He didn’t dare take his eyes off the viscount. “No. My word of honor: if you’re committed to Bedlam again, it won’t be from any action of mine.”
The sardonic expression had returned to Kilbourne’s eyes. He hadn’t missed the implication that Maximus thought him quite capable of doing something that would have him apprehended and returned to the madhouse.
Another tug on his hand and a reproachful “Maximus.” Her next words were for her brother, though. “You can trust him, darling. Truly.”
Kilbourne didn’t take his gaze off Maximus, but he nodded. He took a breath and opened his mouth. A terrible, wrenching noise issued from Kilbourne’s lips and Maximus’s eyes widened as he realized.
“Stop!” Artemis tore herself from his hand and hurried to her brother. “Apollo, you must stop.”
Kilbourne grimaced horribly, his hand clutching his throat.
“Let me see.” Artemis placed her small hand on his great paw. “Craven, would you be so kind as to bring us some water, wine, and a few cloths?”
“Right away, ma’am.” The valet turned.
“Bring foolscap and a pencil as well,” Maximus said.
Craven hurried from the room.
“Darling,” she crooned to the monster, and Maximus couldn’t stop the stab of jealousy, even if it was her brother. “You must let me have a look.”
The great paw dropped.
Artemis drew in a sharp breath.
Even from his stance behind her, Maximus could see the black bruise stamped upon Kilbourne’s throat.
It was in the shape of a boot.
She turned to look at Maximus, her beautiful gray eyes stricken.
He took her hand again, this time to comfort rather than to restrain. Kilbourne watched with narrowed eyes as his sister curled her fingers about Maximus’s hand. For a madman he seemed uncommonly aware.
Artemis turned to help her brother to lie down upon the cot. He might’ve regained consciousness, but he obviously was still injured. She smoothed the blanket over his chest and murmured softly to him as they waited interminably for Craven’s return.
It seemed like hours later when Craven reentered the cellar, bearing the requested items.
Artemis immediately took one of the cloths the valet held and dipped it in the jug of water he’d brought. She wrung out the cloth and laid it on her brother’s throat, her movements exquisitely gentle.
Maximus waited until she was done before handing the pencil and paper to Kilbourne.
The man looked at him, then propped himself on one elbow to scratch out words on the paper.
Maximus bent to read the bold, scrawled hand:
When can I leave?
APOLLO WAS ALIVE. That was the main thing, Artemis reminded herself late that afternoon as she trailed Phoebe from shop to shop. Even if he still—distressingly—couldn’t talk, even if Maximus seemed to think her darling brother mad—despite her protests and Apollo’s own quite sane manner this morning—at least he was safe.
Everything else could be managed as long as he was alive and safe. Apollo would heal and speak again, and she would somehow persuade Maximus of what an idiot he was being.
Apollo would be all right.
“Artemis, come see.”
She brought herself back to the present at Phoebe’s eager urging. Shopping with Phoebe was nothing like shopping with Penelope. Penelope shopped like a general planning a major campaign: she had objectives, strategies for assault and retreats—though she hardly ever retreated—and the ruthless eye of a woman ready to slaughter her enemy—in this case the shopkeepers of Bond Street. Despite Penelope’s great wealth, she seemed to consider it her duty to bargain down the price on everything she bought.
Artemis had once witnessed a shopkeeper acquire a tic under his eye after two hours of waiting upon Lady Penelope Chadwicke.