Damon awoke to intense blackness and intolerable pain. He could not think where he lay, nor what had happened, but he was shivering with cold, and the slightest movement sent a new lance of agony through his head. The darkness was so absolute that he began to wonder if he was blinded, but his efforts to look about brought a sick giddiness, and the pain increased until he was nauseated and lay still again.
It seemed that all this misery had something to do with music. It was so hard to remember clearly. If only he could see… the darkness was like a tomb… The catacombs! That was it! And that ghastly hooded figure! He had been struck down. Was he, indeed, blind? Panic spurred him, and with a costly effort, he managed to lift a hand to his head. His hair was wet and sticky, the flesh torn and excruciatingly painful. He wondered how long he'd been lying here. If the wound continued to bleed, he would soon be too weak to get out. No one knew he was down here. They would undoubtedly think he'd gone to bed and, after his drinking bout last night, would hesitate to disturb him. It might be hours before they initiated a search.
Gritting his teeth, he fought his way upward but, after a struggle that left him panting and soaked with sweat, had only managed to get one elbow beneath him. It took all his willpower not to collapse again as the icy floor heaved and pitched and the pain mounted.
Horatio had been with him, he was sure, but there was no slightest sound, no disgruntled squawking. Had they murdered the poor beast? Poor innocent goose. He was shocked to realize that he was sinking down again and with a tremendous effort got to his knees. But his struggles were useless. He was spinning helplessly, and the pain was fiercer than any he'd ever experienced. Consciousness was leaving him; slumping down, he felt only a vague shock as his head struck the floor. His lips were cold and numb but formed one word in a sigh so faint he barely heard it. "Sophia…"
Sophia's eyes flew open. Her pulses were racing, and she was frightened. Yet she was here in the dear, familiar room, and the house was silent. No workmen now; Camille was without funds. Sunlight streamed through the windows. The drapes were wide, for he was not seated at the harpsichord, presenting an easy target. With an involuntary shiver, she stood as the old grandfather clock chimed the half hour. She had thought she would sleep for hours once she dropped off and was surprised to discover it was only half-past nine.
She went over to the harpsichord and with one finger began to play, her thoughts remote. The yellowed sheet of parchment was gone, and she looked for it in a vague searching. If only he would come! She started for the door but stopped. She was being hysterical. He was safe in his bed, and there was no need to rob him of sleep to confirm his love. She knew very surely now that she had his heart. Yet this taut restlessness made it impossible for her to be still. She wandered into the hall.
All was calm and peaceful. The library looked inviting with its dear old books, and she walked inside. The maids had not yet been in here. The fire was not set, and the reference table had been left hurriedly, the chair still swung back. The missing parchment from the music room lay on the table. Beside it, a piece of paper held Camille's scrawl; reading the words, she gave a small cry of excitement. He had deciphered the message! He most assuredly would not have done so and then gone nonchalantly to bed—he was in the catacombs now! Afire with eagerness to see what he had found, she lit a branch of candles, hurried along the corridor, and turned toward the north wing.
Not until she reached the fateful flight of stairs leading to the lowest level did Sophia hesitate. Only then did it dawn on her that she was all alone. What if Camille had already found the treasure? But if that were the case, the household would have been agog with excitement. Besides, the Priory was empty of servants at this moment; there was nothing to be gained by going back in search of someone to accompany her. Resolutely, she hurried on, eager to find Camille.
She had never gone into the real depths and was struck by a growing sense of something amiss as she crept down the worn stairs. The darkness was absolute—a stifling blackness that is encountered only in places never touched by sunlight. However firmly she chastised herself, she could not keep her steps from slowing, her breathing from becoming rapid and uneven.
The cypher had said "last room on right," and there it was finally, just a few yards ahead. She stopped, seized by a strong compulsion to turn and run. Instead, she called, "Camille?" Her voice echoed eerily, but there was no answering shout, no sudden flash of light. She saw, in fact, that the door stood partly open and that it was totally black inside. He was not here! Disheartened, she started swiftly back the way she had come. But wait, suppose that pivotal stone led to a secret room or hidden stair? She turned again and, coming to the door, gave it a timid little push.
