Kate cried out as she lost her hold and was thrown, strangely huddled and small, across the wall to the ground beyond.
Julien whipped Thunderer forward, and the horse sailed gracefully over the stone wall. Julien leaped off his back and ran to where she lay motionless, on her back, the velvet cloak fanned out about her, a soft blanket of deep blue against the hard, rocky earth.
He fell to his knees beside her and quickly felt for the pulse that was beating steadily in the hollow of her throat. Thank God. He felt her arms and legs, then gently eased her into his arms.
Her lashes fluttered and she opened her eyes, filled with dumb fear. “Julien, the child.”
He acted without conscious thought and quickly slipped his hand up underneath her riding habit to the soft shift that covered her belly. He had no practical notion of what he should do, but instinctively he gently pressed his hand against her belly. She was soft and smooth to the touch. “Do you feel any pain? Is there any cramping?” He continued to probe gently with his fingers.
“No, no pain.” She sucked in her breath and gazed at him in consternation. In a voice devoid of emotion she said, “You knew of the child.”
“Yes.” He knew now that he couldn’t keep the truth from her any longer. For better or worse, it was over now. “You remember when you were ill, the morning we left for St. Clair. The landlady at the inn where you rested told me.”
“Ah, Mrs. Micklesfield. Then you also know that the child isn’t yours.” Her words were low and dull. The hopelessness in her voice wrenched at his heart.
“No, sweetheart. The child is mine.”
“Damn you, no more mocking, do you hear me? Is there nothing you don’t know?”
He gently shook her shoulders. “You must listen to me now. I know this will seem incredible to you, but it’s true, I swear it. I was the wild German lord who drugged you, who abducted you. It was I who forced you. I had foolishly thought to teach you pleasure, to make you admit to yourself that you cared for me, indeed, that you wanted me as your husband in every way.”
“Oh, no.” Even as she spoke, memory stirred deep within her. Memory of that man’s hands on her body, his mouth against hers, against her breasts and belly, possessing her, and Julien’s touch the night before, creating in her the same frenzy, the same urgency. That first time, it was as if her body had recognized him, but she hadn’t, she’d been too afraid, too numb with memories that blanked her mind. “I was so frightened last night. I thought I was the most horrid of women to react so wildly. Oh, God.” She pressed her fist against her mouth.
“No, love, don’t think that of yourself, for I knew, as I knew why you came to me last night. I’ve hated myself for the deception, for forcing you to live with this misery. Please, perhaps you can forgive me for what I did to you. I didn’t know what had happened to you, didn’t realize—”
She seemed not to hear his words, and she searched his face with dazed anguished eyes. “But why did you hurt me?”
He drew a deep breath, and for an instant, he couldn’t meet her gaze. The truth, he thought, it must be only the truth now. “When I entered you, I realized that you weren’t a virgin. A virgin has a maidenhead, you see, and you didn’t.
“I thought your fear of me was a sham, that you had given yourself to someone else before me. I cursed you in that moment and sought only to give you pain. I wanted to hurt you as I thought you had hurt me.
“It was only later, that night, when I realized the truth. The nightmare, Kate. My rape of you made you remember, but only in that tortured dream. You spoke in fragmented images of the men, of the cruelty of your father. You became the little girl again and I saw it all through your eyes, saw it all through your pain. You remembered nothing of it the next morning.” He saw in her eyes the gulf of misunderstanding that separated them, and he hurried to answer her unspoken question. “I wanted to tell you, but I knew I couldn’t. Suddenly, you trusted me. I feared the consequences of speaking the truth. That’s why I brought you back to London. I thought, foolishly perhaps, that you would forget.”
“You couldn’t tell me,” she repeated dully, the woman struggling with the child’s pain. She fumbled to grasp the child’s horror, to bring her through the intolerable years, to somehow make her part of herself. As she opened her lips to speak, a long, sharp pain tore through her belly, and her words, jumbled and fragmented, tore from her throat in a jagged cry. She was held in senseless surprise as the pain dissolved, freeing her mind for a brief instant, then seared again through her, its force doubling her forward.
