Beguiled

by Joanna Chambers

  “Stop there!”

  At the sound of that dictatorial voice, David threw a glance over his shoulder. Kinnell was just coming round the bend of the last flight of stairs. He only had another dozen steps to go and the foyer to cross and he’d be on their heels.

  “No, no!” Elizabeth moaned.

  The doorkeeper had just inserted the key in the lock. David pushed him aside, took hold of the key and thrust it home, grinding it in the lock. It was stiff, but he wrenched at it until the lock gave, and then he was shoving the door open, pushing Elizabeth out in front of him and slamming it behind them.

  The crowd David had been expecting to dive into wasn’t there. The steps that led to the street from the theatre doors were clear, and at the bottom of them stood a line of fine carriages waiting for His Majesty’s emergence from the theatre. The crowd had been pushed well back from the carriages and was being kept in place by a line of the King’s personal guard of troops. Euan had to be in there somewhere—somewhere in that throng.

  “Come on,” David said, lunging forward, pulling Elizabeth behind him. But before they’d gone a few steps, the door behind them opened with a crash.

  “Elizabeth!”

  David met Elizabeth’s terrified gaze. “You have to run,” he told her, pushing her towards the steps. “I’ll hold him back while you find Euan. Go.”

  This time she didn’t hesitate, just lifted her skirts and ran down the steps to the street below while David turned to face Kinnell, who was right behind him, his face twisted and red with anger.

  “You again!” he yelled in harsh disbelief. “Get out of my way!”

  David pitched himself at Kinnell, wrapping his arms around the other man, determined to stop him getting to Elizabeth.

  Kinnell’s fist connected with his stomach, and he grunted, air rushing out of him. His feet stumbled, slipping on the stairs, and they fell together, tumbling to the bottom of the steps where the carriages stood.

  The fall knocked the wind out of David, but he still hung on to the other man. Run, he thought. Run.

  “Let go of me, you bastard! She is my wife!” Kinnell shouted, landing another punch.

  The pain of that blow to David’s kidneys was astonishing, but even though his arms felt like porridge now, he kept his arms clamped round Kinnell’s body.

  “David!”

  A new voice this time. Murdo.

  David twisted his head, looking up the steps to where Murdo stood at the theatre doors, eyes wide as he took in the sight of David brawling in the street.

  Kinnell took advantage of David’s momentary inattention, breaking out of David’s arms and stuttering to his feet.

  “Elizabeth!” he yelled as he surged forward, and David somehow knew from the tone of his voice that Kinnell could see her, that he had his sights set on her now.

  By some miracle, David managed to lurch to his feet again, lungs labouring, shoes scrabbling against the slippery cobbles, body protesting. He lunged after Kinnell, a headlong leap of desperation, and grabbed at the tail of Kinnell’s coat, grasping just enough of a handhold to slow the other man down again.

  Kinnell swung round in David’s grip, his expression murderous now. His hands came up, and he thrust David violently away from him. The shove sent David staggering backwards. Back, back, into empty air, his arms cartwheeling for a moment.

  For that moment—or maybe forever—David was suspended there, in the act of falling. Falling, to the sound of panicked whinnying and someone shouting. Falling, under the immense shadow of a carriage horse as it reared in its traces.

  The falling ended with a slamming pain.

  Then nothing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Waking—when he woke—was to enter a world of pain, and so much of it he couldn’t pinpoint where it began or ended.

  He tried to resist consciousness, until a familiar voice said, “He’s stirring.” A familiar voice that thrummed with fear.

  He couldn’t settle on a name for the voice, but it summoned an image of strong fingers entwined with his own. A secret, irrepressible smile. By an immense effort, he managed to crack an eyelid open.

  A man was bending over him, his dark hair dishevelled, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.

  “David, thank God! Can you speak?”

  He shifted, and the pain was agonising. A whimper was all he could manage. He sounded like an animal.

  “Don’t move—” the man said at once, then looked over his shoulder. “Is that draught ready yet?”

