by C. J. Archer
He groaned. "I can walk home."
"No, you can’t. Your body is still weak. You’ll stay here tonight."
He lifted his head. "I must return home."
"Why? Because your mother will worry?" she said with mock sweetness.
"No, because I need to see Ash. There’s a lot I need to tell him."
"Why?" she challenged. Because Lord Ashbourne was his spying partner and he needed to discuss Old Man Shawe’s conversation with him? Say it. Admit it.
But he didn’t. Instead he lowered his head again and groaned. She took that as ascent that he would be staying in Fox’s room for the night.
***
There’s nothing like a reunion with a loved one to make a man forget he’d been poisoned. If only Nicholas had been sleeping with his loved one then perhaps he wouldn’t be leaving in the middle of the night when he should be resting. He paused in the act of slipping on his boots. Why wasn’t he sleeping with his loved one? They were married, after all.
Fox’s loud snore erupted from the bed which the apprentice shared with another male servant of the household. With noise like that it was no wonder Nicholas had woken up with a start. At least the few hours rest he did get seemed to have helped his recovery. He felt refreshed and ready for the walk to Ash’s house. His friend wouldn’t mind the late night visit. He was used to it, even expected it during an investigation since it was safer for his agents to check in under the cloak of darkness.
Nicholas grabbed his coat, hat and gloves and stepped out of the room. He paused outside Isabel’s door but decided not to enter. Not only would that invite unwanted questions and suspicions, but he hated waking her. Besides, he would be back before sunrise so she wouldn’t even know he’d left. He moved on, down the stairs, through the silent shop to the street.
Outside, the cold air pricked his ears, nose and cheeks but he was thankful there was no wind to spear into his bones. The city was quiet, the curfew bells having sent all law abiding citizens to their warm beds. The London winter had probably sent any non-law abiding citizens to their beds too, or someone else’s. Only a desperate man would be out on a February night.
Somewhere past the row of shops on the northern side of Bucklersbury, the Watch shouted that all was well. Nicholas waited to see where the next call came from before heading off in the opposite direction. Explaining his reasons for being out and about at that time of night would be no more than a nuisance for a man of his rank but it was a nuisance he could do without.
He passed the four- and five-storey shops lining Cheapside, the peaks of their pitched roofs disappearing into the night sky above. He turned left into Paternoster Row and passed the great hulking form of St Paul’s Cathedral, eerily quiet without the crowds. Instead of going towards Ludgate which was closed at night along with London’s other gates, he headed south towards the river. Used to going silently about his business, his footsteps barely made a sound.
So when he heard the faint clack clack of boots on stone behind him, he froze.
Someone was following him.
He sank into the shadows, his hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword. He waited, straining to hear, but the only sound came from the gentle lapping of the Thames and the jostling of the wherries tied up at the water stairs at the end of the street. One of them would provide him with transport to Ashbourne House’s landing and back again. The wherry’s owner would be none the wiser in the morning when he returned to begin his day’s work ferrying passengers up and down the river. By then, Nicholas would be safely back in Fox’s room.
He continued down to the water, still gripping the hilt of his rapier. Unease settled into his stomach, or perhaps that was the lingering affects of the poison again. He continually checked over his shoulder, but there was nothing there except inky blackness. He untied one of the wherries and stepped in, pushing off with his foot.
He rowed up the river and was grateful for the lack of wind since his strength seemed to have deserted him. He’d rowed the same course easily and without breaking a sweat many times before but it seemed the poisoning had weakened him more than he anticipated. With the enormous stone landing at Ashbourne House in sight, he had to stop and rest. He withdrew the oars and allowed the boat’s momentum to carry him along.
The soft splash of oars breaking the surface filtered through the darkness. Who in Hell would be rowing up river in the middle of a cold February night?
He squinted into the blackness, listening. The splashing drew closer but he could see nothing.
Someone was definitely following him.
Then let them follow. He continued on to Ashbourne House and tied up the wherry before sinking into the shadows of the stone arch that signaled the entrance to the stairs leading up to the gardens. Moments later another wherry pulled up and a hooded figure got out. The short blade of a dagger glinted in the moonlight as the rower tied up his boat.
Despite the cold, sweat dripped from Nicholas’s forehead as he waited for the figure to approach. But time seemed to drag on forever and Nicholas’s head felt like it had grown too big for his skull. He rubbed his temple, trying to concentrate and banish the dizziness and aches. He closed his eyes, just for a second, but when he opened them, the hooded figure was standing before him, dagger raised.
The blade suddenly descended and Nicholas just managed to dive out of the way as it sliced through the air near his face. He landed awkwardly on his side but rolled to a kneeling position near the water’s edge, his rapier drawn. He started to stand but before he could get to his feet, the attacker flew out of the darkness and slashed.
