Atonement

Chapter 11

Fabien roused, feeling drowsy and disoriented. His mind felt mired in fog, swirls of mist holding him captive and preventing him from surfacing fully. His body felt heavy and uncooperative, his limbs like lead. Slowly and with considerable effort he tried to focus his attention. The site of his injury throbbed mercilessly as memories flooded back - his hasty departure, Cassel's estate, his injury and his return. Sophie. Her name brought forth hazy, tangled remembrances of quiet words and soothing touches that teased at the edges of his memory. He strained mentally, trying desperately to make sense of the myriad of images that flashed through his mind - soft lips and even softer curves that moulded to him so completely, he swore it felt like an extension of his own limbs. Impossible. Yet even as he thought the word, his fingers twitched as if trying to hold onto the phantom form he swore he could still feel cradled in his arms.

His eyes cracked open and he blinked, dispelling scores of titillating visions as his blurry gaze cleared and the room coalesced. He was lying atop a bed, a white bedsheet and quilted green coverlet drawn up to his waist, his torso naked. He recognised the bedchamber as the one Sophie had occupied upon his departure, although the space looked more cheerful in the light of day. Gone were the shadows he recalled cowering in every corner, dispelled only by the middling licks of red and gold flames emitting from the grate. Instead, sunshine and warmth flooded in through the windows, the drapes swept wide to allow as much light into the bedchamber as possible. Judging by the position of the sun as it slanted through the windowpane, he determined the time to be not long past midday. Shifting slightly, he winced at the pain in his side, a reminder of how close he'd come to an early grave.

"Fabien?" Helene was instantly at his side, her wrinkled fingers smoothing across his forehead as her blue eyes peered down at him, her face lined with worry. "Oh thank God, your fever has broken."

"Water," he croaked, his throat dry, his voice hoarse.

Helene poured some water into a cup from a nearby pitcher before returning to his side. She helped him raise his head, watching closely as he tentatively sipped the cool liquid, then took greater gulps to quench his thirst. "I was starting to despair of you ever waking up. Your fever raged for four days."

Fabien jolted. He had no recollection of so much time having passed. Closing his eyes, he focussed his attention, piecing together fragments of disjointed reminders - Helene and Marthe coaxing broth down his throat, Thomas bathing his fevered body with a cool compress. There were also other memories of Sophie's soft words, low utterances he instinctively knew were particularly calming to him during moments of acute delirium. Shaking his head to gain some clarity, his eyes popped open again.

"His Majesty—" he remembered suddenly, moving to sit and then groaning in pain.

"Will be glad to know you are alive," Helene interjected, a firm hand on his chest to stay his movements. "Rest, so the king may have the pleasure of appropriating your talents once more."

"Valuable time has been lost—"

Helene shook her head. "Sophie sent a letter to the palace right after you were injured. To a Monsieur Bontemps."

"What did it say?" he demanded, easing back against the pillows, spent. He resented the feeling of impotence his weakened state aroused.

Helene trained her eyes on him. "I cannot say. Sophie guards your secrets as though they were her own."

Pleasure and pride mingled inside him, battling for supremacy. "Where is she?"

"Asleep. She needed rest. Your young mademoiselle has been at your side night and day."

"She is not mine," he denied, even as a surge of possessiveness belied his words.

With a rustle of dark woollen skirts, Helene sat down beside the bed, staring at him with a familiarity only a woman who'd had a hand in raising him would. "I may be old, but I am not blind."