by Lisa Kleypas
“Maybe we can find out something from one of the firemen,” Merritt said desperately. “Help me reach them.” At his hesitation, she added, “Please.”
“Damn it all,” Luke muttered, and began to guide her through the jostling mass of bodies. Merritt could hardly see or breathe with so many people packed around them. A pungent, strangely sweet haze filled the air—the smell of whisky burning, she realized with piercing despair.
An anxious murmur went through the crowd as eerie blue flares began to shoot up from the warehouse like tentacles. Abruptly Luke hauled Merritt against him and covered her head with his arms. A fraction of a second later, she felt the ground shake from a brutal explosion. Heat seared her exposed skin as a massive fireball blossomed toward the sky. Screams erupted from the gathering, and people began to push and shove in panic.
As Luke and Merritt were swept along with the flow of bodies, she felt someone step on the hem of her cloak. She clutched at her brother to keep from falling. Perceiving the problem instantly, he ripped the cloak’s fastening at her throat and let it drop. In seconds, it had been trampled by a battalion’s worth of feet.
Merritt gave a little yelp of surprise as Luke picked her up bodily and threw her over his shoulder. She stayed still, trying to make it easier for him to carry her as he made his way toward a long shed near the burning warehouse.
Carefully Luke bent to set Merritt on her feet beside a brick wall, which provided some shelter from the blistering heat of the warehouse, about thirty yards away. “Stay right here,” he said brusquely.
It was difficult to hear anything over the hissing and roaring of the steam engine nearby. Merritt squinted at their surroundings through a slow rain of bright cinders and ash that floated like black feathers. The shed contained shops belonging to the blacksmith, fitter, and wheelwright, with a shared work yard. Her attention was caught by a cluster of men standing near a large anvil, all staring at something on the ground.
“I’m going to try to talk to someone from the fire brigade and find out—” Luke fell silent as Merritt reached out with one hand to grip the lapel of his coat. He followed the direction of her gaze.
One of the men had moved, revealing a glimpse of a man’s booted leg extended along the ground.
They were standing over a body.
Merritt felt her limbs turn to lead. The man she’d been intimate with only last night . . . the tender, passionate lover with laughing blue eyes and wicked hands . . . might be lying dead a few yards away from her.
She experienced a sensation she’d felt only twice in her life. Once when she’d been kicked in the stomach by a pony that had spooked at an unexpected noise. The glancing blow had driven out her breath and filled her with nausea.
The second time was when she’d learned about Joshua’s ship sinking.
With an incoherent sound, she started forward.
Luke caught her around the waist. “Merritt, no. Stop.”
She writhed in his grasp, focused only on the scene in front of her.
“Merritt,” Luke persisted, grasping her chin and compelling her to look up at him. She blinked and subsided at the sight of her brother’s strained face. He stared down at her with intense dark eyes, the same color as her own. “Let me go look,” he said. “If it’s him, it . . . you may not want to see.” He paused. “Whatever happens, I’m here with you. Don’t forget that.”
Dazedly Merritt realized her younger brother, once a baby she’d helped to dress and bathe, and later a toddler she’d taught how to eat pudding with a spoon, had become a man she could rely on.
She set her jaw and nodded to let him know she wouldn’t fall apart.
Luke let go of her and went to push his way into the gathering. He crouched on his heels beside the form on the ground.
Seconds passed as if they were years. Five . . . ten . . . fifteen . . . while Merritt stood like a cemetery statue.
Remaining in a crouch, Luke twisted and gestured for her to come.
Chapter 12
Galvanized, Merritt rushed forward as a few of the men shuffled aside to make room for her. She saw the gleam of golden-amber hair, and knelt beside the long body on the ground to look over him frantically.
It was Keir, and he was alive. At least for now. He was battered and filthy, but to her amazement, he didn’t seem to have suffered serious burns. He must have been outside the warehouse when the fire had started, but close enough to have been caught in the explosion. She stripped off her gloves and gently touched his face. “Keir . . . Keir.”
