by Karen Ranney
There had been times when, as a young man, Michael had prayed to God to rid him of his sisters’ presence if only for a few moments.
Had he wasted his invocations to God? Was a being, upon his birth, given only so many petitions? Had he spent his on mundane irritations? If so, he called them all back now in order to have two remaining. Save her, and spare her from pain.
Margaret moaned and he winced at the sound. “Can you not hurry, Smytheton?”
“I must be certain the wound is clean, my lord. There is nothing more to be feared than a gangrenous limb.”
Finally, it was done. The bits of metal had been excised, the wound dusted with Anderson’s Powder, packed, and bandaged.
During the last hour, Margaret had floated in and out of awareness. Now her eyes opened just for a moment. He wished them closed again, there was such an expression of pain in their depths.
Michael had recognized, years ago, that he was a maze thinker. When confronted with a wall, he immediately postulated alternatives. But he discovered in the last few moments that emotion could halt his mind’s thoughts. He felt as if he were trapped in the maze, but instead of being able to figure out how to escape, he could only concentrate on the huge, impenetrable hedge before him.
An evidence of the power of fear, perhaps.
Ease her pain, God. It was less a prayer than a dictate. Would God punish him for his admonishment?
The physician arrived just at that moment. Michael left the room and looked down into the rotunda. The man was coming up the stairs, his frown indicating his displeasure.
“I was in the middle of my luncheon, my lord,” he complained. “Surely, it cannot be as much a crisis as your maid gave me to believe.”
“My wife has been shot,” Michael said tersely. “I don’t know what could be more important than that.”
The physician entered the room, peeled back the bandage, and gave a cursory examination to Margaret’s wound. He did not treat injuries as much as distributed nostrums, but had he not been satisfied with the results of the treatment, Michael didn’t doubt he would have called for a surgeon.
“The wound to her shoulder seems to have been treated well. She will have some pain for a while, but I shall prescribe some tonics for her.” He wrote something on a piece of paper, handed it to Smytheton. “The apothecary will be able to provide you these treatments.”
“And the child?” Michael asked.
Both the physician and Smytheton appeared surprised.
“If you will step to the side of the bed, my lord, I shall ascertain her condition.”
Smytheton left the room as Michael waited, watching as the physician examined Margaret above the sheets, patting her stomach and placing his hands on either side of her hips. “Nature has a way of protecting her own, my lord. If she has suffered no ill effects up until this moment, I doubt she will.
“You will need a good midwife when the time comes, but I expect she’ll have an easy enough time at delivery. She has the hips for it. You should count yourself lucky, my lord. You should fill up your nursery with children in no time.”
To that surprising pronouncement, Michael had no answer.
“If that will be all, my lord, I’ll be on my way,” the doctor said, his good humor restored, no doubt, by the thought of returning to his meal.
A moment later the door closed sharply behind him.
Chapter 30
A woman of pleasure experiences great
joy from a man’s enthusiasm.
The Journals of Augustin X
The bookshop was on fire. The door to the hall was a few feet to her left. Billowing smoke poured into the opening and the rough boards of the floor were warm beneath her bare feet. Hands reached out and gripped her arms. Then someone began slapping at the burning hem of her garment. Michael.
The scene changed again to a field filled with clouds of wildflowers. Michael stood there. Clasping each of his hands was a child with his blue eyes. A little boy with black hair and a bright smile pulled away and raced toward her, while a little girl with auburn curls followed.
“Look, Mama!” The children darted from flower to flower like industrious bees. Gathering a bouquet so large that their childish arms could not hold them all, and the blossoms fell to mark their path through the meadow. Their images faded away to the sound of laughter.
Margaret blinked her eyes open. The room was quiet, the morning well advanced, evidenced by the sunlight streaming in through the folds of the curtains. Michael was asleep in a chair beside the bed. His face rested on the mattress, his arm outstretched, as if he reached for her even in his sleep.
She moved, but the surprising pain in her arm rooted her in place. Slowly, she traced the bandage on her shoulder, measuring the dimensions of it. Events were blurry from the time she’d seen the gun in the driver’s hand. She’d been shot, then.
She glanced once more at Michael. He didn’t look injured, a thought that was followed by another one. The baby?
She leaned back against the pillows, closed her eyes, and pressed her hand against her waist. The only pain was in her arm and shoulder. Surely the absence of any other discomfort meant that all was well?
She opened her eyes to find Michael awake, watching her.
There had never been less than perfect order about his attire. His shirts were never wrinkled and his trousers always appeared perfectly creased. She’d never seen a spot of ink on his fingers, or a speck of dust on his boots. This morning, however, he looked decidedly mussed. It rendered him even more attractive.
“How do you feel?” he asked, his voice a rasp. His hands reached out to touch her, pressed against her leg as if needing the contact.
Instead of answering him, she asked a question of her own. “The baby?”
“Is fine, the physician says,” he said reassuringly. “And you?”
“I’m a bit sore,” she admitted.
