stained glass casting fractured patterns across the stone floor as the chaplain's voice drones through the familiar liturgy. Giselle kneels between two silent ladies-in-waiting, their shoulders rigid beneath their dark velvet cloaks. The chapel smells of old incense and cold stone, the air heavy with unspoken judgments.
When the service finally concludes, Giselle rises with the others, her skirts rustling softly. She makes no move toward the exit, knowing the Duke expects her at his private study. The other women file past, their faces carefully neutral, but she catches a flash of pity from one—Clara, who had helped her dress this morning.
She quietly made her way to the Duke's private study, she felt ice creeping in her veins Her hand trembles slightly as she raises it to knock on the heavy oak door. The sound echoes in the hushed corridor, a hollow, final noise. Before she can lower her arm, the door swings inward, opened by a silent servant who melts back into the shadows of the room beyond.
The Duke stands before a massive fireplace, one hand braced against the mantelpiece. He has shed his formal court attire for a simple black tunic and breeches, his boots still dusty from the road. The firelight catches the weary lines around his eyes and the grim set of his mouth. He does not turn to look at her, but his posture stiffens at the sound of her entrance. The room was a cavern of shadow and fire. Shelves lined with leather-bound tomes climbed to the ceiling; a worn rug of deep crimson covered the flagstones. The air smelled of woodsmoke, leather, and a faint, sharp scent she could not name—iron, perhaps, or cold steel.
"Close the door."
His voice was low, graveled with fatigue. It was not a request. Giselle obeyed, the heavy latch falling into place with a sound like a tomb sealing. She stood just inside the threshold, her hands clasped at her waist to still their trembling. When he turned to face her Giselle bit back a gasp he looked tired His stormy grey eyes were bloodshot, dark circles etched deep beneath them. The firelight cast harsh shadows across his gaunt features, accentuating the sharp lines of his face and the rigid set of his jaw. He moved with the weary deliberation of a man who had ridden hard for days, his boots heavy on the stone floor as he approached her. The scent of leather, steel, and faint traces of wine clung to him. He stopped just a few feet away, his height and presence dominating the space between them. His gaze roved across her face, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
"You're pale," he observed, his words rough but quiet.
Giselle eyed him warily, "Please, it is you who looks worse for wear." Her own voice sounded thin in the vast room, a brave flutter against the weight of his exhaustion. She held his gaze, refusing to be cowed by the assessment in his eyes.
A faint, humorless twist touched his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. "The borderlands do not offer rest," he said, turning slightly to gesture toward a heavy chair near the fire. "Sit."
It was not an invitation to comfort, but an order that framed the space between them—the wide desk, the crackling hearth, the invisible lines of authority. She moved to the chair, the velvet seat cool through her skirts. The Duke remained standing, one hand still resting on the mantel, as if he could not yet bring himself to fully relax. He stared into the fire, the flames reflecting in his tired eyes. Giselle watched him, uncertain what was expected. The silence stretched, filled only by the pop and hiss of burning wood.
"You've been keeping well?" he asked at last, his voice rough but quiet.
"I have," she said, though it wasn't entirely true. The last few days had felt brittle, stretched thin between Thornwell's scrutiny and the ache of uncertainty. "Clara has seen to my comforts."
He nodded once, as if that satisfied him, though his expression gave nothing away. "Good."
Giselle stole a glance at him, she caught the ripple of muscles in his back tearing her eyes away she broke the silence, "I am sorry for your losses, they were honorable men." The Duke's hand tightened briefly around the mantel, his knuckles whitening. For a heartbeat, she thought he would dismiss her condolence as a courtesy, but then his shoulders lifted and fell in a slow exhale.
"Honor does little for the dead," he said quietly. "But... thank you."
The words were sparse, almost reluctant, but they carried a weight that made her chest ache. She folded her hands tighter in her lap, the velvet cool beneath her palms.
"You should rest," she ventured. "Clara told me you returned only hours ago."