The thick lashes fluttered and lifted slightly, but he didn’t open his eyes. He wasn’t breathing at all well, his chest spasming in a struggle for air. After pulling a handkerchief from a skirt pocket, Merritt wiped at a trickle of fresh blood at the corner of his mouth. She longed to take him away from all this smoke and filth, and put him in a clean, soft bed, and make him well again.
As she moved to cradle his head in her lap, the change of position caused him to cough and gasp like a landed fish. Merritt held the handkerchief to his lips, and it came away spattered with blood. She glanced up at her brother, who had stood to talk to some of the men. “Luke,” she managed to say unsteadily, “I need your coat to keep him warm.”
Without hesitation, Luke unbuttoned the wool garment.
“Why can’t he breathe?” Merritt asked desperately. “Is it smoke inhalation?”
“Broken ribs, maybe. Someone saw him jump from the window of the warehouse flat just before the first explosion.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “He suffered a three-story fall?”
“Yes, but not all at once. He landed on a shed roof about twenty feet down, and then the blast knocked him the rest of the way to the ground. A couple of lightermen risked their lives and went to haul him away from the building.” Luke bent to drape his coat over Keir’s supine form. “I’m going to find a cart or wagon,” he continued, “and have these fellows help me move him. The question is, where to? The nearest hospital is Mercy Vale, but I wouldn’t take my worst enemy there. We could try for Shoreditch Hospital, although—”
“My house.”
After a brief silence, Luke replied, “You’re not thinking clearly.”
Merritt shot him a narrow-eyed glance. “My house,” she repeated. She was going to protect and take care of Keir, not leave him to the mercy of strangers.
“Whether he survives or dies there, it’s going to cause a bloody scandal.”
Merritt shook her head wildly. “He’s not going to die. And I don’t give a damn about scandal.”
“Maybe not now, but later—”
“Please, Luke,” she said urgently, “let’s not waste time arguing. Go find a wagon, quickly.”
“I’ll take it as a good sign that he’s still breathing,” Luke commented later. “I was sure he was going to kick the bucket before we even reached the house.”
Although Merritt didn’t like the way her brother had put that, she’d had the same thought on the torturous ride back to Carnation Lane. She’d sat with Keir on the back of the vegetable wagon, keeping his head and shoulders on her lap, while loose turnips had rolled around them. The jarring of the wheels on rough road had drawn a few groans from him as he seemed to drift in and out of consciousness.
After Luke and Jeffrey had carried Keir to a guest room, the footman left immediately to fetch Dr. Gibson.
Luke stood at the foot of the bed, watching with a deep frown as Merritt removed the unconscious man’s shoes. “I’ll stay if you want me to help with him,” he said. “But I’d like to go back to the wharf and find out if anyone else was injured. I also have to meet with the salvage corps and notify the insurance company.”
“Go,” Merritt said, stripping off Keir’s wool socks. “I can manage until the doctor arrives.”
“I’ll come back as soon as I can. In the meantime, why don’t you send for one of your friends in London to help you?”
“I’ll consider it,” Merritt said, but the only fr
iend she would have liked to send for was Lady Phoebe Ravenel, who was in Essex.
Frowning, Luke came to look at the man on the bed.
Keir was abnormally pale, his lips and fingernails blue-tinged. He was panting as if he couldn’t take in enough air.
“God knows what injuries he might have,” Luke said softly. “You’d better brace yourself for the possibility that he may not—”
“He’s going to make a full recovery,” Merritt interrupted. She felt like a vase someone had bumped into. Wobbly, about to tip over and break.
“He’s a stranger, Merritt. Even if the worst happens, you don’t know him well enough to fall to pieces.”
Annoyed, Merritt was tempted to explain the folly of trying to dictate people’s feelings to them, but she managed to hold her silence.
After her brother had left, Merritt did what she could to make Keir clean and comfortable. She resorted to cutting away the garments that couldn’t be removed easily, and bathed him with a clean warm cloth. The strong, supple contours she’d become so familiar with, all those expanses of tough muscle, were now badly bruised. There was a lump on the back of his head. Every now and then his eyes flickered open, revealing a disoriented gaze, but he made no effort to speak.