“An understatement, I suspect.”
She conceded the point with a nod.
“Why do I feel so odd?” she asked. “My head feels as if it’s not quite attached.”
“The physician gave you something for the pain,” he answered.
She leaned back against the pillow, unaccountably tired. The questions she had, however, prevented sleep.
“Who would do such a thing, Michael?”
He reached out and picked up her hand, studying each separate finger intently. “Are there any secrets in your past, Margaret? Anyone who would wish to do you harm?”
“No one but Sarah Harrington,” she said with a wisp of smile. “And I believe you routed her and her sister quite adequately.”
He waited, patient.
“I’ve no secrets, Michael.” She sat up, felt her face warm. “Only that I’ve read the Journals, and I’ve already confessed to that.”
“I doubt if that act will rank as a great and onerous sin,” he said, his quick smile banishing the look of fatigue on his face.
“I don’t know,” she countered, leaning back against the pillow. “It felt exceedingly daring to read Augustin’s words at the time.
“I have led a remarkably simple life other than that,” she said.
He smiled, absently she thought, as he studied her hand. She wondered if he truly saw it or if he was simply lost in his thoughts.
“What are you thinking?” she asked. Her free hand cupped his cheek, her palm abraded by his night beard.
He glanced up, smiled more genuinely this time. “That I don’t know where to begin,” he admitted. “The carriage wasn’t a hired hack. It was of good quality, as were the horses. But I’ve never seen the man before and I don’t know why you were shot.” He frowned, his concentration fixed again on his thoughts. “Unless, of course,” he said, “the bullet was not meant for you at all, but for me.”
“For you?” She felt a frisson of fear for him.
“Some of the codes I’ve solved have had foreign implications,” he said enigmatically. “There might be someone
who wishes to punish me, if for no other reason, for solving them.”
He released her hand, then stood and walked to the window. Smytheton had, in his usually capable way, had it repaired recently. The smell of the glazier’s putty was still strong in the room.
“I will not go to one of your properties,” she said, guessing at the tenor of his thoughts.
He turned, surprised, then caught her glance. “I have no properties other than Setton, but it might be a good idea. It might be safer,” he added.
“How can it be safer for me when you’re here?”
“I have not protected you very well so far,” he said wryly.
“But you didn’t realize there was a need to do so,” she argued. “Now that we are forewarned, we can be more cautious.” She sat up more fully, wincing at the unexpected pain. The look on his face made her wish she had not done so.
“I will not leave you,” she said firmly. “I’m afraid I’m tenacious on that point, Montraine.”
“Is this the woman who was afraid of being a countess?” he asked dryly.
“It did sound rather autocratic, didn’t it?” she asked. “Regardless,” she said, her gaze on him, “I will not leave.”
“It would be safer,” he said again, his gaze not leaving her.
“You cannot know that,” she argued.
“What I cannot do,” he said huskily, “is to see something happen to you again.”
“It will not,” she said determinedly. “You will solve this puzzle soon enough. Until then, we shall be on our honeymoon.”
“Batten ourselves in the house? The idea has merit.”
He came to sit at her side. “You should rest for now.”
“An autocratic decree, your lordship,” she said.
“I’m an earl,” he teased. “And my wishes are always obeyed.”
He was so handsome sitting there bathed by the morning light that she wanted simply to watch him, study him for hours.
“Is there a portrait of you?” she asked suddenly.
“A portrait?” He looked surprised at the question.
She nodded.
“At Setton,” he said. “It was painted when I became earl. But I was only fourteen at the time.”
“So young,” she murmured. It didn’t seem at all fair that he’d had to assume all the responsibility he had at such a tender age.
“It was a long time ago,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek. She moved her head and kissed him on the lips, instead.
“You should rest now,” he said, pulling back finally.
“I’m a countess,” she decreed, “and not at all tired.”
He only raised one eyebrow at her as if he knew the truth. She was unaccountably weary.
A little while later she fell asleep again, feeling comforted by his presence, and the feel of his hand in hers.
The Duke of Tarrant frowned at his coachman, enraged. Until today Peter had never failed him.
Tarrant walked away from him, needing to put some distance between the two of them. Peter simply hung his head, waiting in silence for the verbal whipping. An indication of his slavish obedience. Peter loved him the way a beaten dog loves a kind master. Until today, Tarrant had never been anything but gentle with him.
“She isn’t dead,” Peter said again. “But I believe I wounded her.”
“You fool,” Tarrant said softly. “I told you to kill her. Or kill him. Two targets, Peter, and you still managed to fail?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Peter said, glancing up at him. His face was pale, but he didn’t look away. A point in his favor. “Shall I try again?”
“Do you expect them to allow you the chance?” the Duke asked sardonically. “If I were the Earl of Montraine, I’d be searching for the assailant. One look at your ugly face, Peter, and you’re found out.”
He smiled thinly, stood and walked to the door. “No,” he said opening it and standing aside for his coachman to leave his presence. “We shall wait a while, until they do not expect it. And then you will not fail, Peter.”