His gaze cut toward her, sharp and assessing. "And you think me incapable of attending to my duties?" Giselle's eyes locked onto his, for a moment she felt anger but she let her eyes drift across his body. He was trembling. "No, not at all." She watched the subtle tremor in his shoulders, the way his fingers pressed harder against the stone mantel as if to steady himself. "I think you are weary," she said, her voice softer now. "And I think even a Duke must sometimes yield to exhaustion."
He turned fully then, the firelight carving shadows beneath his cheekbones and along the line of his jaw. His storm-grey eyes held hers, and for a moment, she saw past the authority, past the coldness, to the raw fatigue beneath. "Yield?" he repeated, the word tasting unfamiliar on his tongue. "There is no yielding at Greyhaven. Only endurance."
Yet even as he spoke, his body betrayed him. Unable to withstand his stubbornness any longer she stood abruptly, "You look as though you are going to collapse. Please at least have a seat." The Duke stood rigid for a long moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in her defiance. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he pushed himself away from the mantel and moved toward the chair by the fire. He sank into it with a quiet groan, his body finally conceding to the exhaustion that had been evident in every tense line of his posture. His head fell back against the chair, and he closed his eyes, his fingers still gripping the armrests as if anchoring himself.
Giselle watched him carefully, her own heartbeat steady despite the unspoken tension that still lingered between them. "Thank you," she said softly, unsure whether he would even respond.
She watched as his chest heaved quietly for a moment she was entranced, he truly was a beautiful man despite his cold demeanor. She stood there awkwardly, "You wanted to se me?" His eyes open slowly, the storm-grey depths unfocused for a heartbeat before sharpening to pin her in place. The firelight catches in his lashes, casting shadows across his hollowed cheeks. "Yes," he murmurs, his voice rougher now, more human. "There are matters we must discuss."
He lifts one hand from the armrest, gesturing vaguely toward the chair she'd abandoned. "Sit," he orders again, though this time it's less command and more... exhaustion. The hand trembles slightly before he clenches his fingers into a fist, as if willing the weakness away.
Giselle moves slowly back to her seat, the rustle of her skirts loud in the silence. "You must tend to the dead and their families." Giselle's ears perked up She was certain she had misheard him. The fire crackled, a log shifted, sending a shower of sparks spiraling upward. She stared at him, her mind struggling to parse the words. They were so utterly disconnected from the financial ledgers and household protocols she had anticipated.
"I beg your pardon?" Her voice was thin, barely audible.
The Duke did not open his eyes. "The men who fell at the border crossing. Their families reside within the fortress walls or in the village below. You will visit them. You will offer the condolences of Greyhaven. You will see to it that their needs are met—firewood, provisions, the schooling of their children. It is your duty now." Giselle had never interacted with the common folk but she didn't complain, "I understand. I will do my best." Giselle's hands found the edge of the chair, her fingers pressing into the carved wood. The firelight flickered across the Duke's face, softening the sharp angles of his exhaustion. She watched him, waiting for him to continue, but he did not. The silence stretched, filled only by the low hum of the hearth and the faint creak of his armor as he shifted slightly.
He lifted his head, the movement slow and deliberate. "Do you understand why this falls to you?"
Giselle hesitated. "Because it is expected of the lady of Greyhaven."
"Because," he said, his voice rough but even, "they will not believe my compassion."
He continued, "In their eyes i'm the devil mercenary that brought them to their deaths." He spat, "It appears they are right." Giselle's throat tightened at his bitter words, her fingers unconsciously gripping the chair's edge. "And I... I am the mercy they can believe in," she murmured, her words tinged with both understanding and resignation. The Duke's stormy gaze locked onto hers, his jaw clenched as he nodded slowly. "They see in you what they cannot in me - warmth, compassion, the softness that can soothe their grief."
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly. "You will go to their homes, offer your condolences, and ensure they lack for nothing. But more than that, you will listen." She nodded vigorously to show her understanding, he stared at her a moment before sinking back down, "You may go."
Giselle stood, the folds of her gown falling in a soft rustle of silk and wool. She did not curtsy; the gesture felt too formal for the raw space between them. Instead, she offered a slight dip of her head, a silent acknowledgment of the trust he was placing in her, however reluctantly given.
