CHAPTER 45: CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

Weston scoffed, pushing off the mantelpiece and walking over to his friend. He placed a heavy, comforting hand on Rowan’s shoulder. "There are no apologies between us," he said, his voice firm. "She is your sister. She was my guest. The party was dreadful anyway. All that matters is that she is well. Do not say another word about it."

Rowan nodded, his throat tight. He turned, then, to the other man in the room. The man who had been so silent, he was almost a shadow.

"Carcel..."

The shadow moved. Carcel lifted his head, turning in the deep chair to look at him.

Rowan was, for a moment, genuinely shocked. He, Rowan, felt exhausted. But Carcel... Carcel looked destroyed.

His cravat was missing. His white shirt, the one he had worn for the race, was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the dark hair on his chest. His own hair, usually so perfect, was a damp, tangled mess, as if he had been dragging his hands through it for hours. His trousers were dusty and grass-stained. And his eyes... his eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale and drawn, as if he had not slept in a week. He looked more disheveled, more haunted, than Rowan had ever seen him, even during the war.

"Rowan," Carcel said. His voice was a low, rough rasp, as if he had been gargling stones.

"Thank you," Rowan said, his voice full of a deep, profound sincerity. "Thank you so much, Carcel. If it wasn’t for you... I... I don’t know what I would have done. I was in such a... a panicked state."

The memory of the afternoon hit Rowan again, as sharp and clear as a shard of glass.

The horses were thunder. The roar of the crowd was a wave of sound. Carcel was pulling ahead, his black stallion a streak of dark lightning, and Rowan, competitive to his core, was grinning, urging his own bay on. He was going to lose, but it was a glorious race.

And then, the sound had changed.

It was not a cheer. It was a scream. A dozen high-pitched, female screams, slicing through the air.

Rowan had pulled on his reins, his horse rearing, confused. He had looked toward the pavilion. And he had seen it.

A splash of violet silk. A small, crumpled heap on the green grass.

His world had gone silent. He had not felt his feet leave the stirrups. He did not remember jumping from the horse. He was just... running. His heart was a cold, hard stone in his chest.

When he reached her, the world came roaring back. He dropped to his knees, his hands hovering, terrified to touch her. She was so pale. So horribly, horribly still. Her lips had a faint, bluish tint.

"Ines," he had breathed, his voice a terrified whisper. He had shaken her shoulder. "Ines, wake up. Please. INES!"

And then, a second shadow had fallen over them. Carcel. He, too, had run from his horse, his chest heaving, his face a mask of pale, terrifying stillness.

"Rowan. Stop."

Carcel’s voice was not a shout. It was a command. Clipped. Cold. The voice of a soldier on a battlefield. It had cut through Rowan’s panic.

"Panicking won’t help her," Carcel had said.

And then, before Rowan could even process it, Carcel had knelt, slid one arm under her knees, the other under her back, and scooped her up from the ground. He had lifted her as if she weighed nothing. He held her, bridal style, her head lolling, limp, against his chest.

He was calm. His face was a mask of stone. But Rowan could see the frantic pulse beating in his throat, could see the way his entire body was rigid with a controlled, terrifying tension.

"Rowan. Listen to me," Carcel had ordered, his eyes locked on Rowan’s. "You know her condition better than I do. Go to Weston. Find the best doctor in the town. Now."

"But... but..." Rowan had stammered, his eyes still on his sister’s pale, still face.

"I will take Ines inside," Carcel had said, his voice a blade. "I will not leave her. I will watch over her until you arrive. GO!"

Rowan, still panicking, but desperate for an order, for a purpose, had nodded. "Okay. Okay. Thank you."

He had turned and run, stumbling, toward Weston, shouting for a doctor, shouting for help.

The last thing he had seen was Carcel, already moving, half-running toward the house, holding Ines against his chest as if she were the most precious, fragile thing in the world.

Back in the study, Carcel winced at the memory, at the praise he did not deserve. He could not look Rowan in the eye. He stared at his own hands, which were clasped so tightly his knuckles were white.

"What did the doctor say?" Carcel asked. His voice was still that low, rough rasp.

Rowan sighed, the energy leaving him. He sank into the chair opposite Carcel.

"He said... he said it was emotional stress."

Carcel’s blood ran cold. He looked down. He knew it. He had known it the moment she had fled the shed. He had known it when he had seen her, pale and defeated, at the tea table. He had known it when he had, like a fool, pushed her away with his words.

I did this. The thought was a sickening, guilty stone in his gut. My rejection. My coldness. My... my foolish, cruel words. I did this to her.

Rowan, oblivious to his friend’s internal, silent confession, continued. "He said someone... or something... must have said something that triggered her. Frightened her. A profound shock, he called it."

Rowan ran a hand through his hair, his frustration growing. "We will be leaving tomorrow. First light. I am not... I am not risking her health here. When we get home, I will call the family doctor. Have him do a follow-up checkup on her."

He let out a long, bitter sigh and sat back, his head resting on the high back of the chair. "This," he said, his voice low and full of a familiar, weary sadness, "is why she doesn’t like any social gatherings. This is why she hides. She knows. She doesn’t see the need to interact with people, because... because this happens. Whatever happens, whatever small argument or... or shock... it might affect her heart. It is too dangerous for her."

Carcel said nothing. He just sat, a statue of guilt, and listened.

"And it is why," Rowan continued, his voice so quiet Carcel had to strain to hear it, "why I want her to get married so quickly. I thought... I thought if she had someone. Someone of her own, to protect her, to... to make her happy... she wouldn’t be so... so alone. She could be safe. She could be happy." He pushed his head back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Carcel looked at his friend. He saw the deep, brotherly love, the guilt, the desperation to protect his sister in the only way he knew how. And Carcel knew that he was the "emotional stress." He was the "shock." He was the one who had, in the space of twelve hours, become the single greatest danger to the woman his best friend loved more than life itself.

Weston, seeing the heavy, dark, miserable atmosphere that had descended on the room, stood up abruptly.

"Well," he said, his voice deliberately, almost painfully, cheerful. "She is fine now. And she is awake. And that, as I said, is all that matters. And you two," he said, looking at Rowan’s rumpled exhaustion and Carcel’s haunted, disheveled state, "look like you have just been through a battle. And you have, I suppose."

He went to a dark, mahogany cabinet. "You, my friends, need this."

He pulled out a heavy, dark, dusty bottle and three crystal glasses. "This is my father’s best brandy. The one he was saving for my wedding, which, at this rate, will be never. You will thank me later."

He poured three very generous, golden-brown measures. He handed one to Rowan, who took it, a grateful, exhausted nod.

He handed the other to Carcel.

Carcel looked at the glass. He needed it. He needed to burn the guilt from his throat. He needed to burn away the memory of her, limp and pale in his arms. He needed to burn away the memory of her, lying still, unmoving in the bed.

His hand was trembling slightly as he took the glass.

Weston raised his own. "To our friends. And to... a speedy recovery."

Rowan nodded. "To Ines."

Carcel said nothing. He just lifted the glass, and he drank. The liquid fire was a punishment, and a release