Ten minutes later she shuffled painfully out of the room and went in search of Patrick. She found him on the veranda, lounging in his favorite cushioned rattan chair, the usual glass of whiskey in his hand. God, she hoped he was still sober enough to be coherent.
He didn't change his position as she came out on the veranda. "What are you doing up? You need your rest." He looked down in the depths of his glass. "Go back to bed."
"I need to have a talk with you, Patrick."
"It's a shame about Ruel MacClaren's brother. I don't think he's going to—"
"It shouldn't have happened, Patrick"
"It was an accident. It was that goddamn river." He took a sip of whiskey. "Bad luck. You know accidents happen all the time."
"Not like this one."
His hand tightened on his glass. "Why are you nagging me? Haven't I got enough to worry about? The maharajah is raging mad that we lost his train and swearing he won't pay me."
"I don't care about the maharajah." She tried to steady her voice. "There's a dying man in this house, a good man."
"I couldn't help it," Patrick said defensively. "Who would have thought the river would have enough force to cause the supports to vibrate that much? It should have been all right."
"I saw the rails, Patrick."
He glanced away from her and took a swallow of his whiskey. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"One of the rails broke when we started over the gorge. Those rails were supposed to be of the finest-grade steel, but I went back and took a look at them. They weren't like the rails we'd used on the rest of track. They were iron, not steel. Iron, Patrick. You know iron won't support the same kind of stress as steel. Those rails had already been weakened by the constant vibration caused by the river hitting the supports, and when the train started across the bridge, the weight made them—" She stopped, staring at him in astonishment.
Tears were running down Patrick's cheeks. "I didn't want this to happen. I thought it would be all right. It was such a short stretch of track. It should have been fine. I spent too much on the brass for the locomotive and I couldn't get another loan. I didn't want anyone to die."
"Oh, Patrick," she whispered. She had hoped he would tell her she was wrong and give her a believable explanation.
"I made a mistake," Patrick said. "But I'm going to pay for it. I'm ruined, Jane. No one will ever hire me again when they hear the maharajah blames me for what happened."
She felt sick. "I can't feel sorry for you, Patrick."
He nodded quickly. "I'll never forgive myself if that man dies."
She wasn't sure she could forgive him even if Ian lived.
"You won't tell anyone about the rails? I told the maharajah it was an unavoidable accident caused by the vibration, that it was the river's fault. . . ." He added quickly, "It was partly true."
"I won't tell anyone," she said wearily. "You may be guilty, but it was my fault too. I thought it strange you wanted to take over the construction after those rails were delivered, but I wanted to believe you were ..." She trailed off as her own guilt overwhelmed her. If she had followed her instincts, Ian wouldn't be lying in that room on the point of death. She would have seen those rails and known the danger they posed.
"That's my girl," he said, relieved. "And in the meantime, we'll do everything we can to help that poor man."
"I don't want you here," she whispered.
"What?"
"I can't look at you right now." Her tone sounded hard, she realized, yet she didn't feel hard, only hollow. "Pack your bag and go to the Officers' Club."
Patrick flushed, his eyes widening in astonishment. "But I ..." He met her gaze and then said lamely, "If you're sure that's what you want."
"That's what I want." She turned and left the veranda.
The darkness was fading and Ian could see a warm, loving light beckoning, welcoming him.
"I know you're awake, Ian. Open your eyes, dammit."
It was Ruel's voice again, demanding, cajoling, talking to him, always talking, taking him away from the light.
"Tired."
"You're not tired. You're giving up. Now open your eyes and look at me."
Ian's lids lifted slowly.
Ruel's face was above him, leaner, cheeks hollowed, blue eyes blazing, compelling.
Tiger burn bright . . .
"Good. Now open your mouth."
Broth, hot, meaty.
"No, don't turn your head away. You're going to eat all of it. You can't fight without strength."
"Pain. Such pain . . ."
"You can stand the pain. Stay with me."
Ruel didn't realize how great the pain was or he wouldn't have asked him to bear it. He must have muttered the words because Ruel was answering.
"I do know. God, I've watched you . . ." His hand covered Ian's on the bed. "But I'm not giving you up to it. You're going to get well and you're going to go home to Glenclaren."
"Glenclaren." Towers, cool hills. "Too . . . far away."
"But I'm right here." Ruel's hand tightened on his. "And you can't leave me. I need you, dammit."
But Ruel never needed anyone. "No."
"I do need you. Can't you feel it?"
Ruel's eyes were bright, shimmering, his grip desperately tight. Ian wanted to tell him to release him, to let him go back to the light. Yet Ruel never admitted to needing anyone, so it must be true. Not fair to leave Ruel if he was in need. He supposed he'd have to. come back. . . .
"I'll try, lad," Ian said weakly. "I'll try. . . ."
"That's all I ask." Ruel's voice was husky, but Ian was aware of the steely undertone, the implacable will that had pulled him back from the comforting darkness. "I'll do the rest, Ian."
All is well. Kedain's Inn.
Relief flowed through Jane as she folded the note and tore it in small pieces. Li Sung and Kartauk were safe. At least something in the world was going right.
She tossed the pieces of the note in the wastebasket, then whirled around as Ruel walked out of the bedroom. "I've just heard from Li Sung. They've reached Narinth safely."
"Good." Ruel carefully closed the bedroom door behind him. "Ian's sleeping. The doctor's examination this morning nearly drove him insane."
She had heard those cries of agony from the bedroom and felt as tortured as Ruel looked. "At least he's alive and seems to be getting better every day. I think he's put on a pound or two this week."
And as Ian had gained, Ruel had lost. He had put a cot in the sickroom and scarcely left Ian's side during the past three weeks. At least fifteen pounds had slipped away from his lean frame, and yet he didn't appear diminished. Indeed, sometimes when she looked at him he appeared to cast an incandescent glow. The force of will he had expended keeping Ian alive had acted as a flame, burning, sharpening, defining him. "What did the doctor say?"
"Ian's out of danger."
"Thank God."
"That's not what Ian said." Ruel smiled bitterly. "For once he was singularly lacking in piety. He may never walk again."
"Oh, no!"
"Something's wrong with his back," he said jerkily. "He has no feeling in his legs, and he may not even be able to sit up."