An Improper Encounter (The Macalisters Book 3)

by Erica Taylor

  “She has lost a lot of blood,” William stated. “I need to close the wound before I can deal with her other injuries.” He fumbled in his kit and found a pair of scissors. “Don’t hate me,” William said to Sarah, “but I’m going to have to cut this lovely gray dress. And it might hurt.”

  “I hate grey dresses,” she replied softly.

  “I know you do,” he said quietly before slipping the scissors on either side of the bottom hem of her gown and snipping quickly until he reached the wound. What he had thought was a cracked rib protruding from her side was in fact a slice of the thicket she had crashed into, about the half length of his hand and the width of his thumb, stabbing her left side, angling up under her bottom rib towards her lung.

  “Christ,” he swore under his breath, and moved the fabric away so he could see better, blood seeping from the wound.

  “This is going to be messy,” he warned, glancing between Bradstone and Lady Westcott. Both were silent and stoic.

  William rummaged through the jars in his case, the glass clanking as the jars bumped against each other. Finding the one he sought, he poured a dose of the amber liquid into a small porcelain cup.

  “Have her drink this,” he said to Lady Westcott, handing her the small cup.

  “Brandy?” she asked.

  “Laudanum,” he corrected.

  Sarah tipped her head back at her sister’s prodding and sipped down the bitter liquid.

  “How long will it take for the laudanum to take effect?” Lady Westcott asked, setting the cup aside.

  “Moments,” William replied, setting his suture supplies on the bed, within easy reach. “Bradstone, climb onto the bed and brace your sister,” he said to the duke, pointing at the bed. “Hold her across her collar bone, be careful of her injured shoulder,” William explained.

  Bradstone maneuvered into the correct position, resting her head in his lap, draping one arm across her chest and holding her tightly to him.

  “This is going to be painful for her,” William warned. “Do not let her move, or she could injure herself further.” To Lady Westcott, William said, “I am going to remove the stick, and she’s going to bleed. We will need to contain the bleeding, and it is going to take a great number of these cloths. Be prepared for a rush of blood; we will have to move fast. I’m going to have to assess whether or not she has cracked a rib and hope this stub of thicket hasn’t punctured her lung.”

  The process was a bloody and messy ordeal. As the stick was being removed, blood gushed from the wound, and William plugged the gaping hole along her left side as best he could with two of his fingers gently pressed between the ripped muscles, lightly feeling along her rib for any internal damages. He conjured every image he could of skeleton sketches, the bones he had studied during medical school, and the wounds he had seen during the war.

  William swore, feeling where her rib was broken. He could identify the edge of the fracture, the angle at which the rib protruded. Slipping the tip of his finger gently behind the broken end, he lightly pulled, sliding the broken bone back into place. It wasn’t the first bone he had reset in his lifetime.

  William was impressed with Sarah’s siblings’ resolve, as neither one flinched at anything he did to their sister, nor at Sarah’s screams, both doing their part with strength and without disgust.

  Lady Westcott was quick with more towels as he removed his fingers, blood coursing down Sarah’s side, and William quickly sutured the wound closed, working through the blood and worrying over her fractured rib. Bradstone absorbed Sarah’s reaction to the pain, holding her still, whispering soothing words in her ear. As quickly as he could manage, William was done. The wound was pulled closed and the bleeding subsided but did not stop entirely. He dabbed at the wound again, splashing it with brandy before taking a sip himself. Wordlessly, he handed the flask to Brad-stone who took a swig before offering it to Lady Westcott, who declined the alcohol with a blush.

  Soaking a folded strip of cloth in the water, William dabbed at Sarah’s side, wiping away the blood from the span of her winter white skin.

  “Sit her up,” William instructed. “I need to wrap this bandage around her.”

  Lady Westcott held Sarah’s weight as her older sister slumped against her. William began to wrap the strips of fabric around Sarah’s midsection, passing the cloth to Bradstone as his arm moved around Sarah.