“The child, dear God, the child. I’ve got to get you back.”
She looked at him blankly, her eyes dulled with shock and pain. He pulled her cloak closely about her and lifted her into his arms. The stabbing pain engulfed her once again, and she clutched at his arms, her cry muffled in his greatcoat.
She became aware of her hair whipping about her face, the loud din of horse’s hooves pounding in her ears. The pain was becoming a steady rending part of her, and only dimly did she realize that she was crying aloud. If only she could ease the pain. She tried to bring her knees up to her chest, but couldn’t move against the strong arms that held her.
Julien tightened his fierce hold on her, her cries of pain making his face set and grim. “It isn’t much farther. You’ll be all right, I swear it by everything I hold sacred. You’ll be all right.”
The words had no meaning to her. All understanding plummeted into a void of pain, dissolving shreds of reason. Incredible forces were tearing her apart. She screamed her pain, thrashing wildly against the arms that held her. Voices, loud voices, coming as if from far away, shouted, babbled, incoherent sounds. Suddenly a great lassitude numbed the agonizing pain, scattering it apart from her, making her once again at one with her body. She wondered, almost inconsequentially, if she was dying. How strange that death would be like this, a creeping, paralyzing darkness that closed so gently over her mind. She whimpered softly to herself, a sense of undefined regret, a brief, shadowy flicker blending into the darkness.
Her head lolled from his shoulder as Julien carefully dismounted from Thunderer. He cradled her in one arm, freeing the other to feel for her pulse. He blinked in dazed shock at his hand; it was covered with blood, her blood.
A sharp command burst from his mouth. His groom was running ahead of him, throwing open the front doors, quickly stepping out of the way, his mouth agape.
The set-down that automatically rose to Mannering’s lips at the undignified impertinence of the groom was swallowed in consternation.
“Mannering, fetch Mrs. Cradshaw immediately,” Julien shouted over his shoulder as he bounded up the stairs. “The groom is off for the doctor. Send him up the moment he arrives.”
“Yes, my lord, right away, my lord.” For a moment Mannering stood staring after the earl, unable to remember where to find Mrs. Cradshaw. In frustration, and for the first time in his well-ordered life, Mannering threw back his head and bellowed, “Emma! Emma!”
Julien passed the maid, Milly, on the upper landing. “The countess has suffered a miscarriage. Bring hot water and clean linen. Quickly!”
He carried her to his bedchamber and laid her gently in the middle of the large Tudor bed. She was so deathly pale, too pale, so much blood, too much blood. He pulled off her cloak and cursed his shaking fingers as the small buttons refused to open. He ripped off her habit, his fear lending speed to his movements. There was so much blood, clots of dark purple, covering her legs, weighing down her shift and skirt. He threw the soaked clothing to the floor and stripped off her stockings and riding boots.
He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. “Emma, bring me towels. She’s still bleeding heavily.” He didn’t turn away from Kate, and only the rustle of Mrs. Cradshaw’s black skirt told him of her movement.
He could recall nothing, not a shred of information about miscarriage, a subject never spoken of in a gentleman’s presence. The bleeding was now a purple pool, stark agains
t the pale green of the bedspread. He had to stop the bleeding, he knew that, else she’d die. He ran to his armoire and grabbed several fine lawn shirts. With all his strength he pressed the shirts against her to stem the flow of blood.
“My lord, the towels.”
“No, Emma, I don’t think it wise to lessen the pressure. Bring blankets, we must keep her warm.”
His arms were buried by the covers, and though they began to ache, he pressed his hands all the harder against her.
Mrs. Cradshaw stood away from the bed, her gaze drawn to the bloody, torn clothing on the floor. “She lost the child. Ah, the poor lamb, she lost the child.”
“Yes,” he said, not looking up.
“I’ll remove all the clothing,” she said, leaned over, wrapped the soaked material in the towels, and rose, somewhat shakily. “Would you prefer that I remained, my lord?”