A scream was torn from her. Camille sprawled on the floor, his face streaked with blood. Sobbing incoherently, she was on her knees beside him. "Oh, my dear love—do not be dead!" Touching his cheek, she found it warm and gasped a fervent "Thank God!" The wound had bled profusely, and her hand shook as she set down the branch of candles. A sick faintness swept over her, but she fought it away and investigated gently, only to utter a horrified moan as she saw how cruelly the flesh was torn. Only the thickness of his hair had saved him.
Her first thought was to get help. She started up but sank back again. Blood was still creeping slowly down his face; she must fashion a bandage. He was clad only in shirt and breeches and there was no large handkerchief available. She sat down and, in tried-and-true manner, ripped at the flounce on her petticoat. Either her hands were weak or her petticoat a lot stronger than such garments are supposed to be. It resisted her efforts with sturdy indifference. This was no time for modesty. She pulled her skirts up and her petticoat down.
Standing on the hem, she tugged with all her might, and it gave with a loud rip. She folded a small pad and, kneeling close beside Camille, wound the cloth about his head and pulled it as tight as she dared before tying the knot.
Now she must get help! She sprang to her feet and then thought of him perhaps regaining consciousness to find himself alone in this terrible darkness. She removed a candle and, tilting it, allowed some hot wax to drip onto the floor. Placing the candle in the small resulting puddle, she took up the branch and started for the door.
Damon moaned and stirred weakly. She flew back to his side. "Camille…" Her voice was thready, and she fought to steady it. "I'm here, my beloved…" She knelt, took up his limp hand, and holding it, felt a faint answering pressure; then the long dark lashes fluttered, and he looked dazedly up at her. "Oh, dearest… my dearest love," she choked.
"Mama is…very worried," he muttered. "About my foot… you know."
She fought tears. "Yes, dear one. But it's all right now."
He moved fretfully. "Did they get her out? They will not tell… me."
She bit her lip and gulped, "They—got her out, my darling. Do not—"
Damon frowned and said in a surer voice, "Sophia? What… on earth?" He tried to sit up, stifled a groan, and sagged down again, his face ghastly white.
Frightened, she cried, "Lie still, darling. I'm going for help."
His hand detained her. He whispered faintly, "How… did you…?"
"I found your music and followed you. Camille, can you understand me? I must leave you, dearest heart. Just for a little while."
"No! Stay… here." His eyes were so filled with pain that her heart constricted. "Must be careful. Monk… he's out there, Sophia. Do not…" The words trailed into a weary sigh, and he lapsed again into unconsciousness.
It had not dawned on her that whoever had done this terrible thing might still be down here! That she was alone, two floors beneath the ground, in this musty, chill blackness, with a man near death—and a murderous intruder! She felt frozen with fear. She must get help, or Camille would surely die. Yet if his attacker had been interrupted by her coming, he might be lurking somewhere, ready to complete his savage work the instant she left. She glanced to the hall fearfully. The faint light from the candles was cut
off by a solid wall of blackness beyond that open door. How could she dare venture into it with the monk waiting? She looked down at Camille and knew a searing anguish to see him so desperately hurt and helpless. She raised his hand again and pressed it to her cheek, murmuring her love even though he could not hear her.
She must go! She picked up the candelabra, hurried to the door, and peered into the corridor, her heart in her throat. How dense was the darkness, hushed and menacing, as if something ineffably evil waited just beyond the small area lit by the wavering candlelight. She started off, quaking, her hands wet, trembling as she approached each small dark doorway, any one of which might hold a terrible threat… a savage murderer, crouching in wait to spring on her.
She was soon so frightened that she could scarce set one foot before the next, but she went on, her ears straining for the least sound, her eyes striving to pierce the impenetrable darkness. She came at last to the foot of the stairs, and her heart missed a beat. A faint glow was approaching! Had Stephen followed her already, found the music, and—?
