"Help me!" Jillian ordered the nearest footman, her voice sounding strangely calm. "We've got to try and locate him. There's not time to remove all the pieces!"
The footman ran forward to help Jillian with the other end of the wood slab, some eight feet long. Just as she swung her end around, a hand closed over her shoulder.
"Jillian, there are others who can do this. Why not just go to your apartments, and wait?"
Jillian looked over her shoulder at Algernon. He pressed a lace handkerchief to his mouth to filter the dust.
"Get out of my way!" she demanded through clenched teeth. "This damned thing is heavy. Where's Atar? The one time I need him, and he's not anywhere to be seen."
"I haven't seen the man." He followed her as she backed into the hall and dropped her end of the beam. "Jillian, dearest, there's no need to hurry." His face was pasty white, his voice trembling. "I fear my cousin is already dead."
"He's not dead," she flung, clambering up the staircase heaped with rubble. She was trying not panic. Hysteria would do Duncan no good. "He's not dead," she repeated firmly. "I'd know if he were dead."
She crouched to looked beneath the nearest timber. "Duncan? Duncan, where are you? Duncan, answer me!" A tear slipped down her cheek as she climbed over a board onto the next step. "Damn you, don't do this to me!"
Men passed Jillian on the staircase, hauling pieces of the scaffold down. "Have you found him?" she called further up the stairs where she saw two men on their knees peering intently into a hole in the debris. "Have you found the earl?"
"Don't know," a red-bearded man answered. "See somethin'. Looks like cloth. His coat, maybe?"
Jillian ran up the stairs, lifting her skirts to her knees to climb over the splintered beams. "Where? Show me where!" She dropped to her knees beside the two men.
The one with the red beard pointed. "There."
Darkness was settling quickly over the house. The light inside was fading fast. Jillian squinted. "I can't see! I need a lamp." When no one responded immediately, she turned and shouted down the steps to Beatrice, who had appeared in the last minute. "Bea! Get me a lamp. Duncan's here somewhere! I have to see to find him!"
Beatrice raced from the hallway and returned with a lamp with surprising speed. She climbed over the rubble to reach her sister. "Here it is, Jilly." She thrust the lamp into her sister's hands, dropping to her knees behind her. "Where is he?" she sobbed. "Can you see him?"
Jillian pushed the lamp into a cubbyhole in the fallen timbers. At first she saw nothing; but then, she spotted a speck of color. It was not more than two inches of cloth, but it was bright blue. It had to be Duncan!
Jillian jerked the lamp out of the hole and pushed it into Beatrice's hands. "Hold the light. You!" She pointed to the bearded man. "Grab the beam; get it out of here. You!" She indicated the other man. "Grab that one. Easy," she bid him as he grasped the timber and the pile began to shift.
"I'm coming, Duncan!" she shouted into the hole. "It's Jillian, Duncan. Just hold on. I'm coming to get you!"
The men removed two more fallen timbers and Jillian turned to Beatrice, who was shaking all over. "Calm, down, Bea! Listen to me. I need you to hold the lamp, here." She pushed out her sister's trembling arm. "Over this section. I'm going to climb in there and see how badly he's injured.
"No!" Beatrice shrieked. "You'll be crushed if the wood moves."
Jillian glanced at the rubble around her. Beatrice was right. Already she could hear the agonizing groans as the wood shifted on the staircase.
But she didn't care. All that mattered was Duncan and reaching him.
"Do what I say," Jillian snapped. Then she dropped on all fours and crawled into the hole. She had to lie on her belly and pull herself along, but the light from the lamp shone through the spaces in the beams, illuminating her way.
She inched closer to the blue material. "Duncan," she called. "Duncan, can you hear me?"
She stretched out her hand, feeling the weight of the wood above her pressing down on her rib cage, preventing her from completely filling her lungs. The closeness of the tomb around her made her pulse race.
"Duncan?" She stretched again, groaning as she pulled herself forward another few inches. Then her fingertips met the blue material.
It was he! It was his sleeve! His arm! She could feel him.