  “I only trust you,” Sarah mumbled. “With secrets. Moon and stars and secrets.”

  William hoped his blush wasn’t apparent, but presumed Sarah’s siblings would not be focusing on him.

  He checked her over for any other injuries, but it seemed the only thing remaining was her shoulder. The other cuts and bruises would heal within a few days. Her shoulder was likely to take weeks; her rib could be longer.

  “I need to put her shoulder back into place, and it’s best she be sitting upright.” Glancing again at Bradstone, he said, “I will need your help, your grace.”

  Slowly, they moved Sarah into a sitting position and turned so she was leaning against her brother.

  “This is going to be painful, Sarah, but after, your arm will feel better and you can sleep,” William said to her. “Bradstone, keep her still, wrap your arm around her, and hold her to you.”

  Bradstone didn’t comment, but did as he was told, wrapping an arm around Sarah’s good shoulder and holding her against him.

  “Sarah, after this, we are going to dance,” William said gently to her, holding her shoulder as he moved her arm into position, elbow tucked against her waist. “And we are going to laugh.”

  “I want to sleep,” Sarah said softly, her breaths coming in quick gasps, her voice hoarse.

  “We can have cakes,” William continued, as he rotated her arm, slowly, hoping the joint would slide back into its socket without issue. “I know how you love cake.”

  “I do love cake,” Sarah replied drowsily.

  Shooting a warning glance to Bradstone, he said nothing to Sarah before he applied a little pressure, pushing just barely, her joint gliding back into position with a pop, like a fresh lid coming off a jar of strawberry jam. Sarah gasped a scream, her head rolling back against her brother as he held her firmly against him. Working quickly, William wrapped her arm into a makeshift sling from the strips of cloth, holding the joint in place until it could properly heal.

  “You did perfect, darling,” he said softly to her, brushing her hair from her face.

  As Bradstone settled her back onto the mattress, William rinsed his hands at the basin of water near her bed before a wave of servants came in on the duchess’s orders. The bloodied bed clothes were replaced with fresh clean linens, and Sarah’s ripped gown was taken away. She was wrapped into a warm cotton nightgown, protecting as much of her modesty as possible, though she remained essentially nude from the waist up with a clean sheet draped across her front, as it wasn’t possible to move her arms into the sleeves of the night clothes. With Bradstone’s aid, William piled more pillows behind her back, hoping a more upright position would help her rib heal. Now all they could do was watch and wait, hoping the inevitable fever would be quick. With one last look at Sarah, William turned and quit the room, hoping he had done all he could to save her life.

  “You will join me in the study,” Bradstone said to him as he followed him into the hall. It was not a question.

  Exhausted, William nodded but excused himself to change into a clean set of clothing, not one smelling of Sarah’s blood, stained crimson with the evidence of the night’s tragedy.

  How quickly things had gone from manageable to disastrous to worse in the span of an hour, he mused as he changed quickly into fresh breeches, a fresh shirt, and jacket. He didn’t bother with a cravat or waist coat, not caring about what would be considered proper attire at a time like this. It was past midnight and he had just come from what he hoped was lifesaving surgery of the woman he cherished above all others.

  His fingertips had
grazed along her rib from inside her skin, how could be he expected to be proper and civilized after such a thing?

  Bradstone was not the only person in the study when William arrived. Lord Westcott stood aloof near the window, silent but his sharp eyes showing he was conscious of every detail.

  Bradstone offered William a brandy, which he accepted; Westcott declined the alcohol.

  William sat in the comfortably appointed chair in his grace’s study and tossed back the contents of the glass, staring at the flames in the hearth through the crystal in his hand. They danced and played, flickering gold shadows across the room, hinting at the darkness but warming the room nonetheless.

  “Your doctoring skills are highly impressive,” Bradstone said, abruptly pulling him from his thoughts. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “I have no doubt he was extraordinary,” Westcott said. “Last October, he was there when I was delayed from returning from Little Horrowood.” He nodded at William with approval.