Her knees turned to water, her blood to ice. Hooded, tall, and menacing, the monk drifted down toward her… with candles held high, and …no face! Her mind reeled, and she felt suffocated. He had seen her! Her lips parted, but even her attempt to scream was thwarted, not a sound escaping her throat, so frozen was she with terror.
Only the thought of Camille saved her and, with the memory of his helplessness, came new strength. She began to run frenziedly back to him. Pounding footsteps were following, gaining on her. The corridor seemed to stretch out endlessly. Breathing in sobbing gasps, she reached the door at last, but he was much too close. His arm stretched out to grab her. With a courage born of desperation, she hurled the candelabra at his head. He threw up one arm and drew back with a startled shout. She sprang inside, wrenching the door shut even as his dark form leapt at her. She shot the bolt. The door shook to a thunderous assault, and she leaned against the damp wall, sobbing wildly, her face pressed to the stone, her brain spinning.
"Sophia… are you… all right?"
Damon, propped on one elbow, was gazing up at her, his white, blood-smeared face desperate with anxiety.
The sounds outside had ceased. She tottered to him, sank down, and gathered him gently into her arms, pillowing that battered head against her heart, looking lovingly into his strained eyes. His hand moved weakly, and she took it and pressed it to her lips, managing somehow to smother her panicked weeping.
"You should not… have come back… to the Priory," he whispered.
"I should not… have left!" she gulped. "And I never shall again, sir! No matter what lies and nonsense you tell me!"
He frowned deeply. His eyes closed, and she thought he had fainted again, but he breathed a gasping "Sophia… I loved you… from that first"—he looked up and with a twitching attempt at a smile, finished—"that first… slap."
She bent and kissed him very gently, but when she drew back, he had gone from her again and lay like a dead man in her arms.
Her eyes flew at once to the flame. They must wait here until help came, but the candle was terrifyingly short. An hour—two at the most—and they would be enveloped by the horrible darkness.
The minutes dragged by. Her thoughts wandered chaotically, reliving the events of these past crowded days. Yet always, like a steady thread through her reminiscences, ran fear for this beloved Viper. Had she found him only to lose him so soon? Scanning his face, she saw a relentless creep of crimson down his cheek and strove once again to tighten the bandage.
Her thoughts turned to Vaille. Damon should have told him the truth. He would be utterly devastated if… She cringed away from finishing that terrifying thought and, glancing to the door, was petrified to see the latch lifting silently. Her heart jumped into her throat. She held Camille closer as a soft scratching sound came from the door. And, in that moment, the candle guttered and went out.
A snarling shout. A barrage of blows thundering on the door. Sobbing with fear, she bowed over Camille, knowing that if the monk succeeded, they must both die. She would be helpless against him! But at last the attack ceased, and silence prevailed once more.
Time became an endless nightmare of darkness and despair. Camille had not moved for what seemed hours, and she knew now, fully, what love meant, for if he died, her reason for living would be gone, also… Fighting the dread that threatened to become total hysteria, she began to sing. Her voice was faint and quavering, but it seemed to give her a little courage, and she sang on. English folk songs, French, Italian opera. She was halfway through "The Sands of Dee," her voice becoming hoarse, when she screamed to a renewed pounding on the door.
"My lady! My lady! Be ye in there?" The voice was a deep rumble.
With a sobbing prayer of thanks, she slipped carefully from beneath Damon's dead weight and, staggering on cramped legs, swung the door open.
A blaze of light blinded her. She heard a shriek and a hoarse cry. And there before her, huge and powerful and comforting, with Nancy peering from behind him, stood Ariel.
The Priory was silent in the hush of early morning, but on the bench outside the door to Damon's bedchamber, two people sat in a forlorn waiting, while others were seated on the stairs. Lord Whitthurst sprang up at the sound of flying feet, and Mrs. Hatters, her eyes red and swollen, stood also.
Rushing to join them, Sophia gasped a fearful "Camille?"
"No change, my dear." The Viscount took her outstretched hand and spoke with a calm reassurance he was far from feeling. "And before you eat me for letting you sleep—you were exhausted!" He forced a smile. "Don't even remember Hartwell coming, I'll wager?"