"Duncan," she called insistently, wiggling his arm. "Duncan, answer me."
But he didn't.
"I found him," Jillian called, rolling slowly onto her back so that she could reach up. "Here!" She thrust her hand through a hole above her head, hoping the workmen would see it. "He's here. We have to move enough rubble to get him out of here."
Slowly Jillian inched her way back out of the hole. Back on the staircase, she rested on her knees, panting. "Start pulling wood from off the top." She pointed to a place near where Duncan lay, a place where the boards weren't piled as high. "He's wedged in a space beneath a large beam. We'll dig and then pull him through—" She pointed. "—and pull him out this way."
The workmen looked skeptical, but they followed her bidding.
Coming to her feet, Jillian pointed down the staircase. "I need more light." Her gaze came to rest on Algernon's face as she scanned the crowd below. He had a strange look about him. He was very pale. What was it she saw in him? Fear? Terror? Was the coward afraid because it could have been him beneath the rubble? She pointed to two burly workmen below, not having the time or energy to be concerned with Algernon.
"And you two—get up here and haul the pieces we pull out down the steps. I want a walkway cleared."
One of the men she hollered to pushed his blue-felt cap back on his forehead, looking up at her. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Um . . . we're masons. We don't haul timber, we do the brickwork, my lady."
"Well, you haul timber now!" She indicated with her hand, her tone icy. "So get your worthless hides up here!"
The two men took one look at Jillian poised on the staircase in the midst of the rubble . . . and leaped to do as she said.
For the next twenty minutes, Jillian stood among the workmen, overseeing the removal of the wooden beams of the scaffold. Twice she had to stop the men as they were forced to stand and listen to the giant beams groan ominously as they shifted.
Finally, Jillian thought they had cleared enough timber to pull Duncan out from beneath the rubble. She would have climbed in herself again, but she feared she wouldn't have the strength to pull Duncan out. She sent the burly red-bearded man in, promising him payment for his help.
"Try to be careful. He may have broken bones," she instructed as the workman climbed into the hole flat on his belly.
It seemed as if it took forever for the workman to reach Duncan and call out that he had the earl's feet. It took even longer for him to pull Duncan out of the hole. At last, the workman appeared, pulling Duncan by his booted feet.
"Is he conscious?" Jillian demanded, down on all fours again. She couldn't see anything of Duncan yet, but his feet.
"Ain't made a peep," the workman answered, looking doubtful.
She peered into the hole. Duncan was lying on his back, perfectly still. "Is he breathing?" she asked softly.
"Couldn't tell."
Jillian exhaled. "Hold the light over this mess," she told Beatrice, who had not left her side. "Good."
"What are you doing?" Bea asked. "Just pull him out."
Jillian shook her head as she crawled into the hole, flattening her body alongside his. He was still warm. That was a good sign. She inched her way forward, trying not to think about him naked beneath the sheets with her. When she laid her hand on his broad chest, she was relieved to feel it rise and fall.
Thank God, he was still alive.
Then, she reached his face. Just as she had suspected, his veil was pulled askew, down over his chin.
Even in the dim light from the lamp somewhere overhead, she could see his scarred cheek.
It was not scarred.
Jillian didn't have to time to think now. She didn't have time to try to understand her husband. All that mattered was getting him medical attention. Carefully, she pulled up the purple veil until once again it covered the tattoo on his left cheek.
Jillian quickly backed out of the hole. "All right," she ordered, thrusting her skirts down as she came to her feet. "Pull him the rest of the way out." She pointed. "You two. Pick him up and follow me." She had already started up the staircase, climbing over timber that blocked her way.
At the top of the stairs, she met Atar. "Sweet heaven, where have you been?" she snapped. "Your master's been hurt." She brushed past him, leading the workmen that carried Duncan's unconscious body. She didn't give the manservant time to respond. "Go find the physician I sent for. I want him in my bedchamber now!"
