"You are getting desperate, are you not, my lord?" Aliya asked Hartcaster, brows furrowed with concern. It had not been easy to see the man suffer in secret and all the while pretending that he was untouchable whenever he was around his peers.

"Yes." His dark brown eyes were lined and dark by the sleepless nights of weariness. Aliya felt that if he as much as closed his eyes for longer than a blink, he would fall asleep. She knew that he stayed by his wife's bed for the three days they had been in Birth.

In the morning, before Aliya and the other staff in the beachside villa woke, Hartcaster would take his wife outside so they could both watch the sunrise beyond the horizon.

"You have no idea how she was before this mysterious illness. She had all the energy of an entire ballroom. She climbed mountains and hills just to see the sun rise and fall. She took me to places I would not have dared go." His eyes glimmered as he reminisced the past. "But now... now, she is just tired," Hartcaster choked. He looked out the window, resting the back of his fingers against his lips, his eyes unfocused and wet with unshed tears. "Now, I am just afraid she would tire of being tired."

Aliya wiped her cheek and held out her hand to cover Hartcaster's. The man turned and smiled at her. "Thank you for being here with her."

"Of course," she whispered. "She has always been fond of me and I wonder why. We have grown to be friends."

He nodded. "We have done everything—I have done everything I could." Aliya nodded, entirely aware of everything Hartcaster did for his wife. The doctors from London were of no help. They could not find any reason for her condition, claiming they had seen similar cases, but no studies were yet to provide answers. A sardonic chuckle escaped Hartcaster. "In a desperate attempt, I sent St. Vincent a letter."

Aliya's brows rose in surprise. "To check on her?"

He nodded. "He is not my favorite doctor, but many swear on his skill. He spent years in the Americas and London. He even came to the Orient and God knows where else. He must know something."

"And has he ever replied to your letters?"

"No. I cannot approach him in social events because he will always be unavailable and I always assumed he purposely ignored my letters."

"Do you truly believe he can help?"

"No, I do not, but St. Vincent is the one you call when you have nothing else to lose."

Aliya wondered why she never heard of St. Vincent's name before. In her years outside of Belcourt, she should have heard about him. But perhaps it was because she only listened to what was important to her.

Aliya's time at Birth had been a relief from her troubles back in Strait, but she also knew that it was all just fantasy. Soon, she would have to go home. And when she did, the problems would still be there. The financial problems would greet her. Mason and Delaney would be her constant worry. St. Vincent would be back chasing her for whatever delusion he may have and she would enjoy it.

So why not take one problem from Strait to Birth?

That afternoon, she wrote a letter addressed to Oliver St. Vincent, one to his home and the other to Sinclair.

Dear Doctor,

It would be my greatest pleasure if you can join me in Birth.

Soon.

If you have the time.

The woman with no broken arm,

Aliya

It was short and seemed hasty, but that would have to do. The less he knew of her reason, the better. The letter was posted that very same day and was expected to reach St. Vincent in less than two days.

For two more days, Aliya did her best to ease Lady Hartcaster's discomfort.

One afternoon, the woman asked if Aliya could take her out to the beach. It was cold, but Lady Hartcaster wanted to feel the sand in her bare feet. With the help of the staff and her wheeled chair, they set up a small picnic outside.

Aliya wrapped three shawls around Lady Hartcaster, noting that she had lost weight since they left Strait. It did not help that her light blonde hair highlighted her pale face and lips.

"How long has it been since my husband took you to our estate to meet me, Aliya?"

Her lips curled in a slight smile. "Four, five years?" she replied, quite unsure. "He told me that it was not him that I should entertain."

Lady Hartcaster chuckled and closed her eyes as the cold wind blew against her face. "I asked him to enter Belcourt and get himself a woman who would not take away his money. I swear I did not order him to find one to be my friend."

Taking Lady Hartcaster's hand in hers, she massaged it gently. "I do not regret being your friend. And your husband does not wish for anyone else. He loves you dearly."

The lady looked at their hands. "I love it when you do that." She faced the ocean again, the waves were less harsh, a soft lullaby to their winter afternoon. "I should have tried harder to bear him children." Aliya moistened her lips. "He would be very lonely, Aliya. Once I am gone."

