Francis lay unconscious on his bed.
His face was pale, gaunt and he was sweating intensely.
The young man was so pale that even the dark freckles that covered his face seemed to have taken on a more dull tone and intensity.
Wavy, sweaty brown hair was spread across his pillow.
There was dried blood residue on his forehead.
Brooke was beside him, next to the bed, sitting on an upholstered chair.
She was sad and worried about him.
On the night of the first popular uprising dozens of people had lost their lives, their corpses still covered the streets.
Francis had received a bludgeon on the head, remaining unconscious on the stony, blood-soaked road that night.
Brooklyn had barely managed to drag his body by taking it under the armpits and had carried it before dawn inside the castle walls.
She had stripped him of his dirty clothes and wet with sweat, she had carefully washed his body and wiped the dried blood that came out of the wound on his head, on his hair.
Brooke had justified him by using the death of his father as a scapegoat, saying that at the sad news the young man in pain had passed out on the ground and banged his head against the edge of a table.
Naturally, too busy with worries the princess had fallen for this obvious excuse and so the two had narrowly escaped their sentence.
On that day, not only she but also the young Earl from Southern Ireland, Dickon Dustin had appeared several times providing the Marquis with medical aid.
Going more he wants there, bringing oils and bandages and checking his wound.
It was weird for Brooklyn to think, that a guy who barely knew him cared so much about his health.
Dickon was still eighteen years old, he was in his youthful age where boys took advantage to woo or commit more rebellious and reckless acts.
But he was not like the others, he was sensitive, calm, kind and fragile and Brooke regretted that the twin was so different from him.
-Francis was a superior of mine, once in the army, I have great respect for him...- the young man always justified himself with a smile on his face and with an influential positivity -and if we didn't help each other, who would you do it for us?-.
The light entered the room, penetrated through the huge arched window, through the thin curtains that covered it, creating a soft light.
Francis was late in regaining consciousness and Brooke wondered if she shouldn't try to wake him up.
His eyes were closed, he wasn't looking at her, this gave the young woman a certain courage, it didn't make her shy or awe.
Now was the best time to try, to prove her love for him.
Brooklyn left the chair, moving slowly.
She climbed onto the bed over Francis' lying body, Brooke put her legs astride the boy, one to the right and one to the left of his abdomen.
She approached her mulatto and delicate face to the pale one of the young man, he breathed, he did it slowly and with weakness.
Fortunately, he wasn't dead.
Brooklyn sat on the belly of the young man, she looked him in the face.
She sensed nothing raise in his groin, not a movement, nothing.
Francis most likely did not feel her body on him or was simply drawn to it.
She brought her face close to Francis's again, he was cold, he was pale, almost dead, but she was breathing.
They were as close as they had ever been in their life.
Brooke closed her eyes, a strange blush invaded her face.
She untied her hair, softened her lips, brought them closer to those of the young man.
Their lips were only millimeters apart.
-Br ... Brooklyn? - A shaky voice came from Francis' tight and chapped lips.
The young woman reopened her eyes and closed her lips, she noticed how her friend had slowly and painfully reopened his eyes of a caramel brown colour.
He watched her, their eyes millimetres apart, they watched each other with an embarrassed silence.
-Brooklyn, what are you doing on my body like this?- Francis asked closing his lips and taking an embarrassed blush on his cheeks.
Noticing this the young woman gasped, she jumped and with immense agility she took the opportunity to push her body as quickly as possible against the lower part of the bed.
She blushed, all around her nose, her curly black hair was puffed up by her surprise.
-I...I- she stammered -... I was just checking you breathe-.
Francis smiled, he seemed to have believed her, he was naive even though he was now twenty-one years old.
He was naive, but this characteristic, at that moment could well benefit Brooke, who was about to be invested with embarrassment.
-Well- the young man admitted closing both his eyes and letting a sincere smile shine on his freckled face -in this case I'm happy you took care of me, thank you-.
Brooke turned her gaze away, she had lost all blush and closed her fleshy and soft lips -you are welcome...- she said in a melancholy grimace.