She scrambled to her writing desk and yanked out a piece of stationery. Dipping her pen into the inkpot, she scrawled two letters-one to her solicitor, and one to Kate and Garrett. In the letters, she instructed Garrett and the solicitor to draw up a promissory note for the sum of eighteen thousand pounds and deliver it to Mr. Thomas Wortingham of London, lately of the vicarage of Hambly in Kent.

She closed and sealed the letters and hurried downstairs to search for Sam. She found him in the small paddock at the corner of the woods, brushing down one of the horses.

"Sam, I must order you to return home, immediately." When his face darkened with an instant denial, she held up her hand. "Before I asked you to leave only because I felt you should return to my brother, but now it is truly a matter of life or death."

She thrust the letters at him. "This is the last thing I'll ever ask of you, Sam," she said quietly. "But you must deliver these letters for me. It is a matter of utmost importance. Please."

He shook his head slowly. "Mr. Fulton...?"

"I shall remain here in Cornwall with him until... until he recovers. Please tell my brother and Kate... Just tell them I wish I could be with them for Christmas, but it is unlikely."

Sam sighed. "I don't feel right leaving you with only the old man to care for you."

She raised a brow. "You doubt my ability to care for myself?"

"Uh..."

"I have the gun," she said quietly.

He deflated a bit. "Well," he muttered, "that's true."

"I can take care of myself. You must leave right away. And hurry, Sam. There isn't much time."

Slowly, Sam nodded. "As you wish, my lady."

She returned to the house and stumbled inside blindly, colliding with Dr. Bellingham at the top of the stairs. He took her by the shoulders and gently thrust her away, and she saw another man stood behind him.

"Dr. Bellingham! Oh, goodness..." Her heart leapt into her throat. "How... how long have you been here? Is it one o'clock already?"

"Forgive me, my lady." He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. "It's not quite one. We were somewhat early. This is my assistant and my brother, Mr. Rutger Bellingham."

She automatically dipped a curtsy at the man, and as he bowed toward her, she turned back to the doctor.

"I woke Mr. Fulton when we arrived. I wished to inform him about our decision regarding the amputation of his arm. I spoke to him about the surgery."

"Yes?" she breathed.

"Well, he was quite lucid, my lady. He refused the procedure. Given his clear state of mind, I feel I cannot, in good conscience, perform it."

Relief, mingled with renewed fear, rendered her unable to speak for a long moment. "Has his fever...?"

"It is higher than ever."

"You told him the risk?"

He nodded gravely. "There is some suppuration, and I have applied a hot poultice and spiritous embrocations to the wound to encourage it. If I don't cut it away, the infection will spread through the limb and into his body." He sighed. "If it spreads, it will likely do so very quickly, and..."

His voice dwindled, but Becky understood. She nodded. "He will die. Abruptly."

"Yes, my lady."

"Is he still awake?"

"Just barely."

"Can I see him?"

The doctor inclined his head. "Of course."

She entered Jack's room. He lay very still, but his eyes were open and he stared at the ceiling.

She swallowed. Walking toward him was like walking through syrup, and she had to push herself through every step. "Oh, Jack."

As if it took great effort, he turned to her, his eyes bright and feverish.

"No... amputation," he whispered through chapped lips.

"Are... are you certain that is what you wish? Dr. Bellingham said he told you the risks." She swallowed hard. "We believe mortification has begun. It will spread through your body. It might well kill you."

Looking away from her, he managed a one-shouldered shrug.

She grabbed his good hand. It was hot and dry.

"I... I don't want you to die."

"Why not?"

Dr. Bellingham stood in the doorway, and she glanced at him, dismissing him with her eyes. He nodded and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Because I love you.

But she couldn't say that. She couldn't. Not now.

"Because you don't deserve to die," she said instead.

"Don't I?"

"No," she murmured. "You are young and strong... and... and you deserve to live."

"No amputation," he rasped out.

She tried not to cry. She tried very hard. But it was no use. The tears began again. He watched them roll down her face dispassionately, then he closed his eyes.

"Please don't die. Please. I want you to live."

"Do you mean that?"

"I do. Please, Jack. Please don't die," she sobbed.

"Why?" he demanded, his voice stronger now.

"Because... I could not bear to be in this world without you. I could not bear to live a single day knowing that you were gone. Knowing that I was the one responsible. Knowing that if I wasn't so cruel, so unforgiving, that you would still be healthy and whole." She heaved in a breath. "Because I loved you once. Because somehow I know you are different from William. Because some part of me still insists that you loved me, too."

She pressed the hot back of his hand to her cheek, cooling the dry skin with her tears.

"I will try not to die, Becky," he whispered finally, closing his eyes. "I'll try my damndest."

Late that night, Jack's fever broke. Becky sat at his side, unable to sleep. She watched as the sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled down his face. She bathed him with clean towels. When she brushed her fingers over his skin, she found it damp and cool.