The pain she felt was not for herself, but for the two people who had been a part of her life for half a decade. They had so much love and respect for each other and they did not deserve this. Why did it have to happen to them? Why not to those who did many evil things? Why did it have to happen to the two people who were only trying to live a full life?

Lady Hartcaster sighed as Aliya's shoulders shook in silent sobs. "Why are you crying, Aliya? I am not yet dead, am I?"

"I just cannot help but wonder why this has to happen to you, of all people, my lady," she said, sniffing and wiping her eyes with one hand. "Lord Hartcaster always narrate your adventures together."

The woman smiled. "I remember how he hated our first trip. He was such a dandy."

Aliya weakly chuckled. She stared at the woman, at the way her lids would close slowly and wait for a while to open them again. It was a struggle for her. "When I am gone, he will let you go," Lady Hartcaster said. "How I truly wish he will not. He could pay for your dowry. He could marry you—" the woman stopped and then shook her head. "But I also believe I am merely being selfish. You have a long life ahead of you. You do not deserve to care for a widower who is in love with his dead wife. I shouldn't have tried being too perfect, will you not agree?"

Aliya softly chuckled.

They had talked about this before and the conversation no longer bothered Aliya. As much as she needed money, she would never allow Hartcaster to pull her out of Belcourt for it would merely mean another prison. He would be a good husband to Aliya if he followed his wife's wishes, but there would be no love between them. They would be friends, yes, but they would both remember Lady Hartcaster and that would be a miserable life. They would be companions—two very lonely companions.

Mr. Jean interrupted them by delivering a letter to Aliya.

She quickly opened it and read.

Dear Ali,

As much as I would like to see you, I am currently preoccupied with personal matters.

The doctor who fixed the broken arm,

Oliver

Aliya frowned down at the paper.

He refused her invitation?

Now, that was something she had to doubt.

Oliver St. Vincent rejected her?

Was she overly confident when she penned her first letter?

"Bad news?" Lady Hartcaster asked.

Aliya absently folded the letter as she murmured, "No. Just a puzzling one." She adjusted Lady Hartcaster's shawls. "Are you not freezing?"

"As a matter of fact, I am," the woman replied with a soundless laugh. "Birth will be beautiful in the summer. Perhaps I should wait here until then. Strait is becoming a bore." She looked at Aliya. "You do not have to stay here with me for long, Aliya. I know you have responsibilities in Belcourt."

"I can stay for another week, my lady."

That night, she penned another letter to St. Vincent.

Dear Oliver,

I came to Birth for a short vacation and has fallen ill. I do not think I can trust the doctor who came to examine me.

The woman who wishes her doctor can come soon,

Aliya

*****

Oliver jumped from the carriage and strode up the front doors of the beach house.

His brows rose in surprise when he was greeted by a man.

"I was invited here by Lady Aliya. She claims to be sick?"

The man blinked. "Lady Aliya?"

"Yes," he said, pushing through the doorway. "Where is she?"

"But—who are you, sir?" the man asked.

"Oliver St. Vincent, her doctor."

"St. Vincent—" the man was instantly in front of him, eyes glimmering with gratefulness as he said, "Lord Hartcaster will be utterly grateful—"

"Hartcaster?"

The man blinked again, browse fused in confusion. "Yes, the Marquess of Hartcaster."

Oliver's eyes narrowed. "And this is his villa?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"And where is Lady Aliya?"

"Upstairs with—"

"I will not be long," he snapped, gritting his teeth. She dared invite him to her gentleman's villa! The nerve of the woman! "Lead the way."

The butler jumped to his feet and led him to a flight of stairs, two corridors, and a bedchamber.

He purposely made his presence known by swinging the door hard it crashed against the wall and strode inside the bedchamber to find Aliya standing arrested in one corner of the room holding a book, looking beautiful and... healthy.

When she jumped to her feet, his eyes veered to the bed.

A woman lay there, sleeping and was not roused by his rather loud entrance; therefore, she was sick. She did not seem like a servant; therefore, she was a lady. He sighed, rolling his eyes. Therefore, the woman was Hartcaster's wife.