  “Thank you,” William replied solemn. “I only hope it will be enough.”

  Bradstone frowned at his brother-in-law. “Do your paths cross with everyone?”

  Westcott shrugged. “It’s a small island.”

  Returning his steely blue gaze to William, Bradstone asked, “When will you know if Sarah is to recover?”

  William shrugged. “When she recovers,” he replied—a bit flippantly, perhaps, but it was the truth. “Her rib was broken, and I slipped it back into its place, so it should repair itself. Keeping the wound clean and dry will help fight fevers, but if there is any internal bleeding then it is beyond any modern medicine. We will wait and see.”

  “And her shoulder?”

  “Dislocated,” William replied. “But it seemed to slip back into place with ease. It will be sore for a week or so, but she should regain complete mobility.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” Bradstone said and downed the contents of his glass. “Now, tell me what happened to my sister.”

  William sighed. “I do not know,” he said truthfully. “I went for a ride to clear my head. Sarah caught up to me, we talked for a bit and as we returned, we collided somehow.” He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, rolling his head from side to side to loosen the knots of muscles tightening his neck. “The horses crashed into each other, and I slid from my saddle—or that could have happened the other way around. I honestly do not know, it happened so quickly, and it was dark. I found Sarah tangled in a strip of trees with her horse mangled around her. My horse was uninjured, but hers was injured quite badly, I am afraid. My saddle was ripped to bits from the impact. I managed to remove it and ride without saddle, carrying Sarah back to the house.”

  “See what you can discover,” Bradstone said to Westcott, who nodded and pushed himself away from the wall.

  “Come along, Foxton,” Westcott called as he moved across the room. “I wish to see this accident site and examine your horse.”

  William frowned but stood to accompany him. The adrenaline was beginning to wear from his system, the flood of anger and excitement replaced by weariness.

  In the hall, William asked, “It sounds as if you suspect something amiss from my story.”

  Westcott shrugged. “I like puzzles. Call it a professional interest. And right now, this is the most intriguing puzzle of the night. How do two seemingly experienced riders collide on a well ridden path on a well-lit night? Could one of the horses have tripped on something under the snow? How did your saddle become so damaged? Why did you fall from the horse in the first place?” The earl’s green eyes were alight with excitement.

  “You’re an odd bloke,” William said to him.

  Westcott shrugged again, tossing on his great coat. “I’m an earl who investigates crimes within our government as a profession. And you’re a ducal physician. So really, ’tis the pot calling the kettle black here.”

  “Point taken,” William said, taking a coat for himself. “And your questions are valid. I would like some answers myself.”

  It was darker now than it had been earlier, but William and Westcott were aided by lamps and three grooms who knew their way through the night landscape. They walked the paths, Westcott wanting to see the ground up close. Along the way, William saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  They came to Sarah’s horse Athena. The poor thing was long gone. The horse had suffered similar injuries to Sarah since the two had tumbled into a thicket. The bloodied sight before them gave him pause, and he sent up a prayer that he had done enough to save Sarah’s life.

  “Where did you fall?” Westcott asked him, and William moved a few steps away, illuminating his broken saddle with his lantern as it lay on the ground in the same position as he had left it.

  Westcott bent to examine the saddle and the strap that had broken.

  “This looks as if it’s been cut,” Westcott said, indicating a portion of the saddle billet that had snapped.

  William agreed, and he didn’t like what that meant, or what the implication made him realize.

  “You don’t seem all that surprised,” Westcott said, dropping the saddle. He narrowed his eyes at William and regarded him.

  “This is not the first accident to have befallen me recently,” William admitted. He quickly explained his carriage problems coming down from Scotland, and when he was traveling with Anna before Christmas. Both events led him to Sarah.

  Westcott rose and dusted the snow from his hands.

