Simon's Brides

by Allison Knight

  Ben left and the quiet hum of conversation surrounded Amy. For some reason, she felt chilled, as if something evil was about to happen. As hard as she tried the feeling would not go away. It was all the talk about the witch’s house and the curse, she told herself. Still, the feeling persisted.

  Sixteen

  Simon strode into the house. “Bolton,” he shouted, then stood watching the butler make his measured progress from the kitchen.

  “Yes, my Lord,” Bolton answered, his gait slowed then stopped, like a sailing ship in a becalmed sea.

  “Hurry, man,” Simon encouraged. “We are about to have a special visitor. Help is coming. Miller sent word a Bow Street runner will arrive this morning. Call me as soon as you hear the carriage. I’ll be in my office.”

  Simon left the hall and started toward what he considered his sanctuary, his thoughts on what to tell his wife. Wife! That word sent a thrilling sensation through him. Soon, he would have her in his bed. He grinned to himself. Dora was as good as home, now.

  Before he had an opportunity to get to his office, Bolton’s excited voice drew him away from his destination.

  “My Lord!”

  “Yes, Bolton,” he started back toward the butler.

  “A carriage, my Lord, a carriage.”

  Simon smiled. Even Bolton grasped the advantage of another runner.

  “Get the door, Bolton,” Simon ordered and turned back the way he had come, “and bring him to me,” he shouted over his shoulder. This investigator, Miller had written, had the best of recommendations from former clients. With any luck he’d find Dora before the end of the day. And, that night, he was certain he would be able to begin the seduction of Amy. How he was looking forward to that!

  Before Simon reached his office, Bolton shouted “You! No, oh no!”

  Simon heard the door crash against the wall.

  He spun around and raced to the front hall.

  Bolton was on the floor. The door stood open.

  Harold Bottomsworth charged toward Simon. Harold’s hair stood on end. His glazed eyes had a frantic look to them. His disheveled clothing looked as if he’d slept in them for days.

  And, in his right hand he waved a pistol, a repeater.

  “Mine, mine, mine,” he shouted as he slowed then stopped in the middle of the hall. With his left hand, he held Dora’s arm and dragged her into the hall behind him.

  “Damn you,” Harold screamed at the top of his lungs.

  “He’s knows you and Amy are married,” Dora shouted from behind him. “Simon, he’s mad.”

  She yanked against Harold’s hold, but he refused to release her. Instead, he gave her arm a quick jerk, sending her to her knees.

  “Harold, put that pistol away,” Simon ordered. From behind him Simon heard the rustle of silk.

  “Amy, stay in the parlor.”

  Harold waved the weapon in that direction.

  “Come out, you devils. Watch me take back what is mine.”

  “Amy, no!” Simon shouted.

  In his peripheral vision, Simon saw the blue silk of a woman’s skirt. But, he couldn’t take his gaze from Harold’s angry face.

  “Amy, go back.”

  “Don’t you listen to him,” Harold coaxed. “You come here, girl. He ain’t gonna get away with taking it all away. I just needed the estate. But, you refused. Now, it’s gone and they’ll come for me, but it won’t matter. Cause you won’t be here. You had to marry him. Well, now yer gonna pay.”

  A chill raced down Simon’s spine.

  “Amy, go back to the parlor,” he commanded. “Go back.”

  Simon watched Bolton try to regain his footing.

  “Bolton, stay where you are,” Simon ordered.

  Then he heard another voice.

  “What is all this shouting about?” Agatha asked.

  Simon couldn’t turn to look at her either, “Aunt, get back in that parlor.”

  “Now, nephew, I’ll have none...” she retaliated.

  Simon saw the black of her skirt and silently swore. “Aunt, go back.”

  “Oh, it’s that Harold person and he has a--a...” Simon heard a thud behind him. Bloody hell! He couldn’t risk a glance but he was certain his aunt had just swooned.

  He took advantage of Harold’s momentary distraction and advanced toward him. The hall looked a mile long. Simon knew he was too far from Harold to grab that gun.

  “I’ve got her. Amy, help me,” Caro’s voice.

  “I’ll help.” Beth’s voice.

  Harold snarled, “Don’t you move, Miss Amy witch, or I’ll shoot yer husband.”

  He pointed the gun toward Simon.

  Simon took another step forward. Dora chose that movement to give a sharp tug on her hand.

  Harold growled, “Stop that,” and shook her arm. “Don’t you move a step closer.” This at Simon. He waved the pistol, first toward Simon’s left, then at Simon.

  Dora shouted, “He’s lost his senses. He’s mad. Someone in the village told him about the wedding...”

  “Shut up,” Harold screamed. He yanked on Dora’s arm again.

  Simon moved another step closer.

  Harold began to rant, “You had to take it all. But, ain’t gonna do ya no good. Not a bit of good. I’m gonna kill her. The bitch! Traitor!”