Nicholas parried but was caught off guard and put a hand out to stop himself falling. Still on his knees, his body lay open and vulnerable for the seconds it took him to regain his balance.
Long enough for the attacker to kick him in the stomach.
Nicholas fell back, his head hitting the stones with a crack. His vision blurred, the familiar nausea returning with a vengeance. He had to get up, had to defend himself, had to...be sick. His insides were on fire, burning and heaving in protest. And why couldn’t he get up? Why wouldn’t his limbs work?
Above him, the hooded attacker came into view, the metal of his dagger catching the moonlight as it descended. With every ounce of strength in him, Nicholas tried to get out of the way, willing his body to move. He managed to roll.
But not fast enough. The blade struck deep into his side. White hot pain speared through him. His own shouts of agony filled his ears. He smelled blood and knew without looking or touching that it poured from his wound because he suddenly felt very cold and very tired. Too tired to keep his eyes open. He closed them and saw Isabel’s beautiful face.
Isabel.
A fresh wave of pain ripped him apart, shattering the image. Then everything else began to slip away along with his blood until he was too cold, too empty, to feel even the pain anymore.
CHAPTER 13
Sleep eluded Isabel the way Nick had eluded her questions. Would he ever admit he was a spy? Or that he was investigating her? The more she thought about it, the more she knew that to be the truth. Yet he still said nothing.
She sighed for the hundredth time and rolled over, being careful not to accidentally kick Lucy the maid. She tried to think of something other than Nick—her work, her customers—but that only led her to thinking of him again. How did he feel? What could she give him to make him recover faster? She smiled because she knew exactly what he’d say. And it was a medicine she would readily dispense.
But since they both shared a room with others and since he was still unwell, it probably wasn’t a wise train of thought to follow. Especially since it made her ache for him. Her body craved his—to feel his warm skin, the curve of his back against her breasts, his heady scent...
She rolled over again, stifling a groan. It would be a long night.
Then she sat bolt upright at the sound of hammering on the front door. Who would want an apothecary in the middle of the night? Conside
ring the occupation of many of her clients, it could be anyone. Ordinarily, she would leave Fox to deal with a late night caller but since she was already disturbed she saw no reason to wake the rest of the household.
She threw her cloak around her shoulders and tied it as she hurried down the stairs. The banging had grown more insistent and she opened the door with an irritable jerk.
"All right, I’m here," she said.
The man, dressed in silver and green livery colors, straightened and bowed. "I’m sorry, Mistress, but..." He broke off to suck in deep breaths. Sweat beaded at his hairline, a single drip slipped down past his ear. "But I come bearing important news. Are you Mistress Camm?"
A cold wind swept through the open door and settled into the pit of her stomach. She nodded, indicating he should come inside. He hesitated then complied, blowing on his bare hands as she shut the door behind him.
"Who do you work for?" she asked.
"Lord Ashbourne, Mistress. He sent me to bring you to Ashbourne House."
Lord Ashbourne! "Immediately? But it’s the middle of the night. What’s wrong with him?" The words tumbled over each other in her urgency. Something must be wrong with Nick’s friend and he had sent for her. "Another poisoning? I’ll need to know so I can pack the right potions—"
"It’s not His Lordship who’s dying, Mistress. It’s Sir Nicholas Merritt."
She stared at him, her head suddenly feeling thick and she shivered. So cold. "But he’s here," she said. "Upstairs. Asleep." Her voice trailed to a whisper as her breath escaped her.
The man spoke the truth. She didn’t need to run up to Fox’s room to see the empty pallet for herself because she couldn’t feel Nick’s presence in the building.
The man shifted his weight, clearly unsure what to say or do. "Lord Ashbourne wanted me to bring you immediately. I have a boat waiting."
"A boat?" Of course, the gates would still be closed. "I’ll fetch my cloak."
"You’re wearing your cloak, Mistress."
She looked down at it. "Right, so I am. My gloves, hat and bag of supplies then."
"And proper boots."
"Of course." Yes, boots. Where were her boots?
Only a few minutes later she was walking quickly behind Lord Ashbourne’s man trying not to think of what he’d told her.
Dying.
When they reached St Paul’s, she broke into a run. Her hair beneath her hat came loose and tumbled down her back but she didn’t pause to fix it.
It’s Sir Nicholas Merritt.
They reached a boat with the Ashbourne coat of arms stitched onto the canopy and climbed in. The servant helped her to a bench seat covered in cushions embroidered with the Ashbourne colors of silver and green then nodded at the two oarsmen. Moments later the boat sped down the river under the powerful pull of the oars.
Dying.
She closed her eyes, tried to still the erratic beat of her heart and regain some of the common sense that seemed to have left her. "Tell me what happened?" she finally managed to ask the servant.
"A few of us heard a shout coming from the landing. Woke us up. When we investigated, we found Sir Nicholas lying in a pool of blood."
