Ransom Redeemed

by Jayne Fresina

  "Miss Ashford." He took her hand in his firm grip. "I regret we meet under these circumstances. My son told me nothing about you before this, but then, of course he has never been one to share his confidences with me. Or with anybody. We never know what he might do from one day to the next." He smiled crookedly and briefly down at her. His gaze quickly, thoroughly assessed her appearance, followed by the puzzled quirk of an eyebrow. "That boy never ceases to surprise me. This time, at least, the surprise is pleasant, even if it comes late."

  The manner in which he held her hand within both of his and shook it so warmly, suggested that he thought her a close and dear acquaintance of his son's. Still unsure what she was doing there, Mary politely asked when he had arrived in London.

  "I came down yesterday, meaning to persuade my son to ride back with me to Cornwall and spend Christmas with us at Roscarrock Castle." He sighed. "The boy insists upon staying alone in Town every year, but my wife thought he might agree to come if I asked in person and if it only kept him away from the club for a few days. When I arrived, I found him in this state."

  "How dreadful. I'm sorry that I did not—"

  "I hope you are not upset that you have only just been sent for. I'm afraid my son faded in and out of consciousness after he was attacked. His first sane words to me, when he finally spoke, were about you. Had I known, of course, I would have sent for you sooner. But nobody knew, it seems."

  Before she could respond to that strange comment, he was escorting her into the drawing room, one hand under her elbow.

  "My son has refused to be taken to a hospital or even to his bed above stairs. At present he lays on the couch. He says he doesn't want to get blood on his bed sheets and cause more work for the maids. While he is in this mood, he is an insufferable wretch. I can barely hold my temper, I don't mind telling you. He can be stubborn as a bull. And a martyr, like his mother."

  Ransom Deverell was stretched out on the red couch before the fire, swaddled in blankets and with a bloodied cloth tied around his forehead. A bare foot stuck out at the end of the blanket, the heel resting on the arm of the couch. It was the sight of that naked foot which suddenly and unexpectedly caused a tear to spring up in her eye.

  Must be the shock, she supposed, and the suddenness of all this. It was early and she had not eaten breakfast. Yes, she could find many excuses for a little tear. But there had better not be any others to embarrass her.

  She must remember that bruises sustained in a fight often looked much worse than they truly were. So she prepared herself for what she might see.

  "Ransom," said his father in a louder voice, "Miss Ashford is here, as you asked." He turned to the butler, who hovered by the door looking ashen. "Please bring some tea, will you— or," he looked at Mary again, "perhaps you prefer coffee? Or chocolate?"

  "Coffee, thank you. That would be most welcome." Tea seemed too tame and ladylike for the occasion and chocolate too much of a treat.

  The man on the couch moved finally to show he was still living and reached out his hand from the blankets. "Don't lurk where I can't see you, Mary," he wheezed.

  His father took her coat and pulled up a chair for her beside the couch, angling it so she could face the sick man. "I'm sure your visit will do him some good, Miss Ashford." He lowered his voice again. "Perhaps you can persuade him that he will be far more comfortable upstairs in a proper bed."

  "Don't fuss, sir," Ransom groaned. "The reason I wanted her here is because she won't fuss. There is nobody more level-headed than Miss Mary Ashford." And she caught just a very little glint of amusement from under his black lashes. "She won't take my nonsense, or be overcome with pity." Then his eyes opened wider. Or one did, for the other was too badly swollen. He tried to sit up, staring at her as if she might be a ghost.

  She touched her braid, feeling self-conscious. "I'm afraid Mr. Miggs startled me this morning, and I completely forgot to put it up. I must look a sight." It all added to the dream-like strangeness of this situation. In fact, looking down at herself, she was only surprised not to see her nightgown.

  "Yes. A very pleasant sight, all disheveled and not long out of your sleep." The corner of his mouth twitched in a pained smile, before he fell back to the pillows again. Someone had made the couch up, as best they could, with extra pillows and blankets to create a makeshift bed.