"St. Vincent." His head snapped toward Aliya who was staring at him with disbelief.

"You tricked me, Ali."

She blinked. "We are desperate." She blinked at him again. "You look different."

"I trimmed my beard and tied my hair. I told you I have been preoccupied with personal matters." He narrowed his eyes at her. "And you tricked me," he repeated.

She guiltily smiled. "It had to be done."

He let out a frustrated sigh. "I am an easy man after all. I am either lured by free brandies or a woman who claims to be sick."

She bit her lower lip. "I apologize, please forgive me. You never responded to any of Lord Hartcaster's letters and you did not come when I invited you here. I had to be creative."

"Creative," he said with a scoff, turning to face the bed.

"St. Vincent!" Hartcaster strode into the room, breathless, Mr. Jean right behind him. "This is... a surprise. How did you—"

Oliver brushed off the rest of the man's words with his hand. "Thank Lady Aliya for her creative way of bringing me here. Now, go. I need to examine the real patient."

Aliya jumped to her feet and pulled Hartcaster from the room. "You stay, Ali," he said, frowning down at Lady Hartcaster's frail form. The room was not significantly cold, but she was wrapped from neck to foot. She was not sweating either.

He heard Aliya's footsteps come near. "Can you wake her up?"

Aliya nodded and slipped between him and the bed, bending over Lady Hartcaster to slowly break the woman's slumber. She whispered something and stepped aside so Lady Hartcaster's drooping eyes met his. Oliver did not say a word and the woman just nodded, her eyes closing once again.

"You can examine her now," Aliya softly told him.

Oliver sighed and peeled the thick covers off Lady Hartcaster. "Tell me, Ali, why are you here?"

He pulled down Lady Hartcaster's lower eyelids. White.

He checked her temperature. Cool.

"I serve as her companion."

He paused to look at Aliya who had transferred at the foot of the bed. "You serve as the companion of your gentleman's wife."

"Lord Hartcaster and I have a different arrangement."

He leaned over and listened to her breathing. Shallow and slow. His eyes met Aliya's probing gaze. "You are staring."

She blinked. "You look different."

He turned his attention on Lady Hartcaster's hand. Her nails were equally pale.

She had yellow patches everywhere. Bruises.

Good lord, this woman was barely alive.

He began to unbutton Lady Hartcaster's dress which was conveniently made for a sick person. She had been this way for quite a while, he noted. "How long has she been this way?"

"She was sick for a year when Hartcaster became a gentleman, but compared to now... she was better then."

Oliver checked the woman's abdominal area and found that it was distended. His jaw clenched. Redoing the buttons, he proceeded to cover the woman's upper body and inspected her legs and feet.

Aliya's light brown eyes were wide when he straightened. Her gaze searched his. "Well?"

"I do not see how I can be of help here, Ali."

"But surely, you have an idea of—"

He cut off her statement by pulling her out of the room. The marquess was outside waiting, pacing. He stopped and rushed to St. Vincent; his eyes filled with hope.

"As I was telling Lady Aliya inside, I do not see how I can be of help here, my lord," he said to Hartcaster whose shoulders dropped. Head bent, the marquess pressed his hand on his forehead.

"I am not saying her case is unseen, but it is uncommon. I have witnessed merely a number of the same case. Has her strength diminished over the years?"

"Yes," Hartcaster choked.

"And the bruises appeared mysteriously out of nowhere?"

"Yes, yes, they did," Aliya said. "St. Vincent, if you are familiar with her condition, then perhaps you can—"

"She has a disease of the blood," he interjected. "I am sure that the doctors from London would have told you that."

"They did," Hartcaster replied, lifting his head, eyes glistening with tears. "They all said the same thing."

Oliver nodded. "And they are not wrong. There is no known cure for this disease. Blood studies are premature in our age and it would take years, perhaps even a century, for us to completely understand what this is."

"She does not have years—or a century," Hartcaster nearly growled.

"No, she does not," he replied. He turned to Aliya whose face was already streaming with tears and sighed. "I may be the best doctor in Sutherland, but I am not God. I will stay here for a few more days. The only thing I can offer is to observe her condition and take notes which I shall contribute to the researchers in London."