“No, Emma, it’s not necessary. Take the clothing and burn it.” The sharp command was cold, impersonal, but there was misery in his gray eyes, and she hated it, hated the finality of it.
She moved slowly to the door. “Dr. Quaille should be here shortly.”
He eased one hand from between her thighs and rested it briefly on her abdomen. It was an absurd gesture, for he had no idea of what he was probing for. He moved his hand to her breast and flattened his palm to feel her heartbeat. Though rapid, the beat seemed regular and steady.
He’d begun to despair of his actions, when the door was suddenly thrown open and the portly, red-faced Dr. Quaille bustled forward, his stark black cloth suit proclaiming his profession.
He was panting from his exertion at running up the stairs.
“She’s lost the child,” Julien said. “I wasn’t certain what to do for the bleeding. It wouldn’t stop.” He slowly pulled back the blankets. “As you see, I’ve pressed the cloth against her, hoping to stop the bleeding. There’s been so much blood. Jesus, so much blood and she had such pain.”
“Excellent, my lord, excellent.” His voice was calm, reassuring, gentle even as he drew some frightening instruments from his worn leather bag.
“You’ve done just right. Now if you’ll allow me to examine her, I’ll fix it up, I swear it to you.”
Still, the young earl didn’t move. Dr. Quaille said even more gently now, “You’ve done just as you should, my lord. I myself couldn’t have contrived better, under the circumstances.”
Julien slowly removed his hand. His shirts were soaked through with blood. He winced and said in a voice of despair, “It seems I’ve failed, for she still bleeds too much, doesn’t she?”
“No more than I expected. Would you care to wait outside, my lord?” He saw the young man’s pain, his fear, boundless fear and helplessness, but he didn’t want him to stay and witness what he was about to do.
“No,” the earl said only.
Dr. Quaille had no choice but to proceed. He removed the shirts from between the countess’s legs. There was little new blood now. “As you see, my lord, your stratagem worked. The bleeding has nearly stopped.”
Julien watched tight-lipped as the doctor plied some of the more unpleasant-looking instruments of his trade. Thank God Kate wasn’t yet conscious.
There was a sharp, insistent rap on the door, and Julien moved swiftly to answer. Mrs. Cradshaw, Milly, and two footmen laden with tubs of hot water and mountains of clean linen stood in the corridor, their faces white and stricken. The mirror image, Julien thought, of his own.
“Ah, excellent.” Dr. Quaille looked up as Julien set the tubs on the floor beside the bed. To Julien’s relief, he tossed the instruments aside and rose. “You need worry no more, my lord, for the countess will soon be on the mend again. In large measure due to your quick thinking.”
“But the bleeding.” Julien frowned down at the scarlet cloths.
“It’s natural for the bleeding to continue, in fact, for several more days. And, I would add, my lord, that my examination indicates no internal problems. What I mean is,” he amended, seeing the questioning look on the earl’s face, “the countess is young and quite healthy. You will have as many sons and daughters as you will want. Of that I’m certain.”
“My thanks, sir,” Julien said simply.
“Now, my lord, I suggest that Mrs. Cradshaw put the countess in her nightclothes. Then we shall awaken her.”
38
After Mrs. Cradshaw left the room with Dr. Quaille in tow, Cook having prepared a light luncheon for him, Julien dragged one of the tubs of hot water into his dressing room, stripped off his bloodied clothing, bathed, and quickly dressed. He walked back into his bedchamber and looked up at the clock on the mantel, surprised that it was only early afternoon. There was no movement from the bed. She was still asleep, a healing sleep, he had assured Dr. Quaille. Reluctantly the doctor had replaced the vinaigrette in his black bag.
Julien tugged his cravat into a more or less acceptable shape, drew up a chair, and sat himself beside his wife. For perhaps the fourth time, the morning’s events made a tangled procession through his mind, violent emotions jostling against each other, so intensely destructive that he began to despair of a resolution that would bring about forgiveness.