It was a difficult night. He tossed and turned, moaning in pain whenever anything touched his skin. She changed the dressing, noticing the wound was still an angry red, and it was swollen and hot. She alternated between squeezing drops of clean, fresh water and drops of watered-down brandy into Jack's mouth, a prescription she read had once saved a man's life after he'd been shot in the Peninsular Wars.

As a steely dawn began to drift through the motheaten curtain, Jack opened his eyes. The brown orbs were solemn now, no longer bright with fever.

"Hurts," he announced in a scraping voice.

She pushed a limp lock of hair away from her face. "Your fever broke last night."

He glanced at his arm. It was useless, for now, but it was still there. Sometime during the night, the swelling had diminished considerably.

"It's a miracle," she whispered.

He turned back to her. "You said you wanted me to live."

Emotion welled in her chest, so thick she could scarcely breathe. Looking away from him, she rose, her knees wobbling. "I... I'll go get you something to eat."

She hurried from the room. After instructing Mrs. Jennings to make Jack some broth, she went into the bedchamber adjacent to the master's chamber and spent the rest of the day scrubbing it until it sparkled.

Late in the afternoon, she finally summoned the courage to go to Jack. The doctor had him sitting up in bed, and some color had returned to his cheeks.

She tried to smile at him. "You look well."

He nodded. "I am better."

"That's... good." Awkwardly, she went to sit on the chair she'd hardly left for the last week.

"Where have you been all day?" he asked.

She looked at him, then quickly away. Heat crept over her cheeks. Why couldn't she bring herself to tell him the truth? That she'd arranged for his blood money to be sent to Mr. Wortingham? That he no longer needed to worry about his neck? That she was a coward and had avoided him all day?

"I've been working about the house."

She should tell him now. But... perhaps it wasn't necessary. She would tell him when he was a little better. When she could conjure the nerve to do so.

"Ah."

She licked her lips, and he looked away.

"I don't blame you, you know," she blurted. "For killing the marquis."

His tired gaze drifted back to meet hers. "You don't?"

"No. If what you said was true, then it was right of you to kill him. If he hurt his wife... if he murdered her... he didn't deserve to live."

"No," he agreed without intonation. "He didn't deserve to live."

She nodded. "I... I just wanted to make it clear. William... before Garrett killed him... I stabbed him. In the gut." She blinked hard. "He was... he was holding a gun, was going to kill... I had no choice." She hated talking about this. She hated reliving it.

"So I understand what it is like," she finished. "To make that decision, to choose between allowing evil to flourish and ending it."

"I know you understand," Jack said. "You made that choice again, because I was another man who deceived you, who lied to you. You were right to try to stop me. Stop the evil I represented."

"No!" she choked out. But then she clamped her lips shut and stared at him bleakly. Finally, she said, "It was different with you. I wanted... despite everything, I wanted you to live."

And Jack wasn't evil, not like William Fisk and the Marquis of Haredowne. Despite what he'd done to her. She didn't know how she knew that-she just did.

He closed his eyes. "I'm tired."

He was dismissing her, she realized. He didn't want her in the room with him. It made sense. She'd caused him untold agony and nearly been responsible for his death, after all. What was she expecting? His heartfelt thanks? That would be ridiculous.

She rose. "Of course. Can I bring you anything?"

"No. If I need something, I'll call for Mrs. Jennings."

She forced herself to nod. Mrs. Jennings had taken to sleeping in the bedroom across the corridor, for Jack and Becky had often needed her at night in the past week. "Yes. Of course. Well. Good night, then."

"Good night, Becky."

Jack watched her go, her willowy figure gliding over the threshold before she closed the door gently behind her.

It always hurt him to watch her walk away, but this time there was a finality to it that tore at his chest.

He gave a long, shuddering sigh. His shoulder ached, but it wasn't terrible. It had hurt far worse this morning than in the previous days. He knew it would heal now.

All he'd needed was to hear her say she wanted him to live. Those few words were enough for him to cross the barrier, to fight with everything he had to conquer the infection that threatened his body.

Yet he had broken her. He saw it in her posture, in the shoulders that she'd held so straight when she'd trusted him. Now they sagged beneath the weight of her sadness. He saw it in her face, in those changeable eyes that no longer sparkled with passion but were somber and dark. In the flat line of her brow, and in her pale complexion. He didn't know how long it had been since she'd discovered his betrayals and his lies, but she must have lost half a stone in that time, and on a frame as slight as hers, half a stone was an enormous amount of weight.

Mrs. Jennings bustled in with a steaming bowl. "Well, then, young man. I've heard you're feeling a mite better. Are you feeling up for some supper?"

He eyed the dish in her hand warily.

" 'Tis only a bit of mutton broth. Do you think you can manage it?"

He needed food. He needed his strength. He'd been chained to this damned bed long enough, and he wanted out. He wasn't made to be an invalid.

"Yes. I can manage it."

"Very good, then." She settled in the chair that Becky always occupied. Guilt stabbed at him for asking her to leave. But watching her, the way she was now, broke his heart. He wanted to hold her close and tell her all would be well. That he loved her and cared for her, that he'd take care of her. That he'd make her happy.