  When he turned back, he said, “I thought you were dead—” and his voice cracked on the last word.

  Murdo.

  David tried to say the name, to show Murdo that he knew him, but all he managed was another broken whimper.

  A second man arrived beside Murdo. He was much older, with sparse grey hair that failed to cover his shiny scalp.

  “Support his head, my lord,” this man said, his voice quietly commanding. “He will find it difficult to drink this and it will spill, but we only need get some into him, then he will sleep, and we will see what to do.”

  Murdo slid a hand under David’s shoulders and lifted him, just a little, but it was enough that every nerve in David’s body screamed. Every nerve, but not his mouth. Again, the only noise that came from him was tiny animal sounds.

  “I’m sorry,” Murdo whispered. “God, I’m sorry, David.”

  The older man used one hand to press on David’s chin, opening his jaw, and the other to tip the rim of a bowl against his bottom lip. Bitter liquid flooded his mouth, too much to swallow. It flowed out of his mouth and down the sides of his face, but some of it hit the back of his throat, and he gagged on it, swallowing and choking weakly. Again it flowed. Again.

  “Enough,” the man said at last.

  The strong arm under his shoulders was gently withdrawn, and he was lowered to a flat position again. The impossible, unbearably intense pain that had flared when he was lifted subsided into something lesser, something that gradually began to feel more and more bearable as he continued to lie there and the draught did its work.

  The edges of his vision greyed. Oblivion called him back to his rest.

  THE NEXT TIME HE OPENED his eyes, he knew where he was. The curving plasterwork petals of the ceiling rose told him this was Murdo’s bedchamber.

  “You’re awake.”

  He turned towards the voice, wincing at the slamming pain in his head that accompanied the sudden movement.

  Murdo sat beside him. He looked utterly wrecked, grey circles under his bloodshot eyes, his hair standing up on end where he’d run his hands through it.

  “Murdo—” David’s voice came out dry and cracked, and he wondered suddenly how the rest of him was faring. He moved as though to begin sitting up, to check himself. Murdo immediately leaned forward, placing one large, warm hand on his chest.

  “Easy, there.”

  It was then that another thought—another person—occurred to him.

  “Elizabeth?” he breathed.

  “Gone,” Murdo replied. “Kinnell was seized by the King’s soldiers after you were felled by that horse. She ran away and hasn’t been seen since.”

  “Thank God,” David whispered. It hadn’t been for nothing, at least.

  “I don’t know why you’re thanking God,” Murdo replied, his jaw set and grim. “You managed to nearly kill yourself, you idiot.”

  “How bad?” David croaked. He strained his neck off the pillow to look down at himself, only to fall back from the sudden intense pain in his head.

  “Jesus Christ!” he hissed.

  “Careful! Your head was clipped by the horse’s hoof, and there’s a fracture—though you’re lucky your skull wasn’t entirely caved in.”

  “No wonder it hurts,” David mumbled.

  “That’s not all, I’m afraid,” Murdo said. “Your right leg was broken in two places. Luckily, you were out cold when it was being set.”

  David felt a surge of fear. A bad break
could be difficult to heal. He might even lose his leg. He lifted his head again, panic keeping him going through the pain this time, pain that eased when Murdo jumped up and braced his arm behind David to support his head and neck.

  David looked down his body, at the unexpected bulk under the bedcovers.

  “Show me,” he demanded desperately, his voice near breaking.

  Murdo leaned forward, using his free hand to pull the covers back. “It’s not so bad,” he murmured. “Just splinted and bandaged. You need to rest and let it heal.”

  David barely heard him. He was too busy staring at his leg. Not that you could tell that it was a leg. The whole length of it was bandaged and trussed up in what looked like a stiff wood-and-leather harness. He was immobilised. Unable to bend knee or ankle, the whole limb firmly held in position for healing.

  “How long will it need to be like this?”

  “At least three months, perhaps longer.”