He did not look at her again, his gaze fixed on the fire as if seeking answers in the flames. "Thornwell will provide you with a list of the families. A guard will accompany you."
She began to rise, slowly passing by him staring as he hid behind his closed eyes when she saw it. A blossom of crimson peaking through the black fabric of his tunic, just below his ribs. Her breath caught. The stain was fresh, still spreading its dark tendrils against the wool. She stopped her retreat, her hand hovering in the air as if to reach out, then falling back to her side.
"You are bleeding," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it cut through the quiet room like a blade.
The Duke's eyes snapped open, the grey of them sharp and defensive. He followed her gaze to his side, his own hand coming up to press against the wound with a grimace he could not entirely suppress. "It is nothing. A scratch from the journey."
Giselle did not wait for his instruction. She quickly began removing her gloves, biting back curses she had seen grown men lose their lives from such "scratches." The fine kid leather slid from her fingers and fell, forgotten, to the floor as she moved toward him with a purpose that brooked no argument.
The room seemed to shrink, the air thickening with the metallic scent of blood now sharp beneath the stone and pine. Giselle's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the Duke's controlled, shallow breaths. She dropped her gloves onto the chair and stepped forward, her earlier hesitation burned away by a sudden, practical urgency.
"A scratch does not bleed through a doublet," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Sit back. Let me see it."
For a moment, he looked as though he might refuse, his pride a palpable force in the space between them.
But the weariness won out, or perhaps it was the shock of her directness. For a moment, he looked as though he might refuse, his pride a palpable force in the space between them. But the weariness won out, or perhaps it was the shock of her directness. He winced laying back heavily, opening his chest and letting his arms hang. Giselle tried to hide her trembling fingers as she reached for the laces of his tunic. The black wool was coarse and damp beneath her touch. She worked methodically, her focus narrowing to the intricate knots, the slow reveal of the linen shirt beneath, stained a terrible, rusted brown.
The wound was not a scratch.
It was a gash, perhaps four inches long, slicing across the hard plane of his lower ribs. It had been hastily bound with a strip of cloth, now soaked through and useless. The edges were angry and red, a stark contrast to his pallid skin. Giselle's breath hitched.
"You call this nothing?" she whispered, her earlier resolve hardening into something sharp and clear. "This needs proper care. Now."
His eyes snapped open, "No I can do it myself." He swatted her hand away when upon the contact she felt his burning skin. She gasped audibly this time, gnawing at her teeth she shoved his back rather harshly in the chair. The chair scraped against the stone floor with a harsh, grating sound. The Duke's head thumped against the high back, his eyes widening in stunned outrage.
"You will sit still," Giselle commanded, her voice low and trembling not with fear, but with a ferocity she did not know she possessed. Her own hands, now steady, pressed firmly against his shoulders, pinning him in place. The heat radiating from his skin was alarming, a furnace burning beneath her palms. "You are fevered, and this wound is festering. Pride will not knit your flesh, Your Grace."
His storm-grey eyes blazed up at her, a tempest held captive in a face gone ashen.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. "I have endured worse."
"And you will endure this with help, not foolishness." She did not wait for his permission again. Turning, she strode to the heavy oak door of the study and pulled it open. The corridor outside was empty, shadowed. "Thornwell!" she called, her voice echoing down the stone passage. "Send for the surgeon's kit and clean linen. And bring cool water and wine."
She did not see who answered, only heard the swift, muffled tread of boots on stone. Closing the door, she returned to him. He had not moved, his head still against the chair, watching her with an unnerving intensity. She began removing her heavy layers of clothing, if she was to work on him she needed to get the fabric encasing her out of the way. Her fingers fumbled with the laces of her bodice, the fine embroidery catching against her damp skin. The room had grown warmer, or perhaps it was only the heat of his blood under her hands that made the air feel thick. She could hear his breathing, ragged and shallow, the faint rasp of his throat when he swallowed. It made her movements faster, more sure. She loosened the last tie and let the heavy fabric slip from her shoulders, then the cloak, until she stood in her linen shift, sleeves rolled to her elbows.