Half an hour later, Jillian sat beside Duncan, pressing a cold chamomile compress to his forehead. The chamber was empty but for her and her husband. Beatrice had gone to the dowager's apartments to comfort her. The physician had come and gone and been of little help. He had sewed and bandaged the wound on the back of Duncan's head and instructed Jillian to keep him warm. Either he would wake from the unconscious state or die, the physician had said. It was in God's hands now.
Jillian removed the compress and dropped it into the bowl at the bed stand, swishing it around. Duncan wasn't going to die. He wasn't. She looked down at his bare, handsome face. He was going to wake up, and then he was going to tell her what the tattoo on his cheek was. He was going to explain the meaning of the bear claw.
She pulled the linen sheet up, tucking it tightly around his chin. That wasn't all the explaining her husband had to do. Jillian had made everyone leave the room but Atar and then assisted the physician in undressing Duncan. It had been difficult for her not to react when she had seen his tattooed bare chest. But when the physician had responded in surprise, she'd said nothing. This matter was between her and her husband, and she'd not betray that union by admitting to anyone that she knew nothing more of the eerie tattoos than the stranger in the room.
Jillian wrung out the compress and placed it on Duncan's forehead again. Then with a finger, she hesitantly traced the bear claw on his cheek.
"Please God," she whispered in the warm, quiet bedchamber. "Please let him live to tell me. Please let him live long enough to make me understand."
Duncan woke slowly, the pain in his head excruciating. His entire body ached as if he'd been beaten by a Huron war club.
He made no effort to open his eyes as he attempted to recall where he was . . . what had happened.
Memories flashed through his head. He heard the beat of the Iroquois war drums. He smelled the blood of the enemy on his hands. He saw shadowy images of the Fire Dance.
But those were old memories. That was the past, long gone and buried.
Duncan forced himself to think of the present. He was in England. He had married.
Jillian was her name. Lithe, full-breasted Jilly . . .
The first thing Duncan remembered was making love to her. He remembered the feel of her in his arms. His virginal wife had taken him utterly by surprise. He remembered that clearly. He had expected her to be submissive, to tolerate his advances as a good English wife was instructed by her mother to do. But Jillian had reached out with innocent hands to caress him. She had accepted his offer of physical pleasure, giving herself to the moment. But more importantly, on an emotional level, she had given a part of herself to him when he'd touched her, something no other woman, whore or wife, had ever done before.
Then he remembered the ship. He'd overseen packing in the hold, but his mind hadn't really been on the precious cargo. All Duncan could remember thinking about all day was Jillian.
He'd returned to Breckenridge House early. He'd cut his workday early, cancelling an appointment, because he wanted to be with Jillian. He had brought her a gift, though what it was, he couldn't remember right now.
The last thing Duncan recalled was walking up the grand staircase humming to himself.
What had been that terrible sound?
"Duncan?"
The feminine voice Duncan heard from somewhere in the foggy distance startled him. Did it come from the past? Was it Karonware who called to him?
Karonware? Rone? Wife?
No. Karonware was dead, he reasoned, finding some comfort in logical thought. If she were calling him, it would be from the hereafter and he would be dead. Duncan didn't think he was dead, though his limbs felt weighted by mud, his thoughts drowned in rainwater. Besides, if it were his dead wife who called, she would use his Iroquois name. She would call him Tsitsho.
"Duncan. Are you awake? Can you hear me?"
It was the voice again, gentle, but urgent . . . the voice of someone who cared for him.
Duncan attempted to force his eyes open. His body reacted sluggishly.
"Duncan, you are awake!"
He felt her touch on his cheek.
Slowly her face came into view. "Jillian?" Duncan croaked, his voice sounding odd in his ears.
"Yes, it's me. I'm right here." She stroked his cheek, staring down intently.
He squinted, trying desperately to focus his eyes. "What—what the hell happened?"
"The scaffolding on the staircase, it collapsed. Don't you remember?"
He closed his eyes for a moment, the light of the candles piercing his mind like a dagger. He remembered the horrendous, crashing sound. Had that been the scaffold falling down around him he'd heard? "No. Not really."