  Harold glanced at Amy, then turned back to Simon. “Then, I’m gonna kill you.”

  “Harold, put away the gun. This won’t do any good.” Simon took another step as Dora struggled to her feet.

  “Stop! You stay right there. I ain’t putting this away. Never. You ain’t gonna have it all. You ain’t gonna live to have it all.” Harold laughed.

  The sound sliced through Simon like a knife.

  Harold glanced toward the back parlor. He pointed the weapon in Amy’s direction. “Amelia, you come here, girl. You come out here where I can see you better. Get out here!” he ordered. “Stand next to yer husband.”

  Simon raked his hand through his hair. “Amy, get back into that parlor.”

  “Stay there,” Harold screamed. He pointed the pistol toward Simon, then back again toward Amy.

  Dora yanked at Harold’s hand. “He’s insane. He won’t listen to reason.”

  “I told you to shut up.” Harold gave Dora another tug. He twisted her arm.

  Dora gasped in pain.

  Simon moved another step closer.

  “No,” Harold screamed bringing the gun up to sight down the barrel. He aimed the pistol at Amy.

  Simon watched as Harold’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  His breath caught. “No,” he roared and dove for the gun.

  Thunder crashed through the hall as the bullet went wild.

  Dora jerked free and dashed toward Bolton.

  Simon knocked Harold to the floor.

  Harold bellowed in outrage.

  Simon held him pinned. He grabbed Harold’s hand with the weapon. He smashed it against the floor.

  Harold refused to release the weapon. He rolled over and pointed the barrel at Amy.

  Simon grabbed his hand. He forced it down, between the two of them.

  Another shot rang out.

  Dora and Amy screamed.

  Clifford, Ben and two other men raced into the hall.

  “My Lord?” Clifford shouted. He grabbed Harold, his beefy arm around the older man’s throat.

  “Simon,” Ben dropped to his knees next to Simon. The two other men grabbed at Harold. “Oh, good Lord. He’s been shot.” Ben glanced up at Amy.

  She saw the agony in Ben’s eyes. He was trying to tell her that Simon was hurt, badly hurt. Amy gazed at the blood spreading rapidly over Simon’s shirt and the stain starting to puddle on the floor.

  “No,” she whispered and dashed toward him. “No,” her voice rose in agony. “Oh, no,” she fell to her knees in the warm blood. Her voice trembled as she lifted Simon’s hand. “Oh, please God, no!”

  Ben reached around her and tore open the shirt. Amy heard a sigh of reli
ef. The bullet had missed Simon’s stomach. However, blood drenched his side.

  “Looks like the bullet went through. Must have hit a rib. Pray nothing important was hit,” Ben sat back on the heels of his boots.

  Amy stared in horror at her husband. He had been shot saving her from Harold Bottomsworth.

  Simon opened his eyes and tried to say something, but Amy hushed him, “Save your strength.”

  He let his eyes drift closed.

  “We have to stop the bleeding,” Amy whispered. Suddenly all the skills she’d learned from Edith Williams deserted her.

  She couldn’t think.

  How to stop the bleeding?

  She took a deep breath to calm herself. Simon needed her now. And, she could not, would not fail him. She could do this. She had to do this.

  She dredged up the lessons Edith had drummed into her. First, stop the bleeding.

  Pressure. She had to apply pressure.

  Without regard for the men in the room, Amy raised her skirt and tore her petticoat. She folded the material into a square and pressed it against Simon’s side.

  “My Lady?” Clifford interrupted. “What about Harold?”

  “Bedlam,” Simon whispered, his eyes still closed.

  “You heard the magistrate. Bind him and take him to Bedlam,” she said without lifting her gaze from her husband stretched out at her knees.

  She heard the men talking, but she closed out their comments. Simon was her concern. She could only concentrate on Simon. He needed her now. She pressed hard against his wound.

  “Let’s get him into bed.” Ben stood and signaled several sailors forward.

  “Yes. But, be careful,” she ordered as Simon’s men bent to hoist him up. “Here, keep pressure on his wound.” Reluctantly, Amy stepped back then led the way up the stairs to the master bedroom.

  ~ * ~

  Amy gazed at Simon’s bronze chest. His shirt had been removed and he lay on the bed, his flesh bare for her inspection. She forced herself to remember his wound. After he swallowed some of the brandy she’d ordered brought from his office, she cleaned his wound. When she poured a little of the brandy into the wound, he gasped and lost consciousness.

  She took a needle and thread and soaked it in the brandy. Biting the inside of her cheek, she fought to keep her fingers steady. Once she had calmed herself she sewed up the wounds in his side.

  She asked Agatha to stay with Simon and went to her own room to gather the herbs she needed. Back in the master bedchamber, she ordered the fire stoked, and wine brought. She prepared a poultice of herbs and applied it to his wound. Then she sat down to keep watch and say her prayers.