"Comfort is for the living," he muttered, his voice rough.
Giselle did not look at him. Instead she began stripping him, he winced at the movement, his teeth grinding together. She ignored the sound, focusing on the blood-soaked tunic beneath his cloak. The fabric clung, stiff with dried gash and sweat. She worked at the ties, her fingers deft despite the tremor still in them. He let out a sharp exhale as she pulled the tunic up, the cloth scraping over the wound, and she cursed softly under her breath, regretting the pain she caused him.
"You are not gentle," he said through clenched teeth.
"I am efficient," she replied, not looking up from the ruin of his ribs.
When she removed the final layer her mouth wet bone dry, The gash lay exposed, a brutal, angry slash across the lower left ribs. It was not a clean cut, but a ragged tear, its edges swollen and crimson, weeping a thin, yellowish fluid. The smell was faint but unmistakable—sweetly putrid, the scent of corruption setting in. A hastily tied strip of linen, now a sodden brownish-red, was plastered uselessly against it.
Her own breath hitched. "A scratch," she echoed, her voice hollow with disbelief.
Before he could retort, a soft knock sounded at the door. Giselle straightened, smoothing her shift with one hand as she called, "Enter."
The door swung open, revealing Thornwell with a servant behind him. Both men bore trays laden with bandages, a glass bottle of dark wine, and a basin of water that still carried the faint chill of the cellar. Thornwell's gaze flickered to Giselle's bare shoulders, then to the Duke's half-bared torso, before settling on the floor.
"Leave it there," she said, nodding to the table by the window. "You may go."
The servant bowed and retreated, but Thornwell hesitated. "Your Grace," he began, though his eyes were fixed on Giselle.
She sighed, "What is it." She asked laced with annoyance, she didn't let him answer, "I am perfectly capable." She continued before Thornwell could interject, "And he will live." Her tone left no room for argument. "Now bring me the wine and the clean linens."
Thornwell moved swiftly, setting down the tray with quiet precision. He poured a measure of the dark wine into a goblet, his hands steady despite the tension in the room. "The water is cool, my lady, and the bandages are fresh." He placed a stack of clean linen squares beside the basin, then paused, his gaze shifting between Giselle and the Duke. "If you need anything else, I will be just outside."
The Duke let out a low, humorless chuckle, the sound weak but still edged with defiance. "He's running a fever prepare some medicinal tea and bring it." Giselle's command was sharp, clipped. She didn't wait for Thornwell's reply before turning back to the Duke, her expression hardening into something that wasn't quite sympathy but close to it. She pressed a cool, damp cloth to the angry wound, and he flinched again, this time unable to hide the way his jaw tightened. His skin burned under her touch—hot enough that she could sense the fever through the linen.
"Sit still," she said, though she knew he could hardly move. The Duke's hand came up instinctively, as if to stop her, but she batted it away. "Don't be a fool. You'll lose the arm if this festers."
His body was slicked with sweat, the fever burning through him in waves. Giselle wiped at the sheen on his chest, the cool damp cloth making him shudder. The Duke's breath was uneven, his pulse rapid and erratic beneath her fingers. His skin was so hot it nearly burned her own. She pressed the linen harder against the wound, cleaning away the dried blood and the oozing pus that had begun to seep from the infected edges. He gritted his teeth, his knuckles white where his hands gripped the chair's arms, but he did not pull away. His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, the heat of his fever rolling off his body in thick waves. Giselle felt her own face flushed, although she was focused she was not blind to his physique. He was a man carved from marble and war, all lean muscle and old scars beneath the sheen of fever-sweat. The firelight danced across the taut planes of his stomach, the strong line of his collarbones, the powerful curve of his shoulders now slackened by pain. Her fingers, busy with the cloth, traced the ridges of old, silvered wounds—testaments to a life of violence she had only glimpsed from a distance.
She took a moment to glance up at him only to see that he was watching her intently, "W-What is it."