  "I'm very sorry to see you like this, Mr. Deverell. What happened?"

  "They sprung upon me in the dark. I got in a few punches of my own, but there were too many."

  "You do not know who is responsible? It should be reported, surely."

  "Better we handle the matter ourselves," his father growled. "Keep the peelers and the law out of it. I'll deliver the punishment."

  "Could have been anybody," Ransom muttered, sullen. "I've been told I make enemies. Too many enemies."

  His face was very bruised and puffy, his lip cut. She could tell from the way he moved and spoke that his chest and ribs must hurt too. "I have asked Dr. Woodley to call upon you. Will you see him?"

  Pressing his head back into the pillow, he exhaled a low moan and a curse.

  "You ought to be examined," she urged gently. "He could give you something for pain and help you to sleep."

  "I don't want to sleep." Horror darkened his gaze. "I never want to sleep."

  "But you must. It will help you heal."

  "I'll sleep when I'm dead, which will be soon enough now, Mary."

  She heard his father pacing back and forth behind her. Or prowling, rather, anxious as a caged leopard.

  "I'm quite sure you're much more durable than that," she said with all the confidence she could muster, for his father's benefit as well as his. But she was rather alarmed at his appearance. Usually so tall and vital, so restless, he looked very different today— broken and bloody. Mary knew that the most dangerous wounds were often those on the inside, things that could not be seen. Sometimes they caused a slow descent into death; sometimes the end came suddenly, with no real warning. But when the worst peril was hidden from the human eye there was little to be done about it.

  "I was assured recently that I would only see the error of my ways once I was on my deathbed," he said. "It turns out this was correct. I see things much clearer now, so that must be what it means."

  Mary studied him cautiously, trying to ascertain whether he really believed he was dying or not. Ransom's expression would usually give him away, but with his features distorted and discolored he may as well be wearing a mask. His father was clearly concerned, although he appeared to be trying to hide it under a brusque temper. She had seen how upset Mr. Miggs was, and when Mary first arrived at the house she observed a stout lady by the door to the kitchens, sobbing into her apron. The mood in the house was definitely somber as the grave.

  Much of the furniture in the drawing room had been rearranged around the couch, newspapers, handkerchiefs, pillows, dishes and brandy glass, all placed and piled within his reach, but in messy disarray that suggested it was all done in haste. The curtains were kept closed, the gas lamps low. Everybody, except his father, walked about as if on tiptoe, and she was surprised they had not yet put straw out in the street to quiet passing horses' hooves.

  At that moment the butler brought in the coffee pot and cups, steering them carefully on a wheeled trolley. "Mrs. Clay hoped she might tempt you to eat something today, sir. To that end she's made a dozen delights— all your favorite. There is cinnamon toast and plain, Madeira cake with apple jam, pork pie, kippers, boiled eggs and porridge, to name but a few things, waiting in the dining room for the guests and I can bring you a tray in here, sir, if—"

  "Good God, no. I couldn't eat. But Mrs. Clay's efforts must not go to waste. I daresay Mary might be hungry."

  Why did he keep calling her by her Christian name? His father did not raise an eyebrow at the familiarity, but then they were Deverells and did things differently.

  While the butler poured coffee, she looked at Ransom and said cautiously, "Why did you send
for me? What can I do?" Perhaps he wanted her to take a message to his mother, she thought. He had enough people here attending to his every need.

  His eyes narrowed. "Where else should you be but at my side at such a time, Mary? If you have something more important to do than bring comfort to a dying man, then don't let me keep you."

  "You are not dying," she said firmly.

  "You say that as if you have power over life and death. I ought to know whether I'm dying or not. If you start being argumentative, I'll send you home again."

  "Feeling sorry for yourself is no excuse to be rude," his father interrupted, terse. "Although I daresay Miss Ashford ought to know what she's getting herself into. She must be able to manage you or she wouldn't be here."