  David gasped. “Three months—”

  “It could be six. The physician says the bones need to knit properly before you can risk placing weight on it.”

  “I can’t manage like this for six months—or even three!”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to,” Murdo replied. “It’s a bad break, and if you’re not careful, you’ll get an infection in it—and then you’ll be looking at amputation.”

  David made an incoherent noise, part protest, part despair, and turned his head into Murdo’s shoulder, gulping in Murdo’s familiar scent for a long, weak moment as he absorbed the reality of his situation.

  Murdo shifted his body so that they sat side by side, though with Murdo’s strong arm still supporting David’s back. He stroked the apple of David’s shoulder with his thumb, murmuring, “Come on. It’ll be all right.”

  “No, it won’t. I really can’t manage,” David said, the words pouring out of him unchecked. “I can’t get to court like this, or to the library. Christ, how will I even get home? My rooms are up two flights of stairs!” Every new thought was worse as he contemplated just how profound his new helplessness was. “I’ll have to go back to Midlauder,” he realised aloud. He pulled away from Murdo’s shoulder and looked up at him, horrified. “I can’t ask my mother to nurse me! She’s got too many other things to do to be running after me again. And what about my clients, the practice I’ve built up—”

  “David, please. You’re panicking needlessly.” Murdo’s voice was calm and firm, and it halted David in his tracks. “I’ve already thought about all of this,” he continued. “I want you to come with me, to my estate in Perth, to recuperate.”

  For a moment, David could only stare at him. “But my work—”

  “Will be taken care of by Mr. Ferguson.”

  David paused. “Donald?” he said at last.

  “The same. He came here yesterday. He was asking for you—and for news of his sister-in-law. We spoke for a while, and he said he’d do whatever was necessary to deal with your work while you get well again.”

  “He came yesterday? What day was that?” David frowned. “How long have I been unconscious?”

  “Several days. I brought you here straight after the accident. You slept through Tuesday night and all of Wednesday. Today’s Thursday and”—Murdo craned his neck to look at a clock on the mantelpiece—“it’s almost noon now. And in all that time, you’ve only had a little water, so you must be starving. I’d better ring for some food.” Murdo shifted, carefully beginning to extricate himself.

  “Wait a moment,” David said, and Murdo stilled behind him.

  “What is it? Are you in pain?”

  He breathed out a shaky laugh. “Well, yes, but that’s not it. I just need to... Murdo, I’m so—” He broke off, incoherent, embarrassed when tears sprang to his eyes. “Just—thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “For everything,” David said. “Taking care of me, bringing me here. You didn’t need to do that.”

  Murdo went very silent. At last he said, “You don’t need to thank me.”

  “I do. I can’t even imagine what would’ve happened to me if you hadn’t been there. Where I would have ended up. Maybe even dead.”

  Murdo shook his head at that, a fierce repudiation of David’s grim prediction. “I just wish”—he paused—“I just wish that you’d told me what you were planning beforehand. Didn’t you think I’d help you?”

  David sighed. “I didn’t want to involve you.”

  “You involved Euan MacLennan,” Murdo replied flatly.

  David stilled. “How do you know that?”

  “Donald Ferguson said he was part of the plan. What was he doing? Waiting for her outside?”

  David nodded.

  Murdo went silent, but there was a tension in him that David could feel. After a minute, Murdo blurted out, “I can’t believe you trusted him more than me. After what he did to you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘what he did to me’?”

  “What do you think I mean? I’m talking about two years ago. About him holding a gun to your head and threatening to kill you. Don’t you remember that night?” His voice held disbelieving scorn.

  “I remember,” David said quietly. “But I always understood why Euan did that. He is—he is a good man, Murdo.”

  “I hope you’re right, because you’ve entrusted a vulnerable young woman to his care.”

  “I do trust him. And besides that, he’s in love with her. He’d protect her with his last breath.”

  “Love!” Murdo huffed out the word on a scornful laugh. David wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  “I trust him,” David repeated.