His storm-grey eyes, clouded with pain and fever, held a clarity that pierced through the haze. "You're not squeamish," he said, his voice a low rasp that scraped against the quiet of the chamber. "For a girl raised in silks and cathedrals."
Giselle dipped the cloth into the basin of water, the pink-tinged liquid swirling. "Silks and cathedrals teach one to endure long, tedious ceremonies. This is merely another ritual." She wrung out the linen, the water pattering softly. "Though the blood is less metaphorical.
Giselle's lips tightened into a thin line, neither confirming nor denying his observation. She returned to the wound, now cleansed of its worst debris, and reached for the dark wine Thornwell had brought. The bottle was heavy in her hand, its glass cool against her palm. She uncorked it, and the sharp, fruity scent of fortified wine filled the space between them. She did not pour it into a cup.
"This will burn," she warned, her voice devoid of ceremony. "Do not move."
Before he could protest, she tipped the bottle directly over the gash. The wine splashed into the raw flesh, and the Duke's entire body went rigid. A guttural, choked sound escaped his lips—not a cry, but something deeper, more animal. His knuckles whitened against the arms of the chair, the wood groaning under his grip. The sharp, clean scent of alcohol rose, cutting through the room's thick odor of sickness and sweat.
Giselle held the bottle steady, pouring until the wound glistened, washing away the last traces of corruption. She watched his face, the way his eyes squeezed shut, the tendons in his neck standing out like ropes. Unable to hold back he gripped her wrist, His hand closed around her wrist, his fingers like iron bands, hot with fever and startlingly strong despite his condition. The sudden contact sent a jolt through her—not of fear, but of a sharp, startling awareness. Her breath caught. She could feel the rapid, thready beat of his pulse beneath her own skin, a frantic rhythm that mirrored the wild, pained energy coiled in his muscles.
For a long moment, they were frozen there, locked in a silent struggle of wills. His gaze, when his eyes opened, was a tempest held barely in check. The pain had stripped away his usual icy control, leaving something raw and dangerously exposed.
"Enough," he ground out, the word rough as gravel.
Giselle did not pull away. She met his furious gaze, her own steady, though her heart hammered against her ribs. The bottle remained poised, a few last drops falling onto the linen she'd laid across his thigh.
"It is not enough," she said, her voice low but unyielding. "The corruption is deep. The wine must do its work."
His grip tightened, the pressure threatening to bruise. She could see the battle in his eyes—the instinct to command, to dominate this small, defiant woman, warring with the brutal, undeniable truth that she was right. His breath hissed between his teeth. His storm grey eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he fought the urge to pull her hand away. But there was no mistaking the searing burn of the wine as it sank into the wound, a necessary torment that would save him from something far worse. He did not loosen his grip on her wrist, but the fight drained from him, replaced by a tense, grudging acceptance.
"Then finish it," he rasped, his words rough as gravel. The Duke's fingers flexed slightly, his pulse still thundering beneath his skin. He was too fevered, too weak to stop her—he knew that, and it grated against his pride like a knife. The Duke's breath comes in short, sharp bursts as the wine burns through infected tissue, his grey eyes never leaving Giselle's face. The firelight catches the sweat beading along his hairline, the tremor in his hands as they grip the chair arms. He watches her pour the last drops of wine, the liquid pooling in the hollow of his collarbone before she sets the bottle aside with precise control.
"You will ruin me," he says, his voice rough as the stone walls of Greyhaven. The words carry no real threat, only the bitter acknowledgment of power shifting between them. His feverish fingers finally release her wrist, leaving faint red marks on her pale skin. Giselle's eyes snapped towards him in that moment suddenly aware of the fact that though they were strangers they were husband and wife with only a few layers of fabric separating them, "I-I will call for Thornwell to do the snitching."
She abruptly stood nearly tripping over her own skirts in her haste to put space between them. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled for the bell pull by the hearth, her mind a riot of his fever-heat, his scent, the raw vulnerability he had just surrendered. She yanked the cord, the distant chime echoing hollowly down the corridor.
The Duke did not speak. He slumped back against the high-backed chair, his head lolling to one side, his eyes closing against the onslaught of pain and exhaustion. In the firelight, he looked carved from marble, all stark angles and pallor, except for the hectic flush of fever high on his cheekbones and the angry, wine-washed wound.