  She tried a sip of coffee, but it too hot and burned her tongue.

  Getting herself into? What on earth—

  "I sent for you, Mary, because I knew you would not fuss, nor flinch at the sight of blood, nor be indiscreet and gossip. You are, in fact, the only decent and rational woman I could think of. Sensible," the wounded man gave another pained grimace, "to a fault."

  His father, who apparently had as much ability to be still as the son, had walked out into the hall with the butler, discussing some matter of the house.

  "And to think—I never believed I'd have much use for a woman like that," the injured man continued wryly. "But now I do."

  "Ransom Deverell, I cannot be the only woman of good sense that you have ever known."

  "None other came to mind, I assure you."

  Mary understood why he wouldn't want his mother there— Lady Charlotte did not like to speak of blood and sickness, let alone see it, and did not know how to be sympathetic, invariably turning the matter to being something about herself. But surely..."Of all the other women you know—"

  "I do not know them. Not the way I know you."

  "In slightly less than a fortnight?"

  "But I have known you longer." He poked a finger at the ceiling.

  Having no idea what he meant, Mary could only assume that his mental state was disturbed. "I suppose some of the women you know are married and therefore could not be summoned," she muttered.

  He looked at her, his eyes blank, as if he was thinking about something else and not listening to her at all.

  Mary cleared her throat. "Lady Elizabeth Stanbury, for instance," she added.

  "The icicle? She wasn't here for me. Well, not exactly."

  She waited, eyebrows raised.

  "That woman is one of my brother's problems. Not mine."

  "I see."

  "And I gave up Belle Saint Clair the same day I met you. Finding you was like walking into that lamp post, Mary Ashford. You both put a stop to me."

  But there were others, probably. Or there would be, once he was back on his feet. Could a man like Ransom Deverell ever keep his gaze from wandering? He needed blinkers, like a plow horse, she mused.

  As if he read her mind again, he huffed, head falling back to the pillow. "You won't believe me, so why bother? Besides, there have been other women, of course, and you know that. I'm no angel. But that's all in the past now. I'm starting again, for the time I have left."

  "The time you have left? A good forty years at least."

  "I fear not even forty hours, Mary. I can feel nothing from the waist down and breathing itself is a deuced struggle." He exhaled a frail sigh to demonstrate. "Will you fluff up my pillow, Mary?"

  She put her coffee cup on the trolley and then, while he held his head up, she rearranged his pillow.

  But he took advantage of the moment to grab her hand and press it to his lips, apparently less sleepy than he appeared. "It was a lucky day when we finally met in person, Contessa."

  His father's footsteps were returning to the room and Mary tried to regain custody of her own hand, but Ransom held it tighter still.

  "You're remarkably strong for a dying man," she noted drily.

  "It is a strength born of desperation. I am determined to make the most of my last days."

  True Deverell re-entered the room, strode around the couch and stood behind Mary, one foot tapping. "Will you stay to breakfast, Miss Ashford?"

  "Oh, I —"

  "Please do. I should like to get to know more about the woman who has captured my son's heart. I promise I am not as fearsome as you might have been told."

  Mary's first instinct was to believe her ears were playing tricks upon her. She did not turn to look at the man behind her, but kept her gaze fixed to Ransom's face. He had closed his eyes again, as if in great pain, but was he merely hiding from her? His hand still held Mary's in an unwavering grip. "Sir," her throat was dry, making her tongue feel awkward, thick and clumsy, "I think there must be some sort of misunderstanding—"

  But his father had resumed that long stride back and forth across the carpet, not listening. "I began to think it would never be. Some men are simply not made for marriage. Nor are some women. It is always a business of chance and risk."

  Her pulse was racing and Ransom Deverell's sly thumb was pressed hard to it, measuring the reckless pace.

  He opened his eyes and said, "I think we should be married directly now, Mary. Under the circumstances. Since I do not know how long I have."