She took his hand in hers. "You're lucky to be alive. I never thought we'd find you beneath the rubble."
"It collapsed on top of me?"
She was smiling. He liked her smile. "Yes."
Duncan attempted to sit up and winced as the pain in his head radiated to blinding proportions.
She pushed firmly on his shoulders, her strength surprising. "No. Don't try, not yet."
He relaxed on the pillow, giving in to the pain.
Jillian sat quietly on the edge of the bed beside him. After a moment, he opened his eyes again. Her face was clearer now. Too clear. Someone had removed his veil. She was looking at him . . . at it.
Slowly he lifted his hand to meet his cheek. "So, at last you see."
"I covered you up before they brought you out from under the timbers. No one else saw. No one but me, Atar, and the physician who attended you. I assumed Atar had seen it before."
He let his hand fall. It took too great an effort to hold it there. What was the sense anyway? She had seen the tattoo. He could feel the soft, smooth cotton of the sheet that covered him. He knew she had seen them all.
He couldn't look her in the eye. It wasn't the tattoos as much as what they represented. "I suppose you'll want an explanation."
"Tonight isn't necessary." She stroked the back of his hand.
Duncan exhaled. He felt vulnerable lying before her, his head pounding so that he couldn't think. He didn't like feeling like this. It emasculated him.
"They . . ." His voice cracked as he spoke the first word. Something told him that if he didn't tell her now, he never would. Suddenly, it was important that she know. He realized she would never understand, but at least she would know the truth, or a small part of it.
"The . . . the Indians."
She didn't draw away. She held his hand tightly in hers. "That captured you?"
"Aye. It . . . the bear claw is the sign of the clan I was adopted into. Because I was a child when they took me from my family, they spared my life." He couldn't resist a sardonic smile. Spared, indeed. "You understand what I'm saying?" he asked, knowing she couldn't possibly. "I became one of them."
"It's really not that large a tattoo," she said after a moment. "Not that noticeable." She sounded so casual. "Not that shocking. I was expecting something far worse and not nearly so intriguing."
Again, his young wife surprised him. Slowly he lifted his arm to run his palm the length of his chest. "You saw the others?"
"Pictures," she said. There was almost a tone of amusement in her voice now. "I don't know why you didn't share them with me before. Some are very good."
"It was the way of the Mohawk. Many of the men wore them as proof of their virility, their family name, their successes in battle." He closed his eyes. It was too difficult to keep them open . . . too difficult to watch her watching him. "Ah, heaven help me, I—I was one of them, Jilly." His voice was barely a murmur. He felt a lump rise in his throat and for a moment feared he would come to tears. "I did terrible things."
"Shhh," Jillian soothed, bringing her face closer to his. She stroked his jawline. She pushed the hair back off his forehead in a tender gesture. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. Not tonight. Would you like a drink of water?"
He breathed deeply. Though he'd said barely a few words, it felt like a confession. And oddly, a weight seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders. No one knew the truth of what he'd done, what he'd been. Not even Will knew the full truth.
"Water would be good."
"Here." She cradled the back of his head with her hand, pressing a pewter cup to his lips. Duncan drank, letting his head rest against her hand. It still hurt so badly that he knew he wasn't thinking clearly. His words, hers, seemed to come from a fog somewhere beyond him.
She took the cup away, lowering his head to the pillow. "There're no broken bones as best we could find. Just the head wound." She chuckled. "You've a thick skull, husband. A lesser man would have died from the blow."
He smiled at her jest. "So you dug me out, did you, my fair lady-wife?"
"Just not ready to be a widow, I suppose." She paused for a moment, then went on. "Duncan, I know I said we wouldn't talk about it tonight, but who . . . who is Karen-wear? You spoke the name in your sleep."
Duncan smiled a bittersweet smile. He wouldn't lie to the chit. What would be the point? Besides, it would be wrong to betray her memory that way. "Karonware." It was not the way of The People to speak the name of the dead, but he wasn't one of them any longer. Was he? "My wife—dead wife."
My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity) Page 12