  There was a long pause, a pregnant silence.

  “Do you trust me?” Murdo asked. He sounded almost diffident, as though the answer to his question was of little more than passing interest.

  But when David whispered, “There’s no one I trust more, I think,” the tension in him seemed to drain away.

  “You need to eat,” Murdo said after a few minutes. “I’ll get some broth brought up for you.”

  He began to shift till David put a hand on his leg, staying him. “Don’t go yet.”

  Murdo didn’t say anything in reply, but he stayed where he was, and they sat there for a while after, Murdo’s long fingers still stroking David’s shoulder.

  CHALMERS CAME THE NEXT afternoon.

  David had been moved to a long couch in the study. He was reading a volume of essays when Murdo looked in.

  “Mr. Chalmers is here,” Murdo said. “Donald Ferguson’s with him, but Chalmers wants to talk to you alone first. Do you feel up to it?”

  “Yes, of course,” David said, bracing himself on his elbow and pulling himself painfully into a more upright position. As well as a fractured skull and broken leg, he had bruised his ribs, and they screamed with agony whenever he moved.

  Murdo nodded and withdrew. A few minutes later, he returned with Chalmers on his arm. The older man’s gait was slow and painful. He seemed worse—markedly so—from when David had last seen him.

  “You shouldn’t be out,” David scolded, and Chalmers grimaced.

  “I had to see you,” the older man said. “Before you go to Perthshire.”

  Murdo helped Chalmers settle into the armchair next to David’s couch. “I’ll leave you alone to talk,” he said diplomatically and withdrew.

  Chalmers stared at the closed door for a moment after Murdo left. “He’s been very kind to you,” he said.

  David couldn’t read anything in the older man’s tone. In the end, he simply agreed, offering no explanation. “Yes, he has.”

  “A good friend,” Chalmers concluded. “If an unexpected one.”

  “Very true,” David agreed and smiled, more to himself than at Chalmers.

  “I’m so sorry this happened to you,” Chalmers said without further preamble. “All because you were helping my girl.”

  “I’m just glad she got away.”

  “I’ve had a note from her,” Cha
lmers said. “It arrived yesterday morning.” He fished in his pocket and drew it out, handing it to David.

  The quality of the paper was poor and the writing slapdash.

  Dearest Papa,

  You will know by now that I have run away from K.

  Thank you for the money you sent for me by way of D L. It means more to me than mere gold—to know you love me still is the greatest blessing I could ask for.

  Know that I am safe and well. I am travelling with a kind man who is a friend of D L’s. He will see me safely settled when we arrive at our destination. As soon as I can, I will write to you properly and send you my direction.

  Send me news of D L when you write. I pray all is well with him, and that K has not harmed him in retribution for helping me.

  I love you, Papa. My greatest wish is to see you again, one day.

  Your loving daughter,

  E

  When David looked up, Chalmers had tears in his eyes.

  “She doesn’t know what happened to you,” Chalmers said. “She’d probably have refused to leave town if she’d known. She was always...very fond of you, lad.” His voice carried regret. Sorrow. “For a while, I thought the two of you might marry. It would have made me so happy if you had. Instead, Elizabeth is run to London, and you are injured.” He sounded pained when he added, “All because of her impetuous decision to marry that brute, Kinnell.”

  “Don’t blame Elizabeth for that,” David said. “If anyone is to blame, it is I. In truth, she had hopes of me, and I did not come up to scratch. I disappointed her. Had I not done so, she would never have married him.”

  There, he’d said it at last: admitted his guilt at failing Elizabeth. He looked at Chalmers expecting to see anger, but all he saw was regret and pity.

  “Ah, I see. Well, we are none of us perfect, are we?”

  “Far from it. But at least Elizabeth is away from him now. And she is strong, Chalmers. She will find a way to make a new life for herself. One in which she can be happy again.”

  “Do you think so? I worry. A woman who has run from her husband is beyond society, and Elizabeth is all alone now.”