  Surely she was dreaming. None of this had happened. She must still be in bed beside the snoring "Violette". It could be the only explanation for any of it. And by some trick of the mind, in this somnolent state of being, she was unable to move her tongue to argue, just as it was sometimes in a dream when she could not make her feet move forward.

  Ransom's dark gaze held hers. She could not blink or look away. Slowly his thumb stroked her wrist.

  "Mary is the only woman who can save me. I knew it the moment we met. She knew it too."

  Save me, he'd entreated her, with his strong hands clasped around her arms, and I'll be in your debt.

  Behind her, his father had picked up a newspaper and rustled it, while murmuring a distracted, "Hmm."

  Mary mouthed anxiously at the man on the couch, "What is this mischief?"

  But he ignored her. "To rephrase Mr. Dickens and Master David Copperfield—Whatever she has tried to do in life, she has tried with all her heart to do well; that whatever she has devoted herself to, she has devoted herself to completely...in great aims and in small, she has always been thoroughly in earnest." He paused, his gaze searching her face. "I believe she will serve her husband with the same devotion as she takes on other tasks."

  The quote she recognized from David Copperfield. So he must have begun to read it after all. Mary was shocked into silence. When she thought she was a woman who had seen and heard everything, he still surprised her.

  What other tricks might he have up his sleeve?

  He had memorized that passage for her, to show her that he understood, that he could make an effort.

  Mary felt another terrible tear threaten her composure, but she fought it back. Oh no! He would not make her fall in love with him more than the little bit she had allowed in already. He was unpredictable and everything bad for her. She ought to consider, for instance, her combustible petticoats.

  If only she had not such a weakness for a good novel.

  He squeezed her hand. "My future wife does not suffer fools gladly, or indeed, in any other way, sir. She let me know that from the start. If I can have her at my side for my last hours, I shall be content."

  "Well, I see she has improved your bloody mood already," his father gruffly, tossing the newspaper aside. She felt a hand on her shoulder then and looked up. "You can give my son something to live for, Miss Ashford. Perhaps he will finally slow his horses, although it seems almost too remarkable to be believed."

  Ransom looked away, wincing. "I knew it would be a trial for you to believe I could win the hand of a good woman, sir. I am the son least likely to make anything of my life, is that not the case?"

  "That's up to you, boy. Man holds his own fate in his hands."

  Now Mary wa
s in a most awkward position. How could she speak? True Deverell had shown a tentative measure of relief at the idea of his son soon to be married, and with Ransom in the sorry state of an invalid, supposedly convinced he lingered at the threshold of death, Mary was reluctant to spoil the moment of fragile peace between father and son.

  If Ransom currently amused himself with a wicked game at her expense, he was likely to grow bored eventually and give it up. And if his brain truly suffered from some momentary confusion which caused him to believe things had happened which had not, then he could soon recover, be back to his normal self, and remember that he was not the marrying kind. He did not like "leashes".

  Finally she freed her hand from his, reaching for her coffee cup again. "We will talk properly of this matter later, when you have rested and recovered your strength." When they had all cooled down, like the coffee, and when she knew exactly what was going on inside his mind. As well as her own.

  What if Ransom really was dying? How could she turn her back and walk away from someone in need? She'd lost too many people already. Life and its opportunities were so fleeting.

  The truth was she did feel as if they'd known each another longer. Perhaps because of her long friendship with his sister? And she did...she did care about him. Very much. Far more than she should in light of their short acquaintance and his reputation.

  "I had to find some way to keep her company, sir," he muttered drowsily, as his eyes began to close again, "and she is too respectable to dine alone with a man like me, so I had to ask her to marry me. It was the only thing to be done."

  "Hmm." His father, while wearing a hole in the carpet with his booted feet, and turning the air blue with the curses he threw out under his breath, succeeded in producing only dust and bumping into the misplaced furniture, adding to the sense of chaos. He did not draw close to the couch, but on this circling, pacing guard, kept a distance from his son as if a line were marked on the carpet to show a boundary.