  “Nothing more to see tonight, I’m afraid. I will return tomorrow and hope the daylight will bring more answers.” Westcott gave orders for the saddle to be brought to the house and locked in a secured room. Athena was to be dealt with in the morning.

  “You must rest, your grace,” Westcott instructed, a hand firm on his shoulder. “We need your wits to stay sharp in order to keep our favorite marchioness from death.”

  William laughed, more like a frustrated half-mad chuckle than anything resembling true mirth. He shook his head, knowing Westcott was correct. He was exhausted and sore from his own fall earlier, and he needed rest. Sarah’s recovery would be hazardous, and she deserved to have him at his best—which meant alert and clear-headed. But returning to his rooms meant returning to Anna. Sarah’s injuries might have tempered his anger, but it did not erase it completely. Something must be done about his circumstances.

  Westcott didn’t comment further as they made their way back to the house. Sarah’s poor horse was left in the cold and snow. She would have to be told, at some point, about the fate of her beloved horse, a gift from her father, but she needed to survive the night first.

  William felt restless, but exhausted as he made his way up the staircase, knowing the person he needed to see at that moment was not the one he wanted to see.

  Standing at the foot of Anna’s bed, he wanted what Cabot and Islington had said to be untrue. He wanted Anna to have been his brother’s fiancée, carrying his child, because if she wasn’t, if it was some elaborate story she concocted to trap him into a marriage, then he had been the world’s biggest fool, throwing away his happiness for a lie.

  “Palmer?” she asked sleepily. Stretching, she arched her back like a cat, her swollen stomach protruding further before her. “What is it? What time is it?” She yawned, drowsily.

  “Wake up, Anna,” he snapped, pacing before the hearth, attempting to wrangle his thoughts under control.

  “Is everything all right, Palmer?” she inquired.

  “Do not call me that,” William snapped. “You will address me as ‘your grace’ or Foxton. You no longer have permission to be so informal.”

  Frowning, Anna sat up. “Have I done something to offend you?”

  “I had an interesting visit this evening,” William began to explain.

  “Oh?” she asked. “Do tell.”

  “Two friends of Heathmont’s arrived here earlier this evening,” he continued. “Lord Islington and Lord Cabot.”
He paused to watch her reaction, her eyes growing a bit wide but the rest of her face betraying none of the panic he knew she had to be feeling. “Can you imagine what they had to tell me?”

  She shrugged and looked away. “They never cared for me. I can only imagine they came to spread more lies.”

  William did not believe her in the slightest. To be sure, he didn’t know Islington and Cabot well, but their words had carried an unmistakable ring of truth. He hadn’t known why at the time, but from the moment he had stepped into Hastings House, and Anna had been there, it had all felt a little off. He had ignored his instinct then, as the shock of his brother’s death, and then his father’s, and what both of those had meant for him had overtaken any rational part of him. Had he been in his right mind, he would have recognized the feelings and signs for what they were—a warning.

  “Is it true?” he asked her quietly. She didn’t look at him, only further confirming their tale. He spoke again, “Anna, is what they said true?”

  “It is all lies,” she replied, still not meeting his eye. “Those nobs never liked me, always wanting to keep Heath and me apart.”

  “You have played me like a fiddle this entire time, and it has all been lies!” he accused her, half laughing.

  She looked at him. “Fine, yes, I was Heathmont’s mistress,” she admitted. “And he refused to marry me, after he did this to me. But that doesn’t take away from what you did as a loyal service to your brother.”

  “I married you because I thought it was what he would have wanted from me,” William snapped at her. “I did what I thought was right, to undo a travesty that had befallen you. Little did I know, you were simply taking advantage of our grief over Heathmont! You even manipulated my dying father into your scheme!”

  “How else was I to survive?” she demanded. “Heath tossed me and his baby out like rubbish with nowhere to go!”

  “If he believed for a moment that child could be his, he would have offered you support,” William replied. “It may not have been in the form of marriage, but he would not have left his child destitute.”