To her relief, Garrett Gibson arrived quickly, striding into the guest room without even knocking. The footman, Jeffrey, followed close behind, carrying a leather case and a box of supplies. At the doctor’s direction, he set them near the bed before leaving.
“Thank God you’re here,” Merritt burst out as Garrett went straight to the bedside. “Mr. MacRae can hardly breathe.”
“The footman said he was injured during the warehouse fire?” Garrett rummaged through her medical bag. She pulled out a stethoscope and deftly fitted the earpieces into her ears. Her manner was so calm and assured, it seemed as if nothing bad could happen while she was there.
“Yes. There was an explosion. He—” Merritt couldn’t prevent her voice from cracking into a higher register as she fought tears. “He jumped from a window and fell at least two stories.”
Garrett held the drum of the stethoscope against various parts of Keir’s chest, listening intently. After that, she set the instrument aside, took his pulse, and then spoke to him. “Mr. MacRae, are you awake?” At his lack of response, she gently took his face in her hands. “Can you look at me? Are you able to open your—there’s a good fellow.” She inspected his pupils, and gave him a reassuring smile. “I know it’s hard to breathe,” she told him sympathetically. “We’ll do something about that in just a moment.”
Merritt stood nearby, knotting her fingers together. Her lungs worked in strong pulls, as if she could somehow do Keir’s breathing for him. She’d never felt so utterly helpless. She watched as Garrett went to the leather case, unlatched it, and began to fit a strange assortment of objects together . . . a steel cylinder approximately a foot and a half long, a bottle of clear liquid, a length of rubber tubing.
“What is that?” Merritt asked apprehensively.
“Oxygen apparatus,” Garrett replied as she worked. “I’ve used it before to treat an asthmatic patient. I decided to bring it after Jeffrey described Mr. MacRae’s symptoms.” She connected a rubber bag to the contraption, turned a knob on the cylinder to start the oxygen flow, and fitted a cup over Keir’s nose and mouth. He jerked and tried to turn his head, but she held the cup against his face persistently. “Breathe in,” she coaxed, “slow and steady.”
After only a minute had passed, the oxygen had wrought a near-miraculous change. Keir’s color had lost its blue cast and returned to a healthy pink, and his desperate gasping had eased.
“There we are,” Garrett said quietly, her slim shoulders relaxing. “Better?”
Keir nodded slightly, reaching up to grip her hand with the cup more firmly over his face as if fearing she might take it away too soon.
Merritt blotted her stinging eyes with a handkerchief and let out a shaking sigh.
The doctor glanced at her with a slight smile. “Go set yourself to rights, my friend,” she suggested gently, “while I continue the examination. A cup of tea might do you some good.”
Merritt realized the doctor wanted to protect her patient’s privacy while she examined him. “Of course,” she said, even though the last thing she wanted to do was leave Keir’s side. “Ring the bellpull if there’s anything you need.”
Reluctantly she left the guest room, and found Jenny waiting in the hallway. The young maid gazed at her in worry. “Will the gentleman be all right, ma’am?”
“Yes,” Merritt replied distractedly. “He has to.”
“I’ll help look after him, milady, if you need me to. I nursed my father through a fever once, and I know what to do in a sickroom.”
“Thank you, Jenny. For now, if you would bring some tea to my room . . .”
“Right away.”
Merritt wandered to her bedroom. The huge bed was pristinely made with fresh linens and blankets, the counterpane perfectly smooth. She glanced in her bedroom mirror, and was taken aback. Her face was soot-streaked, her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair was straggling down from its pins, and her dress was filthy. Grimacing, she pulled the pins from her hair and set them on her vanity table.