The door opens with a soft scrape of wood against stone, Thornwell standing framed in the doorway with his usual precise posture. His pale eyes assess the scene—the Duke's exposed torso glistening with sweat, the empty wine bottle on the side table, the basin of pink-tinged water reflecting the firelight. Giselle stands rigid by the hearth, her hand still clutching the bell pull, her breathing shallow and quick.
"Your Grace," Thornwell addresses the Duke first, his voice even despite the charged atmosphere. He moves to the Duke's side, his gaze darting to the cleaned wound. "Shall I assist with binding?"
The Duke's eyes flutter open at Thornwell's voice, storm-grey and unfocused. Giselle watches as Thornwell kneels beside the Duke, his movements efficient and unhurried. The steward's hands are steady as he unfolds a length of fresh linen, the fabric crisp against the Duke's damp skin. She should step forward, offer her assistance, but her legs feel rooted to the floor, her pulse still racing from the Duke's grip on her wrist.
"He has lost much blood," Thornwell says, his tone clinical. He glances up at Giselle. "You did well, Lady Greyhaven." Giselle's mouth falls open, she squeaks a thanks but her eyes are trained on the Duke's face, on the way his lashes rest dark against his pallid skin. Thornwell's praise is a distant thing, swallowed by the roaring in her ears. She watches as the steward begins to wrap the linen around the Duke's torso, the motion pulling the skin taut over his ribs. A muscle twitches in the Duke's jaw, but he makes no sound.
The silence stretches, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the soft rasp of linen. Giselle's fingers slowly uncurl from the bell pull, leaving it swaying slightly. She takes a step forward, then another, drawn not by duty but by a compulsion she cannot name. Giselle's face flushes and for a moment she lets herself think of the possible erotic things he could do to her the hard press of his fevered body against hers, the rough scrape of his stubble on her throat, the way his large hands might tangle in her loosened hair. The images are sharp and unbidden, a sudden, startling heat that blooms low in her belly, entirely at odds with the sterile scent of wine and clean linen.
She forces her gaze away, focusing instead on Thornwell's deft fingers as he secures the bandage with a firm knot. The Duke's chest rises and falls in a shallow, steady rhythm now, his breathing less ragged than before.
She can't stop her mind from wandering again as she watches his chest, his golden curls are slick with sweat but somehow he glows in the firelight, his broad shoulders rising and falling with each breath. She imagines pressing her palm flat against his sternum, feeling the quick beat of his heart beneath her fingers. A small sound escapes her before she can stop it—a soft exhale that Thornwell either misses or chooses to ignore.
"The bleeding has slowed considerably," Thornwell says as he straightens. "The wound should be redressed in the morning." He steps back, making room for Giselle without a word.
She swallows hard and moves closer, her skirts brushing against the Duke's thigh. His eyes remain closed, his face turned slightly toward the fire. The fever's flush still paints his cheeks, but the harsh lines around his mouth have softened. He is, for the moment, at peace. She has done that. The knowledge is a heavy, quiet weight inside her.
She should leave. Thornwell has done his part, and her duty is discharged. Yet her feet feel rooted to the stone floor. The firelight licks golden along the Duke's bare arm, catching the fine, pale hairs and the hard ridge of muscle. Her own wrist throbs faintly where his fingers had dug in—a phantom echo of his desperate strength. She resists the urge to rub the mark, as if to preserve it.
Thornwell clears his throat softly. He gathers the soiled linens and the empty wine bottle, his movements efficient and silent. "I will have a broth sent up for him, and more of the tea," he murmurs, his pale eyes lingering on Giselle for a moment before he turns toward the door. "He must drink when he wakes."
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving Giselle alone with the sleeping Duke. The room seems to shrink, the air thickening with the scent of woodsmoke, sweat, and the sharp, clean tang of wine. She is alone with him, truly alone, for the first time since she arrived at Greyhaven. The thought sends a fresh, illicit thrill through her veins.