She sighed suddenly, then buried her face in the pillow, as if loath to leave her dreamless sleep. Strangely, it was the total absence of pain that forced her to awareness. “How very odd. I’m not dead. At least I don’t think I’m dead.”
“That, Countess, I would never have allowed.” He smiled, clasping her hand in his. “How do you feel, sweetheart? Is there any pain? Do you have any more cramping in your belly?”
Her mind planted itself firmly into her body. She heard his voice—soft and gentle, that voice—felt his warm hand holding hers. “No, there’s no more pain.” The question seemed foolish to her, but she’d answered, out of habit, she supposed.
What she felt was a great soreness, as if someone had battered at her, but of course, she couldn’t speak of it. Her hand moved as if by purposeful design to her belly. It was smooth, empty. He watched her pale as she realized what had happened. He heard her voice break as she whispered, “The child?”
He squeezed her hand more tightly. “I’m so sorry, Kate. There wasn’t anything I could do. Dr. Quaille assures me that the accident hasn’t harmed you in any way, that, if you wish, we can have as many children as you desire.”
Odd, she thought, staring silently away from him, he speaks of children and yet I knew of the child for but one day. The poor wee thing, never really existing. She felt, somehow, strangely suspended in a vague present, where painful memories—ghosts, Julien had called them, and now the loss of the insignificant small being that was inside of her—didn’t quite touch her. The future, the tomorrows that must irrevocably weave themselves into the present, were mercifully clouded. She looked at her husband and turned her eyes quickly away. The past was mirrored in his eyes—wrenching pain, deception, and misery. She didn’t want to remember, to feel. She struggled to pull herself up on the pillow.
“Go easy, sweetheart, easy.”
She gasped, fear suddenly filling her eyes. There was a warm stickiness spreading between her thighs.
“What’s wrong?” He was leaning over her in an instant. “I think I’m bleeding.”
“Lie still.” Before she knew what he was about, he’d jerked back the covers. Small patches of purple stood out starkly against the white of her nightgown. He quickly slipped one hand under her hips and with the other stripped up her gown. His hands stilled. The pads of cloth had simply slipped away in her effort to pull herself up.
“Oh, no, please don’t, Julien, please.”
“Hush, don’t be embarrassed. The bleeding is natural, and nothing for you to fear. Your sudden movement dislodged the cloths, that’s all.”
She tried to draw her legs together as he straightened above her.
“Hold still now. I’m going to bathe the blood from your legs.”
“No, please don’t. I can do it, Julien, please.”
>
“After this morning’s events, it’s absurd that you should be embarrassed with me. Surely you wouldn’t prefer a stranger.”
She made a choking sound and lay tense and rigid as he gently bathed her. He seemed a stranger to her. All she knew were strangers; she felt alien even to herself.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said, not expecting her to answer, and she didn’t. As he tucked the covers about her shoulders, he let his fingers gently brush across her pale cheeks. “Would you like to see Dr. Quaille now? He’s been cooling his heels waiting for you to wake up, but Cook did feed him. After he’s satisfied with your progress, then I’ll fetch you some lunch. All right?”
He was another stranger, yet she had known him from her childhood. Why could she not be left alone? She wanted no more orders, no more gently veiled commands for her care. She raised bleak eyes. She wanted somehow to lash out at him, but she said only, “You take much for granted, Julien.”
“You’re wrong there. I take nothing for granted, at least not anymore. I wish only to see you well again. Then we will see what there is left.”
Damn him, she didn’t want his kindness. She watched wordlessly as he strode from the room.
“Ah, my dear Lady Katharine, there is color in your cheeks already. As I assured your husband here, you’ll be much your old self in a few days’ time. One of the many advantages of youth and your glowing health.” He clasped her hand and wasn’t surprised to find her pulse rate still rapid.
“You are the most fortunate of women in your choice of husbands, let me tell you.” Seeing her look of bewilderment, he added with a smile, “But for his lordship’s quick thinking and intelligent actions, you might have suffered severe complications.”
The Rebel Bride Page 34