She could hardly catch up with her own thoughts. Her brain seemed to be working at twice its usual speed. She brushed her hair with vigorous strokes, twisted it into a simple chignon, and anchored it with pins. Although she still didn’t know the extent of Keir’s injuries, it was clear he would need a great deal of rest and care while he recovered. There would be a scandal if she kept him at her house. Perhaps she could take him down to the Marsden estate in Hampshire? Yes. It was safe and secluded there, and her family would help her. The idea was vastly comforting. She would take Keir there as soon as possible, depending on what Garrett said about his condition.
Jenny returned with the tea and helped her to wash and change into a clean dress. After gulping down a second cup of tea, Merritt glanced at the clock on the mantel. Forty-five minutes had passed since she’d left Keir with Garrett Gibson. Surely that was enough time to have finished examining him.
She went to the guest room and stopped at the closed door. Her heart leaped with gladness as she heard the sounds of conversation. Keir’s familiar baritone was rusty-sounding and broken with coughing, but he was conscious and able to communicate.
Eagerly she knocked at the door with a single knuckle, pushed it open, and peeked around the edge. “May I come in?” she asked.
Garrett, who was sitting at the bedside, gave her a perturbed glance. “Yes, for a moment.”
Merritt came to the bedside, while a mixture of joy, worry, and longing nearly overwhelmed her. Keir was partially propped up on pillows, regarding her with those cool, light blue eyes. Although battered and bruised, he appeared to be in remarkably good condition, considering what he’d been through.
“I’m so glad you’re awake,” she told him unsteadily.
Keir hesitated an unaccountably long moment. Instead of replying, he turned to Garrett with a raspy-voiced question.
“Who is she?”
Chapter 13
Merritt’s stomach plummeted.
Who is she? Was he joking? No . . . he was staring at her as if she were a stranger he didn’t particularly want in the room with him. Was something wrong with his vision?
Garrett made a subtle patting motion in the air, signaling for her to stay calm. “Mr. MacRae,” she asked, “do you not know this lady?”
His baffled, wary gaze returned to Merritt, and he shook his head. “Have we met?”
Her throat wouldn’t work. She nodded, tried again to speak, and couldn’t. Realizing she was still nodding dementedly, she forced herself to stop. Yes, as a matter of fact, you spent most of last night in my bed, making love to me in every position except upside-down. She still felt the trace of intimate soreness, and the strained muscles of inner thighs that had been spread for hours.
And h
e didn’t recognize her.
“This is Lady Merritt,” Garrett told him in a matter-of-fact tone. “You made her acquaintance a few days ago upon arriving in London.”
“Sterling’s widow,” Keir said in that rough voice, frowning as if the effort to think caused him pain. “I beg your pardon, milady.”
“That’s . . . quite all right,” Merritt managed to say.
Garrett reached over to adjust an ice bag beside his head. “Nothing to worry about,” she said. “It’s time for more oxygen.” She turned the valves on the oxygen cylinder, fiddled with the tubing and attached wash bottle, and placed the cup against his mouth and nose. “Are you able to hold this while I speak to Lady Merritt for a moment?”
“Aye.”
By tacit agreement, the two women went to the threshold. Merritt stood out in the hallway, while Garrett spoke softly through the partially open door. “First . . . there’s a very good chance he’ll survive.”
“And recover?”
There was a worrisome hesitation before Garrett replied. “As far as I can tell, there are at least two ribs that are either fractured or badly bruised, but either way they’ll heal. The lungs are a more concerning issue. There’s a particular injury associated with explosions—I saw it once during my residency in France when a young soldier was brought to the hospital, and more recently when I treated a patient whose kitchen boiler exploded. Even though there’s no obvious external damage to the chest, the force of the blast bruises the lungs. Mr. MacRae’s case doesn’t seem to be severe, however. With rest and good care, I would expect his lungs and breathing capacity to return to normal in ten to fourteen days.”
“Thank God,” Merritt said fervently.
“The more serious problem is the concussion—a trauma to the brain caused by a blow to the head. It’s a good sign that he’s had no seizures, nor is he slurring his words. However, I need to evaluate him more thoroughly before giving you a realistic prognosis. There could be lasting after-effects such as headaches, problems sleeping, difficulty with things like reading or tallying numbers . . .”