"Was he insensible?" she heard herself ask. That must have been her apothecary instincts taking over because she certainly wasn’t thinking clearly enough to ask such a rational question.
Nick...dying.
No, it wasn’t possible. Not now. She shook her head and pulled her cloak tighter at her throat because she was so cold. Light rain had begun to fall and she was glad for the protection of the canopy.
The servant coughed politely. "If you don’t mind me asking, Mistress, but are you some kind of lady doctor?"
"I’m an apothecary’s assistant," she said.
The servant humphed. "Don’t know what an apothecary can do for Sir Nicholas now. His wounds are deep. Potions and ointments won’t fix him."
Which meant Ashbourne must have fetched her because she was Nick’s wife, not for her medical skills.
Oh God.
She tried not to think of that for the rest of the boat ride. Tried not to think at all, but images and memories of him kept recurring unbidden. Stolen kisses behind the Lyle House brewery before they married, long evening walks in summer, primal love-making after he returned from wherever it was he went.
The bump of the boat hitting the landing jerked her out of her thoughts. She swiped at a tear before being helped out by the servant. He held a blanket over her head to protect her from the rain but she hurried past him and up the stairs to the garden and the big house standing proudly at the end of the straight path.
The servant seemed to sense her urgency and directed her quickly through the maze of rooms. Isabel registered the opulence of the fabrics and furnishings but little else. Finally they stopped outside a closed door. The servant knocked softly and it opened immediately. A maid rushed past them carrying red sheets.
Red, bloodied sheets.
Isabel swallowed the emotions rising in her throat because Nick needed her to be brave more than ever. Nevertheless she ran to the bed, stumbling the last few steps and falling to her knees at his side. He lay completely still, his face white, the sheen of moisture covering his skin glistened in the flickering candlelight. He looked like a marble statue—perfectly carved yet lacking color. And life.
No, not lifeless. He breathed. The gentle rise and fall of his chest was evidence of that, but it was so shallow as to be almost non-existant. She brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead and bent to kiss him there. He felt cold against her lips. Too cold.
"My husband," she whispered, resting her cheek against his. It felt good to be near him, warming him, feeling him alive. "You’ll live," she said, her voice stronger.
"That’s not what I’ve been told."
She gasped and turned. "Lord Ashbourne! What are you doing here?"
"I live here." The earl stood in a shadowy corner untouched by the light of the fire and candles. He must have been there the entire time. He pushed off from the wall, never taking his eyes from her.
"Yes, of course you do." She watched as he paced around the room like a prowling cat, his gaze still on hers. "But I need you to leave the room now."
He stopped. His eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"I...need to speak to him alone."
"He can’t hear you."
"Perhaps not but nevertheless, I want to be alone with my husband." She emphasized the last word to drive home her position.
"Estranged."
"Not anymore." Damn him, there wasn’t time for semantics. Why did he argue with her now?
He straightened and folded his arms over his chest. He looked every bit the lord, not the easygoing man she had met earlier. "I summoned you because, as his wife, you had a right to be here. That is true. It is also true that Nicholas would have wanted you here for...the end. But I’ll not leave this room. He was my best friend—"
"He’s not dead yet." But he would be if she couldn’t heal his wounds soon.
"As I said before, that’s not what I’ve been told. The doctor just left. He gave Nicholas an hour, possibly two. There was nothing he could do for him. The wounds are too deep."
She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms in an attempt to stave off tears of frustration. "Please," she said, "please leave."
"No." He looked down at her, his eyes gleaming like two dark sapphires.
"Why? Don’t you trust me?"
"No." But his gaze softened then faltered and he looked away as his arms dropped to his sides. "Nicholas trusted you. That’s all that should matter now."
As if he heard his name, Nick coughed but his eyes remained closed. It signaled a change. His breathing quickened, interspersed with coughing fits.
"He’s going." Lord Ashbourne suddenly appeared at her side, smelling of wine and sounding like misery.
He was right. She had run out of time. She couldn’t wait another minute to begin the healing. The earl would witness
her witchcraft but she would deal with the outcome of that later, once Nick was safe. His survival was all that mattered now.
She threw back the bedcovers. He was naked to the waist, thick bandages doing little to staunch the blood oozing from his side.
"What are you doing?" Lord Ashbourne asked, pulling her hands away as she began to remove the bandages.
"Stop! If you want him to live, don’t hinder me."
His gaze locked with hers, fiercely protective. His grip tightened. "What are you doing?" he repeated.
Damn him, there was no time! A powerful surge of anger and other emotions shot through her like a lightening bolt. With a flick of her wrist, Lord Ashbourne flew across the room, slamming into a chair, shattering it. She turned back to Nick, ignoring the earl lying dazed on the floor. She placed both hands against the oozing hole at Nick’s side and concentrated.
