The only reason he’d left her bedside at all was because Liam and Nell’s sisters were there, talking in hushed tones, giving him those worried looks. Vivi had brought him coffee and a sandwich at the lunch stand in the lobby. He hadn’t been able to eat it. His insides felt like they were turned to cold stone.
He kicked his stuff into the corner of the bathroom and walked out, braving the sympathetic glances. Vivi vacated the chair near the head of Nell’s bed. He jerked his chin at it, indicating that she should sit again.
“As fucking if. Sit.” She grabbed his shoulders and pushed him into the chair. “You’re the one who’s been out there being heroic.”
He slumped into the chair, and took up Nell’s hand again. The one that wasn’t torn up, bandaged into a puffy white ball. Her hand was so cold. But so was his. Clammy with fear. He had no heat to give her.
Vivi put her hand on his shoulder, leaned over, and kissed the top of his head. “Hey. Duncan,” she said softly. “You did good. It’s going to be fine. Try to relax, okay? You’re scaring us.”
He jerked his head and hunched lower over Nell’s hand.
Some time later, her fingers twitched inside his. His heart jumped up into his throat. Her eyes were fluttering open. Dazed.
Nancy and Vivi got up and came over to the other side of the bed.
“Hey, sweetie,” Nancy said, her voice thick with tears.
Nell gave them a tiny smile, as if the corners of her lips were too heavy to lift. Her eyes flicked over to Duncan’s. He stared back, mute. A silence took over the room. An electrical charge that grew. And grew.
“Ah, maybe the three of us can just go take a little coffee break,” Vivi suggested, her voice brisk. “Come on, you guys. Let’s, ah go.”
They trooped out the door, leaving the two of them finally alone.
Nell gazed up, so happy he was there. Both of them, still alive. How marvelous and improbable was that?
Her heart was swelling, so soft and full, it felt like a supernova inside her chest. She was exhausted, limp. And so soft. A fuzzy glow of light lying in the bed. Probably it was whatever they’d drugged her with. Nice stuff.
Duncan lifted her hand and leaned forward, elbows on the bed. Rubbing her knuckles against his cheek. His beard stubble was a delicious cat’s-tongue rasp of pleasurable friction against her skin.
He didn’t look good. His eyes were shadowed, and his mouth was grim.
She tried to speak to him, but her muscles wouldn’t respond.
“Don’t talk,” he ordered, frowning. “Rest.”
She finally got words out, letting them ride on the outbreath. “Did I thank you for saving my life?”
A smile softened the grim cast of his face. “Not too recently,” he admitted. “Not in the last thirty-six hours, at least.”
“Ah. Well.” She squeezed his hand. “For the record.”
There was so much to say to him, it was bottlenecked inside her. Then, suddenly her memories coalesced. And with them, a clutch of fear. “Elsie?” she asked. “And Wesley?”
“They’re okay,” he assured her. “Elsie was treated for shock and contusions, your sisters told me, but she’s already getting off on being a local celebrity. She’s in hog heaven, giving interviews to the local paper from her hospital bed. Wesley’s pretty bad, but he’s in stable condition now. Bullet to the shoulder, lost a lot of blood. But he should be okay.”
“Thank God,” she murmured. Her eyes drifted closed again. She felt like a radio, tuning in and out of the frequency of consciousness, but Duncan was always there, like a rock coming in and out of view in the mist. So comforting. Another factoid popped to the top of her mind.
“They’re looking for sketches,” she said.
He frowned. “Huh? Who is looking for what?”
“John and Haupt. The bad guys. Lucia’s treasure. They’re after sketches of some kind. Haupt told me his name and a bunch of other stuff, just for the fun of it. To taunt me. Hah. Funny, isn’t it?”
His eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t know if funny’s the word I’d use.”
“The Conte deLuca, Lucia’s father, hid these sketches from the Nazis during the Second World War,” she went on. “And they’re still hidden. Wild stuff. How did you know to come after me?”
“Found a bug in your laptop. Followed the GPS in your cell.”
“No way,” she whispered. “Saved by a cell phone. The irony of it.”
He pressed his face to her hand. “I couldn’t let them hurt you.”
She stroked his jaw. “You’re cold,” she fretted softly. “Why are you cold? You’re usually so hot.”
“I’m scared shitless,” he blurted out.
Her eyes widened, shocked. “Huh? You? Why?”
“I thought I’d lost you.” The words rushed out as if they were under pressure. “Nothing’s worth shit without you, Nell. If they hurt you, that would be it for me. I’d be finished. Dead meat. Worm food.”
She petted his cheek, trying to soothe him. “Duncan. Don’t—”
“I have to have you in my life,” he said. “Have to. I don’t give a shit anymore about all that crap we argued about. You want me to make a formal declaration of love, fine. I’ll do it. You want me to memorize poetry and recite it to you naked and standing on my head, I’ll do it. Any fucking song or dance routine you want—”
“No,” she said softly.
He cut off the stream of words, alarmed. “Uh, no in what sense?”
“No in the sense of no, it’s not necessary. You don’t have to stand on your head or do any routine. You don’t even have to tell me that you love me. Because you already did.”
He blinked. “I did? How do you figure? When?”
“Just now,” she told him, smiling. “And not only that. You get big points for being really poetic and original about it.”
His face cleared, but he still looked perplexed. “Great,” he said doubtfully. “Hold on, here. Points? What’s this I hear about points? I thought points pissed you off.”
She laughed, softly, petting his cheek again. She couldn’t bear to stop. “There’s something about staring death in the face that helps a girl get over her pet peeves.”
“Ah. Well, hell, I didn’t even know I was being poetic,” he said. “Don’t I have to tell you your eyes are like stars and your skin like lily petals? And your ass is like a ripe, juicy peach?”
She shook her head. “Stars, lilies, peaches, pah. Overdone. Having a guy charge in to save you from a horrible death at the hands of psychopathic sadists? Now, that’s poetry.”
He lay his head on her chest. His shoulders shook. She petted them and ran her fingers through his hair, again and again. She didn’t want to break their physical contact for a single second. She wanted to cling to him. Just stay eternally fused.
“So we’re getting married?” His muffled voice had a challenging tone. “Soon? Like, now?”
She smiled up at the ceiling, euphoric. She was going to float up there, get stuck on the ceiling. “As soon as you like,” she said.
He raised his head and fixed her with a narrow gaze, as if daring her to contradict him. “And we’re having our honeymoon in Italy.”
“Sounds amazing,” she said.
He hugged her tighter. “You are so beautiful,” he muttered. “And by the way. Your ass really is like a ripe, juicy peach.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “That’s a lovely sentiment.”
“I know I’m stubborn,” he went on. “And resistant to change, and I always order the same thing in restaurants. But the flip side is, I know what I like. Once I make up my mind, I don’t change it. I’m talking about to the end of time, Nell.”
“That’s wonderful,” she whispered. “To the ends of being, and ideal grace. Lovely. I’m melting. Keep going.”