He closed the door on the man’s heels then turned and faced his library. Another irritation caused by Margaret Esterly. If the woman was within his reach he would have throttled her with his bare hands.
Elizabeth stood on the doorstep, staring at him for so long that it began to be an irritant.
“I have not changed that much since we last saw each other, surely,” Michael said dryly.
“No, Michael,” she said slowly. “I was just thinking that you look terrible. As if you’ve not slept at all.”
“Not that much lately,” he admitted.
“Mama has taken to her bed with a sick headache, but not before forbidding me to come,” she said, striding into the foyer. Smytheton stepped back from the door, bowed slightly. She smiled brightly at him, an expression that had the effect of easing his glower somewhat.
“Then why have you?”
“To help, of course, Michael,” she said, stripping off her gloves. “Mama is moaning words like scandal and financial ruin in addition to repeating Helen Kittridge’s name over and over. She thinks your marriage is shocking.”
“How did she find out so soon?” He shouldn’t, perhaps, have been surprised. Gossip traveled through the ton at breakneck speed.
“The physician was quite voluble when he attended Charlotte. She’s been in her room for the last week sneezing. He says,” she whispered in an aside, “that Charlotte might actually be sensitive to the London air. Of course, that only made her cry more.”
“Do you feel the same about my marriage?” He looked at her steadily, fully prepared to oust his favorite sister from his home if she said one unkind word about his wife.
She was equally direct in her look, but then Elizabeth always was. She smiled after a moment. “You must answer two questions before I say, Michael.”
“Perhaps.” He folded his arms and waited.
“Does Margaret know any Latin?”
His smile felt unused, almost rusty. “No,” he said.
“And do you love her?” Her smile was charming. Inquisitive, but charming.
“I’ll stop at one,” he said, smiling reluctantly.
“You do!” she declared. “Or else you wouldn’t be so secretive. You never talk about things that matter to you.”
He raised one eyebrow as he stared down at her. She simply continued to smile, all the while advancing on the staircase.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“To see my new sister-in-law, of course. To be a better nurse than you’ve been, no doubt.”
He followed her up the stairs. There was no other choice short of bodily carrying her back down.
“Was she very badly hurt?” she asked, glancing back at him.
“Her shoulder,” he said shortly.
“Why would someone shoot your wife?”
“You’ve learned that from the physician, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes,” she said blithely. “Plus the fact that you’re going to be a father. All whispered in an undertone to Mama, of course. I was not supposed to hear.”
“But you didn’t allow that to stop you,” he said dryly.
She halted on the stairs and stared down at him. “You’re going to be a wonderful father, you know. But you are entirely too secretive, Michael. It comes, no doubt, from doing nothing but ciphers for years.”
“You shouldn’t know about that, either,” he said, no longer surprised by her sources of knowledge. He would prefer to think his occupation somewhat secret, but perhaps Babby’s idiotic name for him had eliminated any hope of discretion.
“Nonsense, there is no secret in London,” she declared.
He shook his head, opened the door, and escorted her inside.
“Margaret, this is my meddlesome sister, Elizabeth.”
“I am the most charming of people,” Elizabeth countered.
Margaret, sitting up in bed, turned and smiled at both of them.
“I have come to
be your nurse, and to offer you some companionship.”
“I never told you how arrogant my sister is, have I?” he asked.
Elizabeth frowned at him, then turned and smiled brightly at Margaret.
“The only proper topics for visits are the weather and one’s engagements,” she said. “But I’ve just finished the most delicious novel,” she whispered. “And I do so want to hear how you and Michael met.”
He looked at Margaret. She glanced at him and then away.
It struck him then, so hard that it was almost a hammer’s blow. I cannot live without her. How strange that he should remember his father’s words at this moment. Or begin to understand the depth of his father’s love for one woman.
He wanted to banish his sister and take his wife in his arms, attempt to explain to her why he couldn’t speak and his breath was oddly trapped in his chest.
The force of his need and his recognition of it was a blinding fact, one that did not need nor require his sister’s rapt audience.
“We shall be quite all right on our own, Michael,” Elizabeth said, gently pushing him from the room. “Margaret needs a friend and I’m perfectly prepared to be one.”
Margaret’s expression was the only reason he allowed himself to be thrust out the door. She looked bemused. Curious.
He halted halfway down the stairs, turned and glanced back at the door to his room. Female laughter was not often heard in this house. It was a strangely appealing sound.
He stood in the foyer for a long moment, looking up at the ceiling, thinking that he had become as idiotic as any besotted fool. He’d given up his estates for her and his heart, willingly. The force of the emotion was staggering.
He must keep her safe.
He had sent Smytheton around with inquiries as to a strange coach and four, but none of his neighbors had seen anything. Robert was away from London, no doubt involved in something to do with the Cyrillic cipher, and he didn’t wish to discuss the shooting with another individual in his office.