She put a hand to her temple. "Amory? No." Glancing to that closed door, she asked urgently. "Was Mrs. Gaffney able to tell if—"
"She's gone. Hartwell found us a doctor, and he—"
"Doctor?" she echoed stupidly. "But there isn't one for miles!"
Whitthurst drew her to sit beside him on the bench. "A retired London surgeon lives hereabouts. Amory went into Pudding Park to discover his direction."
"And brought him? Thank God! Is Amory here? I must thank him."
For answer, the Viscount handed her a note, and she unfolded it and read:
Sophia, my dear,
I found Dr. Twine's house, but he is from home and no word on when he will return. I have left a message with his butler and at "The Wooden Leg" that he is to come to you at once. Meanwhile, I am riding after Vaille and his personal physician, Lord Belmont.
Ever yrs. to command, Hartwell
Sophia folded the page and returned it to her brother. "How very kind of Amory. Is Dr. Twine with Camille?"
The Viscount nodded. "Evidently don't care to be called on nowadays, but I collect he didn't dare turn down a person of Cam's consequence."
Relaxing a little, Sophia leaned in the circle of his arm. With a famous surgeon tending Camille, his chances must surely be improved. Seized by a sudden thought, she asked why Mrs. Gaffney had left, and the Viscount replied that Dr. Twine had brought his own nurse.
"Hatchet-faced old crow," sniffed Mrs. Hatters. "Cruel it were for them, to upset Maggie Gaffney that way. Regular heartbroken she is, poor soul."
Sophia turned a puzzled look on Whitthurst.
"They'd a slight disagreement," he explained. "Poor lady really was beside herself, I admit. Twine's a crusty old chap, and she should not have argued with a physician about the cupping, however experienced she—"
"Cupping!" gasped Sophia. "My God! She must have been out of her mind!"
Mrs. Hatters, wringing her hands nervously, said, "Weren't Maggie's wish, ma'am. And if you was to ask me—"
A terrible coldness enveloped Sophia. "Stephen! He didn't! You didn't let him? Oh—my dear heaven! You surely must have known—"
"Chicky!" He shook her gently. "The man's a great surgeon. You don't tell a physician his business. Cam quieted down soon enough, I assure you."
"Quieted… down?"
Sophia stared at him blankly, then with a stifled sob, rushed to the door. It was locked, and she wrenched frantically at the handle. "Let me in! I am Lord Damon's betrothed! Let me in!"
Shocked, Whitthurst pulled her back. A woman's angry voice cried, "You will be admitted as soon as Dr. Twine has finished!"
Sophia struggled to escape, and the Viscount's grip on her arm tightened. "Sophia! The man's fighting for his life in there! Control yourself!"
"He called to me!" she sobbed. "Did you hear him, Steve? Oh, God! The doctor must be in his dotage! He must be stopped! Help me! Please!"
She looked so wild and distraught, and his own fears making his heart ache, he mumbled, "I know how terrible this is for you, love. But—you must face reality. Poor Cam might not—"
He was wasting time while Camille's precious life was being drained away! With a sobbing cry, she left him, running madly back to her room. She tore open her bureau drawer with such desperate haste that it fell, the contents spilling on to the floor. She snatched up that which she sought and flew back down the hall again. She concealed her hand in a fold of her gown as Whitthurst came toward her, his face tired, pale and contrite. "Chicky, dear—forgive me. I'd no thought to—"
She smiled wanly through her tears, but as he reached out to her, she eluded him with a pantherish leap and again pounded on Damon's door. A man roared, "Quiet out there, dammit!" Mrs. Hatters was weeping with fright, and from the corner of her eye, Sophia saw the small crowd of awed faces that watched from the stairs. Whitthurst, groaning with mingled sympathy and irritation, was trying to force her away, but again she had thought to hear Camille's faint voice call her name beseechingly; wild with desperation, she shoved at her brother with all her strength and swung up the pistol, aiming at the lock.
Slender but strong white fingers grasped her wrist, forcing her hand away. Vaille, his voice very gentle, said, "My poor child, have you lost your mind?"
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet Page 27