"You are saying that the only help you can give is watching my wife die while you bastards experiment on—"

"What I am saying, Hartcaster, is that we are going to contribute to science so the people in the future do not suffer the same fate as your wife."

Hartcaster's face hardened. "I cannot allow that."

"Then I shall go home."

He turned and walked away.

Aliya ran after him and stopped him. "Please, you do not have to go. I will ask Mr. Jean to provide you a room. I will talk to Hartcaster. He will listen."

He sighed and rolled his eyes. "Ah, another lure, Ali."

She touched his arm. "Please. I am certain that Lady Hartcaster will wish for you to stay."

He looked behind him. Hartcaster had entered his wife's chamber.

"I will stay because I need to take my notes. And because you lured me into this."

Her lips twitched into a smile. "Thank you."

*****

Aliya had to remind herself that she took St. Vincent here because they needed his expertise. It was not because she wanted him here, really.

While her mind tried to erase the thoughts of Oliver St. Vincent's face with significantly less beard—they were almost nonexistent the more she thought of it, her feet led her to the bedchamber assigned to him.

She knocked, and when he heard his voice answer, she pushed the door open.

She remembered correctly. His face was clean—too clean; his hair tied to his nape.

And now, as he stood there in the middle of the dimly lit room without his coat and only his white unbuttoned shirt draped around him, she realized something. "You are not fat," she blurted out. "Well, you do have fat, but you are not... bulging or flaccid."

He blinked in confusion at first and when he realized where her eyes were, he looked down at his belly and grinned. "You should tell my mother. The woman believes I am two months pregnant—and my butler for he agrees with her."

Aliya scoffed. "Considering the belly size of all men in Sutherland, yours land on the higher rank. But it would be best if you cover yourself."

"You are in my chamber, Ali. Should it not be you who should adjust?" He grabbed a glass of brandy from his bedside table without touching a button

"Can I have some?" she asked, walking over to him. She took his glass and emptied its contents much to his amazement. "I have been under a lot of strain in the past few days," she explained, swallowing hard. "She is dying, is she? She will not last long?"

"Yes."

Her eyes searched his face. The little amount of beard left on his face merely shadowed the sharp edges of his jaw. He had lost so much weight just by losing the beard. If this was what he had been hiding all this time, Aliya wanted to see more. But that was not possible. She had to stop herself for she was crazy to even desire this man. With a sigh, she returned to the conversation at hand. "I sometimes wish you are not too honest."

"I also sometimes lie," he said with a wink.

She chuckled. "Of course, you do, St. Vincent." She gave him back the glass and he refilled it. She brushed her fingers through her hair and paced around the room. "Lord Hartcaster has given you permission to monitor his wife on the condition that you will try to help alleviate her suffering."

"That can be done."

"You cannot give her brandy, St. Vincent."

He just smiled. "Is there anything else you would like to say?"

"And you cannot give her too many sweets. She loves them too much it is an addiction."

"I am not here to serve her, Ali," he wryly replied. Then he narrowed his eyes at her. "Is there more you wish to say?"

"Why did you clean up?" The words came naturally and without fear. In front of him, Aliya just found herself free to say anything. "Are you trying to impress me?"

"No, because my mother found the razor," he replied. "And she said it is to impress you. Therefore, it is my mother who wishes to impress you, not I."

Aliya closed her eyes, a breath of a laugh puffing out of her lips. "I do not even know why I find you funny, St. Vincent."

"I do hope that is a good thing." Her eyes flew open at the tone in his voice. It was not the jesting St. Vincent tone. It was the serious Doctor St. Vincent one that could send prickles of energy down to her fingertips, the kind that burned and tingled. He placed the glass on the table and faced her again. "Is there more you wish to say?" he asked, taking a step toward her.

Her heart leaped to her throat and she swallowed. The forgotten sensations only a lover can evoke was making a comeback. Her body welcomed it with full consent; the anticipation was building.

A very tiny part of her mind asked, "Why him? Why St. Vincent of all people, Ali? Why him?"

But the voice was drowned by the rush of blood in her ears as St. Vincent finally reached her, stopping just at the right distance so she could feel