  As the day waned, Simon grew fretful, his skin took on the flushed appearance of fever and he tossed and turned in pain. She placed her hand on his forehead and shook her head. He felt hot to the touch.

  She sent Caro to the kitchen for a kettle. Edith said fever often followed a gun shot or a stabbing; the fever helped the body to heal.

  When Caro returned, Amy added the wine and some of her willow bark and set the mixture near the fire. According to Edith, she needed to get his fever down. The tea would help.

  She fixed a cup and coaxed several spoonfuls into his mouth. Night descended and Amy watched as fever made her husband restless and agitated. She ordered a bucket of cold water so that she could sponge him with the cool liquid.

  She lowered the sheet.

  Ben had undressed him while she’d gone for needle and thread. Now she gazed at his body, his naked body. She stared at him. She had only seen him once without clothing. He was beautiful.

  Suddenly, the room seemed much warmer than it had previously. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that Simon needed her now. She couldn’t afford to linger over the perfection of the man she had married.

  Grabbing the sponge, she stroked his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. She wet the sponge again and stood poised above the lower part of his body. Shuddering, she gazed at his legs, at his thighs. She stared at his manhood nestled in a nest of dark hair. Somehow, it looked different. Smaller than she remembered and now it lay placid against his body.

  Suddenly, she felt hot, uncomfortable, yet the thought of running her hands over his warm skin did something to her stomach. She wanted to touch him.

  She forced herself to remember what she was about and re-wet the sponge. Slowly, she touched the wetness to a leg and sponged his leg, his thigh. She held her breath as she caressed the inside of his thigh. The dry heat of his skin increased her own temperature.

  He groaned and Amy jerked away from him. Dear heavens. What was she doing? She scolded herself, shook her head and dipped the sponge back into the water. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to apply the coolness to Simon’s hot flesh trying hard not to dwell on that section of his body cradled between his thighs.

  Still his fever did not break.

  Again, she added wine to the kettle and set it near the fire. When it was hot, she moved the kettle aside and waited until the liquid had cooled a bit, then, added an infusion of raspberry leaves and willow bark. She poured a cup and with an invalid spoon, she fed him the tea.

  She crawled up on the bed and soothed his hair from his face. He murmured her name, or what she thought was her name. She inhaled sharply. Her eyes teared and she gazed at him.

  “Please, don’t die,” she whispered. “I--I love you. I need you. You can’t die.”

  She slid from the bed to her knees. “Dear Lord, please don’t take him from me. Since I won’t be able to sleep with him, if you will help him heal, save him from death, then I’ll give him up. I’ll insist he annul the marriage so that he can marry another. If he wants the estate, I’ll give it to him, but let him recover.”

  She closed her eyes, dropped her head to the mattress and prayed, “Please, Lord, please.”

  Again, she ordered more cool water and sponged him off as his temperature again soared. She made more tea and spooned it over his dry, cracking lips.

  He tossed and turned.

  “Cold, so cold,” he mumbled.

  She piled a number of blankets on him and when he still complained about being chilled, she climbed into bed and held him in her arms. Then, he pushed her away and threw off the blankets.

  “Hot. Douse that fire. Water. Water...”

  He tried to sit up. Amy held him down. She grabbed the sponge from the bucket of cool water and began to apply it to his body. He sighed in contentment and slipped off into a restless sleep.

  Amy blew out an exhausted breath.

  “Please, Lord,” she murmured as she began to prepare more tea.

  Toward morning, Amy dozed off. Simon’s mutterings awakened her and she lifted her head from his mattress.

  “Don’t shout at each other like that. Don’t,” he murmured. Amy wondered who was shouting.

  “Angel, looks like an angel.”

  Those words brought on a surge of jealousy. Amy wondered who the angel was and what she’d meant to him. A few minutes later, “Can’t be gone. Didn’t get to say goodbye.”

  More, “Don’t want the task. Can’t tell him no.”

  Amy grabbed the kettle, poured tea into a cup and eased the liquid into his mouth.

  “He has to get better. He has to,” she whispered as she worked. “Simon, don’t do this to me. You have to get well. You have to.”

  “Cold.”

  She wrapped him in blankets.

  Minutes later he threw them off.

  “So damned hot. Bloody hell. Douse that fire,” he shouted trying again to leave his bed. She pressed her chest to his. She lay with her body covering his until he calmed down a bit.

  Opening his glazed eyes, he smiled up at her. “Turned out to be beautiful. All of ‘em, turned out to be beautiful.” He lifted his hand, but it appeared the effort was too much and he dropped it to the bed.

  She slipped away, grabbed the sponge and began wiping him down again, her tears mixing with the cool water she applied to his skin.
He settled down once more, but his fever was raging.

  By mid-afternoon Amy was beside herself. Simon’s fever had risen steadily, but nothing she did seemed to help. She feared if he kept tossing and turning, he would rip open the stitches in his side. That would compound the situation.